As the night wore on, the king—lord of men—lay in his chamber, his heart shattered by the exile of his beloved son Rāma. Consumed by anguish and unable to endure the torment of separation, the noble-souled king, in the stillness of night, surrendered his life. With the coming of dawn, the sixty-fifth chapter unfolds. The first rays of morning found the bards gathering at the royal palace. Charioteers, refined and skilled in auspicious songs, along with singers adept at praise, each began their duties, their voices rising in separate melodies. Their words, filled with lofty blessings for the king, echoed through the vast expanse of the palace. As the musicians played, the charioteers accompanied them with their instruments, and the harmonies of their music filled the halls. Awakened by these sounds, the birds—both those perched freely on branches and those kept in gilded cages—joined in with their own songs. The palace resounded with the auspicious music of veenas and the recitation of blessings, creating an atmosphere of prosperity and joy. Soon, women of pure conduct, mostly young and beautiful and well-versed in their service, assembled as they always did. They brought golden vessels filled with water scented with sandalwood and saffron for the king’s bath, as required by custom and time. Other young women arrived with auspicious items and drinking utensils, ensuring all was prepared as befit royalty. The palace, adorned with every sign of virtue and prosperity, seemed the very image of regal splendor. Yet, as the sun’s light grew, an anxious waiting settled over all. Nothing stirred from the king’s chambers, and everyone wondered in silence what might have happened. The women of Kosala, who had slept near the king’s chamber, gathered, intent on waking their lord. Out of respect, they did not disturb his bed or touch him, behaving with the utmost propriety. But as they observed him, a trembling seized their hearts, fear rising for the king’s life. They quivered, like blades of grass at the river’s edge shivering in the current. As they looked upon the king, their fear deepened, for what they dreaded now appeared true. Kausalya and Sumitra, overcome with grief for their son, lay nearby. Though it was time to rise, they remained motionless, drained of radiance, pale and bowed by sorrow. Kausalya, usually radiant, seemed dimmed, like a star veiled by darkness; Sumitra, the king’s other noble wife, appeared the same. The queen’s face was stained with tears of grief, her brightness gone. Seeing the king and his noble queens lying thus, the inner palace, once vibrant, now seemed changed and somber. Suddenly, a great cry arose from the stricken women. Like female elephants bereft of their leader in the forest, they wailed aloud, their sorrow shattering the silence. Kausalya and Sumitra, abandoning sleep, rose and approached the king. With a cry of “Alas, lord!” they collapsed to the ground, Kausalya writhing in her grief. She, once so luminous, now lay in the dust, like a star fallen from the sky, while the king, serene in death, lay beside her. All the women of the palace seemed like cows felled beside their leader. The king’s wives, led by Kaikeyī, wept bitterly and fell unconscious, their cries rising in a mighty, heartrending sound. The palace, which had once echoed with songs of prosperity, now trembled with the noise of fear, confusion, and distress. All around, relatives wailed in anguish, their former joy now turned to sorrow, their faces pitiable and dejected. Thus did the palace of the departed king appear: the illustrious monarch, surrounded by his grieving wives, their arms clinging to him in despair, lamented like those left unprotected. Now begins the sixty-sixth chapter. The king, lifeless, appeared like a fire extinguished, an ocean drained of water, a sun bereft of brilliance—he had gone to heaven. Kausalyā, her eyes brimming with tears and her body worn by many sorrows, embraced his head and turned to Kaikeyī. With a voice trembling with grief, she addressed Kaikeyī: “Be satisfied now, Kaikeyī. Enjoy the kingdom without hindrance, for you, cruel one, devoted to wicked deeds, have cast aside the king. Rāma has left me, and my husband has departed for heaven. Like a caravan abandoned on a desolate path, I have no will to live. “What woman, having forsaken her husband, her own lord, would wish to live—except one like you, Kaikeyī, who has turned from righteousness? The greedy see no fault in their actions, just as one eating poison does not sense the harm. Because of the hunchback’s influence, you have destroyed the lineage of the Raghus. “The king, compelled against his will, exiled Rāma; when Janaka hears this, he too will be stricken with grief, as I am now. Now, Rāma, righteous and lotus-eyed, has departed from here, unaware that I am left behind, widowed and abandoned.” Thus, the palace was plunged into mourning, the king’s death casting a deep shadow over all Ayodhyā.