Alas, Raghava of mighty arms! Alas, destroyer of my toil! Alas, beloved of your father, my protector! Alas, son, where have you gone now? In the darkness of his grief, King Dasaratha cried out, “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 Kausalya and the noble Sumitra, the king—his heart shattered by sorrow—lamented bitterly and reached the end of his life. Tormented by the exile of his beloved son, Dasaratha, the lord of men, spoke in distress. In the deep silence of midnight, his soul overwhelmed by affliction, that noble-souled king surrendered his life. When the night had passed and morning dawned, the royal bards gathered at the palace, their voices ready to sing the auspicious praises of the king. Charioteers, refined and skilled in melodious songs, mingled with singers who excelled in words of blessing, each offering their tribute. Their lofty praises reverberated through the vast halls, accompanied by the music of charioteers and musicians performing upon their instruments. The harmonious sounds awakened the birds—those perched on the palace branches and those in gilded cages—who joined in with their own sweet songs. The palace rang with the auspicious notes of veenas, the recitation of blessings, and the melodious voices of singers. Women of pure conduct, skilled in their duties and mostly young and beautiful, assembled as was their daily custom. They brought water scented with sandalwood and saffron in golden vessels for the king’s morning bath, prepared according to tradition and proper time. Other young women arrived bearing auspicious offerings and drinking vessels, all as required for the king’s morning rituals. Everything was readied with auspicious marks, adorned with prosperity and virtue, befitting the glory of a royal household. Yet, as the sun began to rise, everyone waited anxiously. Nothing had happened as usual; an uneasy stillness hung in the air. The women of Kosala who had slept near the king’s chamber gathered together, attempting to rouse their lord. But, observing the proper decorum, they neither touched his bed nor disturbed him. Skilled in reading the habits of sleep and movement, they became seized with trembling, fear growing in their hearts for the king’s life. Like blades of grass quivering at the edge of a stream, so too did these women tremble, and upon seeing the king, their fear deepened. What they had dreaded as a calamity was now certain. Kausalya and Sumitra, already overwhelmed by grief for their exiled son, did not awaken at the proper time. Drained of radiance, pale, and bowed down with sorrow, they lay motionless. Kausalya no longer shone, like a star veiled by darkness; after her, the king’s wife Sumitra also appeared dimmed by grief. The queen’s face, stained with tears, had lost its luster. Seeing the king and those noble queens lying thus, the inner palace—once vibrant—now seemed changed, its heart stilled. The noble women, stricken with anguish, broke into loud cries, their wails echoing through the halls. Like a herd of female elephants mourning their fallen leader in the forest, they wailed in sudden realization of their loss. Kausalya and Sumitra, abandoning their restless sleep, rose and, seeing and touching the lifeless king, cried out, “Alas, lord!” and collapsed to the ground. The daughter of the king of Kosala writhed upon the earth, her radiance dimmed, covered in dust like a fallen star. The king, now lying in peace, was surrounded by his grieving queens. I saw all those women like slain elephant-cows, overcome by sorrow. All the king’s wives, led by Kaikeyi, wept and fell unconscious, their cries rising in a mighty, heart-rending sound. The palace, once filled with prosperity and joy, now echoed with fear, confusion, and distress. All around, the tumultuous wailing of distressed relatives arose, their sudden joy turned to pitiable dejection. Thus did the palace of the departed king become a place of sorrow. The illustrious Dasaratha, surrounded by his wives who wept bitterly, was mourned as one without protection, his arms seized in grief. Seeing the king, extinguished like a fire gone cold, like the ocean drained of water, like the sun bereft of brilliance, gone to heaven, Kausalya—her eyes filled with tears, her body emaciated by sorrow—embraced the king’s head and turned to Kaikeyi. With a voice trembling with agony, she spoke: “Be satisfied, Kaikeyi. Enjoy the kingdom without hindrance, having cast aside the king, you cruel one, devoted to wicked deeds. 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. What woman, having abandoned her husband—her very own deity—would wish to live, except one like Kaikeyi, who has forsaken righteousness?” Thus, the palace of Ayodhya was plunged into mourning, as the noble king departed, leaving his household and his queens bereft and broken-hearted.