Those who would one day behold Rama’s face again, after fifteen long years—adorned with lovely and auspicious earrings—were surely not mortals but gods themselves. Blessed indeed were those who would gaze upon Rama’s radiant countenance, his eyes like blossoming lotus petals, his beautiful brows, shining teeth, and charming nose, his face shining like the moon amidst the stars. Fortunate were those who would see the fragrant face of their lord, Rama, like the autumn moon and a blooming lotus. Those who would find joy in Rama’s return to Ayodhya after his exile in the forest would see him as one beholds the bright, unclouded path of the sun. In the midst of all this, Kausalya’s mind was so clouded with sorrow that her heart seemed to sink; she could not clearly perceive sounds, touches, or tastes. Her senses failed her, just as the rays of a lamp fade when its oil is spent. Overwhelmed by grief arising from her own heart, she felt helpless, like the river’s current battering its bank. In her anguish, she cried out, “Alas, Raghava of mighty arms! Alas, destroyer of my toil! Alas, beloved of your father, my protector! Alas, son, where have you gone now?” And then she lamented further, “Alas, Kausalya, I am perishing! Alas, Sumitra, you who are devoted to austerity! Alas, Kaikeyi, my cruel enemy, stain upon our lineage!” Thus, in the presence of Rama’s mother and Sumitra, King Dasaratha, overwhelmed by sorrow, reached the end of his life. As the lord of men spoke in distress, tormented by the exile of his beloved son, in the middle of the night, deeply afflicted, that noble-souled king gave up his life. Now, listen to what happened next. When night had passed and morning arrived, the bards assembled at the royal residence. Charioteers, refined and skilled in auspicious songs, and singers versed in praise, each began their duties. Their voices, full of lofty blessings for the king, echoed throughout the vast palace. As they sang, the charioteers played their instruments, and the musicians joined in, creating a harmonious sound. Awakened by these melodies, the birds—both those perched on branches and those kept in cages within the royal household—began to sing. The palace was filled with the auspicious sounds of veenas, the recitation of blessings, and melodious songs. Women of pure conduct, skilled in attendance, mostly young and beautiful, gathered as they had always done. They brought water mixed with sandalwood and saffron in golden vessels, prepared for the king’s morning bath according to custom. Other young women brought auspicious items for offerings and vessels for drinking, as was proper. Everything was adorned with excellence and prosperity, befitting a king of auspicious marks. Yet, as the sun rose, 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. But, behaving with modesty and decorum, they did not touch his bed or disturb him. These women, skilled in recognizing the habits and movements of sleep, began to tremble, fearing for the king’s life. Like blades of grass at the edge of a stream quivering in the current, so too did these women shake; and upon seeing the king, their trembling only increased. What they had feared as a calamity had indeed come to pass. Kausalya and Sumitra, overcome by grief for their son, lay asleep, not waking at the proper time. Drained of radiance, pale, and bowed down by sorrow, they did not shine. Kausalya appeared as a star veiled by darkness, and Sumitra too seemed the same. The queen, her face stained with tears of grief, no longer shone. Seeing the king and those noble queens lying thus, the inner palace, with its lord lying lifeless, seemed utterly changed. The noble women, stricken, cried out loudly, like female elephants whose leader has fallen in the forest. Suddenly regaining consciousness, the women wailed aloud. Kausalya and Sumitra, abandoning sleep, rose; and upon seeing and touching the king, they cried out, “Alas, lord!” and collapsed to the ground. The daughter of the king of Kosala writhed in grief upon the earth, her radiance lost, covered in dust, like a fallen star from the sky, while the king lay peacefully beside her. All those women appeared as slain elephant-cows. Then all the king’s wives, led by Kaikeyi, wept and, tormented by grief, fell unconscious. From their cries arose a mighty sound—a sound that had once filled the palace with prosperity now echoed with fear, confusion, and distress. All around, tumultuous wailing arose from the distressed relatives, their sudden joy turned to sorrow, leaving them pitiable and dejected.