Within the palace, auspicious sounds filled the air—the gentle music of veenas mingled with the recitation of blessings and sacred songs. Women of pure conduct and graceful skill, mostly young and beautiful, gathered together as they had done before on such significant occasions. They brought golden vessels filled with water scented with sandalwood and saffron, prepared for the customary bathing at the proper time. Other young women followed, carrying auspicious offerings and drinking vessels, ensuring every ritual item was in its place. He, the king, was endowed with all auspicious marks; everything around him was honored as befitted a sovereign, adorned with virtues and prosperity, the very image of royal dignity. Yet, as the night passed and sunrise approached, a sense of anxious waiting gripped everyone—nothing had yet occurred, and uncertainty hung over all. The women of Kosala who slept near the king’s chamber gathered together, intent on waking their lord. Yet, mindful of propriety and decorum, they did not touch his bed or disturb him. These women, skilled in recognizing the signs of sleep and wakefulness, began to tremble with fear for the king’s life. Like blades of grass quivering at the edge of a swift stream, they shook as they gazed upon the king—and their trembling only increased. What they had feared as a distant calamity now became certain. Kausalya and Sumitra, overwhelmed with grief for their son, did not wake at the proper hour. Drained of their radiance, pale and bowed with sorrow, they remained lost in their grief. Kausalya, usually resplendent, now appeared as a star veiled by darkness; Sumitra, the king’s wife, was no different. 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 lord lying lifeless. The noble women, stricken with grief, cried out in anguish. Like a herd of female elephants bereft of their leader in the forest, they wailed aloud, their voices echoing through the chambers. Kausalya and Sumitra, abandoning sleep, rose to see and touch the king. Crying out, “Alas, lord!” they collapsed to the ground, Kausalya—the daughter of the king of Kosala—writhing in her grief. She no longer shone, covered in dust, like a star fallen from the sky, while the king, now peaceful, lay as Kausalya fell to the earth. All those women appeared like slain elephant-cows in their sorrow. Then all the king’s wives, led by Kaikeyi, wept and, tormented by grief, fell unconscious. Their cries rose in a mighty, heart-rending sound. Where once the palace had been filled with the sounds of prosperity, now confusion, fear, and distress echoed through its halls. All around, the relatives, their sudden joy turned to misery, raised a tumultuous wailing, pitiable and dejected. The palace of the king, who had reached his destined end, was transformed by grief. The illustrious king, surrounded by his lamenting wives, lay as if bereft of all protection, while their cries filled the air. Now begins the sixty-sixth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Beholding the king—his life extinguished, like a fire gone cold, like the ocean drained of water, like the sun bereft of brilliance, now gone to heaven—Kausalyā, her eyes brimming with tears and her body worn by many sorrows, embraced the king’s head and turned to Kaikeyī. She spoke bitterly: “Be satisfied, Kaikeyī. Enjoy the kingdom without hindrance, for you have cast aside the king, you cruel one, devoted to wickedness. 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 living, except one like Kaikeyī, who has forsaken righteousness? The greedy do not perceive their own faults, just as one eating poison does not sense its harm. Because of the hunchback, Kaikeyī 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, knowing nothing of me—widowed and abandoned. Sītā, the gentle 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 seek 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; embracing this body, I will enter the fire.” The women of the household, seeing Kausalyā so stricken, gently embraced her and restrained her in her grief. Meanwhile, the ministers placed the lord of the earth in an oil vessel and, following the prescribed rites, prepared for the king’s funeral. Yet, being wise, they would not proceed with the cremation without the prince; and so, they guarded the king, awaiting what was to come.