As the first light of dawn approached, the palace of Ayodhyā slowly stirred to life. The melodious calls of birds, awakened by the gentle sounds within the royal household, filled the air—some perched freely on branches, others singing from within gilded cages. Soon, auspicious music from veenas and the chanting of sacred blessings and songs echoed through the halls, weaving an atmosphere of sacred festivity. Women of flawless character, skilled in royal service—mostly young and radiant—gathered as they always had, their presence bringing a sense of order and grace. They carried golden vessels filled with water scented with sandalwood and saffron, prepared for the king’s ceremonial bath at the appointed hour, following time-honored custom. Others brought all manner of auspicious offerings and drinking vessels, ensuring every tradition was observed. The king, adorned with every auspicious mark and surrounded by prosperity and virtue, seemed the very embodiment of royal dignity. Yet, as the moments passed and the sun edged closer to the horizon, an anxious hush fell over the palace. Everyone waited, uneasy, wondering what might have transpired, for nothing had yet occurred to mark the day. Within the inner chambers, the women of Kosala who had spent the night near the king’s quarters gathered together, intent on awakening their lord. Yet, bound by propriety and modesty, they refrained from touching his bed or disturbing him, even as worry gnawed at their hearts. These women, so skilled in reading the signs of sleep and movement, now trembled with fear for the king’s life, their bodies quivering like blades of grass caught in a stream’s current. The sight of the king only deepened their dread, and they shook all the more. Their worst fears, once only shadows in their minds, now became a dreadful certainty. Kausalya and Sumitra, stricken by grief for their beloved son, lay asleep but did not awaken at the proper time. Their faces, drained of luster and bowed with sorrow, reflected the depth of their anguish. Kausalya, once radiant, now appeared as a star obscured by darkness, and Sumitra, the king’s other noble wife, looked much the same—her face stained with tears, her brilliance dimmed. The inner palace, once vibrant and full of life, now seemed transformed, its lord lying silent and still. The noble women, overcome by despair, raised their voices in loud lamentation. Like a herd of female elephants bereft of their leader in the wild, they wailed, suddenly awakened to their loss. Kausalya and Sumitra, roused from their torpor, approached the king, and, upon touching him, cried out in anguish, “Alas, lord!” Overcome, the daughter of the king of Kosala collapsed to the ground, her form covered in dust, no longer shining—like a fallen star. Around her, the other royal women seemed as stricken as slain elephant-cows. All the king’s wives, led by Kaikeyī, wailed in torment, falling unconscious from the weight of their grief. Their sorrowful cries, once the sounds of prosperity and joy, now filled the palace with terror and confusion. The wailing of relatives echoed throughout, their sudden happiness turned to misery, and the palace of the now-departed king became a place of desolation. Surrounded by his grieving wives, the illustrious king lay still, while those who loved him clung to his arms and lamented like those left without protection. Now begins the sixty-sixth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. As the mourners gazed upon the king, they saw him extinguished—like a fire gone out, an ocean drained of water, or the sun robbed of its brilliance. He had departed for the heavens. Kausalyā, her eyes swollen with tears and her form wasted by many sorrows, embraced the king’s head and turned to Kaikeyī, speaking bitterly: “Be content, Kaikeyī. Now you may enjoy the kingdom without hindrance. Having cast aside the king, you cruel one, devoted to wicked deeds, you have your heart’s desire. 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 lost her husband—her very deity—would wish to go on, except one like Kaikeyī, who has forsaken righteousness? The greedy see no fault in their actions, just as one who eats poison does not sense the harm. Because of the hunchback’s influence, Kaikeyī has destroyed the noble lineage of the Raghus. The king, compelled against his will, exiled Rāma. When Janaka hears of this, he too will be stricken with grief as I am. Now Rāma, righteous and lotus-eyed, has departed and knows nothing of me—widowed and abandoned. Sītā, the gentle daughter of the king of Videha, unaccustomed to hardship, will surely suffer in the forest. At night, hearing the dreadful cries of wild beasts and birds, she will be frightened and seek refuge in Rāghava. And Janaka, old and with few sons, thinking of his daughter Vaidehī, will surely lose his life, overwhelmed by sorrow. I, devoted to my husband, will today meet my destined end. Embracing this body, I shall enter the fire.” The women of the household, seeing Kausalyā so afflicted and lamenting, gently embraced and restrained her, seeking to offer comfort. Meanwhile, the king’s ministers, following the ancient rites, placed the lord of the earth in an oil vessel and performed all the necessary funeral ceremonies as prescribed. Thus, the palace of Ayodhyā, once filled with joy and light, was plunged into sorrow, as the illustrious king departed from this world, mourned by all who loved him.