As the shadow of night deepened, King Dasaratha lay upon his bed, his senses fading and his heart heavy with sorrow. He spoke to Kausalya, his voice weak: “I no longer see you with my eyes, and my memory slips away. The messengers of Vaivasvata urge me onward, O Kausalya.” The anguish of his impending departure was sharpened by the absence of his beloved son. “What could be more painful than this?” he lamented, “that as my life ends, I do not see Rama, the knower of righteousness and steadfast in truth.” The grief of not seeing Rama, for whom there was no remedy, dried up Dasaratha’s life-breaths, just as the sun dries a small pool of water. He reflected with bitter longing: “Those who will see Rama’s face again after fifteen years, adorned with lovely, auspicious earrings—they are not mortals, but gods. Blessed are those who will gaze upon Rama’s face, with eyes like lotus petals, beautiful brows, shining teeth, and charming nose, resembling the moon among stars. Blessed are those who will see the fragrant face of my lord, like the autumn moon and a blooming lotus.” He continued, “Those who are happy will see Rama returned to Ayodhya after his stay in the forest, just as one sees the bright path of the sun.” The depth of Kausalya’s confusion and sorrow seemed to pull Dasaratha’s heart down, dulling his senses so he could no longer perceive sounds, touches, or tastes distinctly. His mental clarity faded, and all his senses failed, just as the rays of a lamp grow faint when its oil is exhausted. Dasaratha felt overwhelmed by grief, helpless and insensible, like a river’s current striking its bank. He cried out in despair, “Alas, Raghava of mighty arms! Alas, destroyer of my toil! Alas, beloved of your father, my protector! Alas, son, where have you gone now?” His lament extended to his wives: “Alas, Kausalya, I am perishing! Alas, Sumitra, devoted to austerity! Alas, Kaikeyi, my cruel enemy, stain upon our lineage!” In the presence of Rama’s mother and Sumitra, King Dasaratha, lamenting, reached the end of his life. Tormented by the exile of his beloved son, and afflicted in the middle of the night, the noble-souled king gave up his life. As dawn approached, the sixty-fifth chapter unfolded. When the night had passed and morning arrived, bards gathered at the royal residence. Charioteers, refined and well-versed in auspicious songs, and singers skilled in praise, each spoke separately. The sound of their praises, uttered with lofty blessings for the king, echoed throughout the vast palace. As they sang, charioteers played their instruments, and musicians began to perform. Awakened by the music, birds perched on branches and those kept in cages within the royal household began to sing. The auspicious sounds of veenas, blessings, and songs filled the palace. Women of pure conduct, skilled in attendance—mostly young and beautiful—gathered as they had before. They brought water mixed with sandalwood and saffron in golden vessels for bathing, as instructed, at the proper time and according to custom. Other young women brought auspicious items for offering and utensils for drinking, as required. Everything was adorned with auspicious marks and excellent virtues, befitting a king. Yet, until sunrise, everyone waited anxiously—wondering what might have happened, for nothing had yet occurred. The women of Kosala who slept near the king’s chamber gathered and tried to awaken their lord. Behaving with modesty and decorum, they did not touch his bed or disturb him in any way. Skilled in knowing the habits of sleep and movement, the women became seized with trembling, fearing for the king’s life. Like blades of grass at the edge of a stream quivering against the current, so did those women tremble; and seeing the king, they shook even more. What they had feared as a calamity was now certain. Kausalya and Sumitra, overcome by grief for their son, remained asleep, not awakening at the proper time. Drained of radiance, pale, and bowed down, they were overcome by sorrow. Kausalya did not shine, like a star veiled by darkness; after Kausalya, Sumitra appeared the same. The queen’s face, stained with tears of grief, had lost its luster. Seeing the king and those noble queens lying thus, the inner palace, with its lord lifeless in sleep, seemed changed. The noble women, stricken, cried out loudly, like female elephants whose leader has fallen in the forest. Suddenly regaining consciousness, they wailed aloud. Kausalya and Sumitra, abandoning sleep, arose. Seeing and touching the king, they cried out, “Alas, lord!” and collapsed to the ground. The daughter of the king of Kosala writhed upon the earth. She did not shine, covered in dust, like a star fallen from the sky, as the king lay peacefully with Kausalya fallen beside him. All those women were like slain elephant-cows, and then all the king’s wives, led by Kaikeyi, gathered, their hearts broken by the calamity that had befallen them.