Grief, deep and all-consuming, rose within King Dasaratha’s heart, overwhelming him like the relentless current of a river battering its bank. Helpless and insensible, he cried out in anguish, “Alas, Raghava of mighty arms! Alas, destroyer of all my toil! Alas, beloved son, protector and joy of your father, where have you gone now?” His sorrow only deepened as he lamented further, “Alas, Kausalya, I am perishing! Alas, Sumitra, steadfast in your austerities! Alas, Kaikeyi—my cruel enemy, stain upon our noble lineage!” In the presence of Rama’s mother, Kausalya, and the devoted Sumitra, King Dasaratha, consumed by grief, reached the end of his life. Tormented by the exile of his beloved son, his heart broken, the noble-souled king surrendered his life in the middle of the night, his spirit succumbing to sorrow. As dawn approached and the night faded, the sixty-fifth chapter unfolds. The royal bards assembled at the palace, just as they always had, their voices refined and skilled in auspicious songs. Charioteers and singers, each expert in their art, offered praises and blessings for the king, their harmonious sounds resonating through the vast halls. The charioteers played their instruments and the musicians joined in, filling the palace with music. Awakened by these sounds, birds—both those perched on branches and those kept in cages—began to sing, adding their voices to the morning’s chorus. The veenas played, blessings were recited, and songs of good fortune filled the air. Women of pure conduct, mostly young and beautiful, gathered as before, bringing water scented with sandalwood and saffron in golden vessels for the king’s morning bath, following the proper customs. Other attendants brought auspicious offerings and drinking vessels, preparing everything as was fitting for a king endowed with every virtue and sign of prosperity. Yet, as sunrise approached, an anxious waiting settled over all. Nothing happened as expected; unease grew. The women of Kosala who slept near the king’s chamber gathered together and attempted to wake their lord. Out of modesty and respect, they did not touch his bed or disturb him directly. Yet, skilled as they were in reading the habits of sleep, a trembling fear seized them, for something felt terribly wrong. Like blades of grass quivering at the edge of a stream, the women trembled, and when they looked upon the king, their fear intensified. What they had dreaded now became certain. Kausalya and Sumitra, overcome by grief for their exiled son, lay asleep but did not awaken at the usual time. Their radiance was gone; pale and bowed down, they were lost in sorrow. Kausalya, once brilliant, was now veiled as a star hidden by darkness, and Sumitra appeared in the same state. The queen’s face was stained with tears, her beauty dimmed by grief. Seeing the king and the noble queens lying thus, the inner palace seemed changed, its joy extinguished. Suddenly, the women’s cries rang out, loud and piercing, like the wails of female elephants whose leader has fallen in the forest. Regaining consciousness, they wept bitterly. Kausalya and Sumitra, abandoning sleep, rose and, upon seeing and touching the king, cried out, “Alas, lord!” before collapsing to the ground. Kausalya, the daughter of the king of Kosala, writhed in anguish upon the earth, her radiance lost, covered in dust like a star fallen from the sky, while the king lay peacefully beside her. All around, the women of the palace appeared like slain elephant-cows. The king’s wives, led by Kaikeyi, wept and, tormented by grief, fell unconscious. Their lamentations rose in a mighty sound, once replaced by the prosperity and joy that had filled the palace, now echoing as fear, confusion, and distress. Relatives wailed in tumult, their sudden joy transformed into pitiable sorrow. The palace, once glorious, now appeared forlorn, as the illustrious king lay surrounded by his wives, who seized his arms and lamented, as though left without protection. Now begins the sixty-sixth chapter. When the people saw the king, extinguished like a fire gone out, like an ocean without water, like the sun bereft of brilliance, departed to heaven, Kausalya, her eyes brimming with tears and her body wasted by sorrow, embraced the king’s head and spoke bitterly to Kaikeyi: “Be satisfied, Kaikeyi! Enjoy the kingdom without hindrance, for you, cruel one, devoted to wicked deeds, have cast aside the king. Rama has left me, and my husband has gone to heaven. Like a caravan abandoned on a desolate path, I have no will to live.” Thus, the palace of Ayodhya was plunged into grief, its heart broken by the loss of its king and the absence of its beloved prince.