In the royal palace, anticipation filled the air as young women brought forth auspicious offerings and vessels for drinking, preparing everything in accordance with sacred custom. All was adorned with prosperity and virtue, and the one at the center of these honors bore every mark of auspiciousness, appearing truly worthy of kingship. Yet, as the night wore on toward sunrise, a tense unease settled over everyone. They waited, anxious and uncertain, for nothing had transpired, and all wondered what fate might be unfolding. The women of Kosala, who had slept near the king’s chamber, gathered together and attempted to wake their lord. Out of respect and proper conduct, they refrained from touching his bed or disturbing him directly. These women, skilled in the ways of sleep and the subtle signs of life, began to tremble with fear for the king’s wellbeing. Their bodies quivered like blades of grass at the edge of a stream, shivering in the current, and as they looked upon the king, their trembling only grew. The calamity they had dreaded now seemed certain. Kausalya and Sumitra, overcome by sorrow for their son, were weighed down by grief. Though they slept, they did not awaken at the proper time. Their radiance was gone; pale and bowed low, they were consumed by their sadness. Kausalya no longer shone, like a star veiled by darkness, and after her, Sumitra, the king’s wife, appeared the same—her face stained with tears, her beauty dimmed by grief. Seeing the king and the noble queens lying thus, the inner palace felt changed, its heart silenced. Suddenly, the noble women, struck by sorrow, cried out with loud lamentation. Like a herd of female elephants bereft of their leader in the forest, they wailed in anguish. Kausalya and Sumitra, finally rousing from their sleep, went to the king. Upon seeing and touching him, they cried, “Alas, lord!” before collapsing to the ground. The daughter of the king of Kosala writhed on the earth, her radiance gone, covered in dust, like a star fallen from the sky, while the king lay in peace with Kausalya at his side. All around, the women resembled slain elephant-cows in their grief. Then, all the king’s wives, led by Kaikeyi, fell unconscious, tormented by sorrow, and their cries rose together in a mighty, sorrowful sound. Where once the palace echoed with prosperity and joy, now it was filled with fear, confusion, and distress. Relatives, their sudden joy dashed, raised a tumultuous wailing, appearing pitiable and dejected. Thus, the palace of the king, who had reached his destined end, was transformed. The illustrious king, surrounded by his wives who wept bitterly and seized his arms, was mourned as though all were left unprotected. Now, hear of the next chapter in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When the king was seen—his life extinguished, like a fire gone out, like the ocean drained of water, like the sun bereft of brilliance, departed to heaven—Kausalya, her eyes brimming with tears and her body emaciated by many sorrows, embraced the king’s head and spoke to Kaikeyi. “Be satisfied, Kaikeyi,” she said, her voice trembling. “Enjoy the kingdom without hindrance, for you have cast aside the king. You, cruel one, devoted to wicked deeds—Rāma has left me, and my husband has gone to heaven. I am like a caravan abandoned on a desolate path, with no will left to live. What woman, having abandoned her husband—her own deity—would wish to live, except one like you who has forsaken righteousness? The greedy one does not see her own faults, just as one who eats poison does not sense the harm. Because of the hunchback, you have 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. 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 be overwhelmed by grief and 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 Kausalya lamenting and afflicted with great sorrow, embraced her gently and restrained her from her grief. Meanwhile, the ministers placed the lord of the earth in an oil vessel and, as instructed, performed all the subsequent rites for the king. Yet, without the prince, the wise ministers did not wish to complete the king’s cremation; and so they guarded the lord of the earth. The king, laid out in the oil vessel by his ministers, was mourned by the women who, realizing he was gone, lamented aloud. Raising their arms, distressed, their faces streaming with tears, they wept in anguish, crying, “Alas, great king! Why have you abandoned us, deprived of Rāma, who always spoke kindly and was steadfast in truth?