Within the palace, a hush of dread hung over the women, their bodies trembling like slender grasses at the water’s edge, quivering helplessly against a swift current. When their eyes fell upon the king, their fear deepened, and they shook all the more, sensing that the calamity they dreaded had come to pass. Kausalya and Sumitra, hearts crushed by grief for their lost son, lay overcome by sorrow. Even in sleep, they did not awaken at the proper hour; their faces pale and drained of radiance, their bodies bowed beneath the weight of their anguish. Kausalya, once radiant, now seemed dimmed, like a star veiled by darkness. After her, Sumitra too appeared faded, her countenance shadowed with sorrow. The queen’s face was stained with tears, her former brilliance lost. As the king lay there, and the noble queens surrounded him, the inner palace itself felt changed—a place once alive, now stilled and heavy with mourning. Suddenly, those noble women, stricken and bereft, cried out loudly, their voices rising in grief. They were like a herd of female elephants whose leader has fallen in the forest, wailing in sudden realization. Kausalya and Sumitra, abandoning the grip of sleep, rose and approached the king. Reaching out to touch him, they cried, “Alas, lord!” and collapsed to the ground, inconsolable. The daughter of the king of Kosala writhed upon the earth, her sorrow so great that she seemed as a star fallen from the sky, her body covered in dust and bereft of all luster, while the king lay peacefully, unmoving. I saw all those women as if they were elephant-cows struck down, lying in despair. Then, all the king’s wives, led by Kaikeyi herself, wept uncontrollably, tormented by their grief, until they fainted away. Their cries rose together into a mighty, heartrending sound—a sound that once filled the palace with prosperity now echoed with fear, confusion, and distress, filling every chamber with sorrow. All around, the wailing of anguished relatives rose in tumult, their sudden joy overturned, their faces pitiable and dejected. The palace of the king, who had reached his destined end, was transformed by mourning. The illustrious king, surrounded by his wives, was wept over bitterly, their laments echoing the cries of those left unprotected. Now, listen to the next part of this sorrowful tale from the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When Kausalyā saw the king, his light extinguished like a fire gone out, like the ocean drained of its waters, like the sun bereft of brilliance, she knew he had departed for heaven. Her eyes brimming with tears, her body wasted by many sorrows, Kausalyā embraced the king’s head and turned to Kaikeyi, her voice trembling. “Be satisfied, Kaikeyi,” she said, “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; like a caravan abandoned on a desolate path, I have no desire to live. What woman, having lost her husband—her very deity—would wish to go on living, save for one like you, Kaikeyi, who has forsaken righteousness? “The greedy see no fault, just as one eating poison does not sense the harm. Because of the hunchback’s counsel, Kaikeyi has destroyed the lineage of the Raghus. The king, forced against his will, exiled Rāma; when Janaka hears of this, he too will grieve as I do. Now, Rāma, righteous and lotus-eyed, has left, not knowing that I, widowed and abandoned, remain behind. Sītā, the gentle daughter of the king of Videha, unaccustomed to hardship, will surely suffer sorrow 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 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.” As Kausalyā lamented, the women of the household gathered around her, holding her gently and restraining her from her despair. Meanwhile, the ministers placed the lord of the earth in an oil vessel, performing all the prescribed rites for the departed king. Yet, being wise and mindful of tradition, they would not proceed with the king’s cremation without the prince present; thus, they guarded the king’s body with care. The king, laid out by his ministers in the oil vessel, was mourned by the women, who, realizing he was truly gone, raised their arms and wept, their faces streaming with tears, their hearts tormented by sorrow. In their anguish, they cried out: “Alas, great king! Why have you abandoned us, deprived of Rāma, who always spoke kindly and was steadfast in truth? Separated from Raghava by Kaikeyi’s wickedness, how shall we, now widows, live near the one who has slain her own husband? He was always our protector and yours, lordly and self-possessed. Rāma, glorious, has gone to the forest, leaving behind the royal splendor. Bereft of you and that heroic one, afflicted by misfortune, how shall we remain, disgraced by Kaikeyi? She who abandoned the king, Rāma, mighty Lakshmana, and Sītā—whom else will she not forsake?” Overwhelmed by immense grief, the noble women of Raghava wept without joy, their tears unceasing. Ayodhya, deprived of its great king, shone no more—like a night without stars, like a woman bereft of her husband, the city lay in darkness and sorrow.