As dawn approached in Ayodhyā, the palace stirred to life with the sounds of music and devotion. Charioteers, skilled in their art, played their instruments, and the musicians joined in, their melodies weaving through the halls. The sweet strains awakened the birds—those nestled among the palace branches and those kept in gilded cages within the royal household—who burst into song, filling the air with their lively chorus. Auspicious sounds of veenas mingled with the recitation of blessings and sacred songs, enveloping the palace in an atmosphere of sanctity and joy. Into this setting, women of pure conduct—mostly young, beautiful, and well-versed in their duties—gathered as was their custom. They brought golden vessels filled with water scented with sandalwood and saffron, prepared for the king’s ritual bath at the proper, auspicious hour. Others carried auspicious offerings and drinking vessels, ensuring every detail of tradition was observed. The king, adorned with all auspicious marks and surrounded by prosperity and virtue, seemed the very image of royal dignity. Yet, as the moments passed and the sun lingered just below the horizon, an anxious anticipation filled the palace. Everyone waited, wondering what might have happened, for nothing had yet occurred. The women of Kosala, who slept near the king’s chamber, gathered together and gently tried to awaken their lord. Observing the decorum befitting their station, they did not touch his bed or disturb him in any way. Yet, these women—so skilled in reading the habits and movements of those in slumber—began to tremble, overcome by a growing fear for the king’s life. Like blades of grass quivering at the edge of a stream, they shook, and the sight of the king deepened their dread. Their worst fears seemed to be realized. Kausalya and Sumitra, stricken with grief for their son, lay asleep but did not awaken at the proper time. Their faces were drained of radiance, pale and bowed down by sorrow. Kausalya, once radiant, now appeared as a star veiled by darkness; Sumitra, too, was overcome by grief. The queen’s face was stained with tears, her beauty dimmed by anguish. Seeing the king and the noble queens lying thus, the inner palace felt changed, its joy replaced by a heavy silence. Suddenly, the women, overwhelmed by the calamity, cried out in despair. Their wails echoed through the halls like the cries of female elephants mourning their fallen leader in the forest. Kausalya and Sumitra, abandoning sleep, rose and, upon seeing and touching the king, cried out, “Alas, lord!” before collapsing to the ground in grief. The daughter of the king of Kosala writhed upon the earth, her form dust-covered and dim, like a fallen star. The king lay at peace, while Kausalya lay stricken at his side. All around, the king’s wives—led by Kaikeyi—were like slain elephant-cows, overcome by sorrow. They wept, tormented by grief, and many fell unconscious. Their cries rose in a mighty sound, once a sign of prosperity, now filling the palace with fear, confusion, and distress. The sudden reversal from joy to sorrow was pitiable, and the palace, once resplendent, now seemed forlorn. The illustrious king, having reached his destined end, lay surrounded by his wives, who seized his arms and lamented as those bereft of protection. Now, hear the next sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When Kausalyā saw the king, his life extinguished—like fire gone out, like the ocean drained of water, like the sun bereft of brilliance—her eyes filled with tears and her body weakened by sorrow. She embraced the king’s head and turned to Kaikeyi, her voice trembling. “Be satisfied, Kaikeyi,” she said bitterly. “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 gone to heaven. Like a caravan abandoned on a desolate path, I have no will to live. What woman, having abandoned her husband—her own deity—would wish to live, except one such as you, who has forsaken righteousness?” She continued, her grief deepening, “The greedy do not perceive their own faults, just as one who eats poison does not sense the harm. Because of the hunchback, Kaikeyi has destroyed the lineage of the Raghus. The king, compelled against his will, exiled Rāma. When Janaka hears this, he too will grieve as I do. Now, Rāma, righteous and lotus-eyed, has departed from here and does not know me, widowed and abandoned.” Her thoughts turned to Sītā, “Sītā, the ascetic daughter of the king of Videha, unaccustomed to suffering, will surely be troubled by sorrow in the forest. Hearing the dreadful cries of wild beasts and birds at night, she will be frightened and take refuge in Rāghava. And Janaka, old and with few sons, thinking of Vaidehī, will also, overwhelmed by grief, surely give up his life.” “I, devoted to my husband, will today reach my destined end,” Kausalyā declared. “Embracing this body, I will enter the fire.” At this, the women of the household, seeing Kausalyā lamenting and afflicted by great sorrow, gently gathered around her and restrained her, seeking to comfort her in her moment of deepest grief.