What the royal women had long feared as a terrible calamity was now upon them with certainty. Kausalya and Sumitra, stricken with grief for their beloved son, were so overcome by sorrow that, though they lay in uneasy sleep, they did not awaken at the proper hour. Their faces were pale and their radiance gone, their bodies bowed beneath the weight of their anguish. Kausalya, once resplendent, now seemed dimmed, like a star shrouded in darkness. After her, Sumitra, too, appeared just as forlorn. Tears stained the queen’s face, robbing her of her former luster. As the king and his noble queens lay thus, the very heart of the inner palace felt changed, its master lying lifeless in sleep. Suddenly, the noble women, stricken with shock and loss, raised their voices in loud, piercing cries. They were like female elephants in the forest whose leader has fallen, their wails echoing as they regained consciousness. Kausalya and Sumitra, abandoning all thought of sleep, rose and approached the king. Seeing and touching him, they cried out, “Alas, lord!” and collapsed to the ground in grief. The daughter of the king of Kosala writhed upon the earth, her beauty dimmed, covered in dust, like a star fallen from the sky. The king, now at peace, lay still as Kausalya lay beside him on the ground. All the royal women appeared as if slain, like elephant-cows struck down. Then all the king’s wives, Kaikeyi at their head, wept bitterly and, tormented by grief, fell unconscious. Their cries rose up, a mighty sound that once had filled the palace with joy and prosperity, but now filled it with fear, confusion, and distress. All around, the palace echoed with tumultuous wailing from relatives whose sudden joy had turned to heartbreak. The once-glorious king’s palace, now bereft of its master, was filled with pitiable, dejected figures. The illustrious king lay surrounded by his wives, who, weeping and grieving, clung to his arms and lamented like those left without protection. Now begins the sixty-sixth sarga of the Ayodhya Kanda of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana. Beholding the king—his light extinguished like a fire gone out, like an ocean without water, like the sun without its brilliance, departed to heaven—Kausalya, her eyes brimming with tears and her body emaciated by many sorrows, embraced his head and spoke bitter words to Kaikeyi. “Be satisfied now, Kaikeyi,” she said, her voice trembling. “Enjoy the kingdom without hindrance, for you have cast aside the king himself—cruel one, devoted to wicked deeds. Rama 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 own lord and deity—would wish to go on, except one like Kaikeyi, who has turned her back on righteousness? “The greedy see no fault, just as one who eats poison does not recognize its harm. Because of the hunchback, Kaikeyi has destroyed the lineage of the Raghus. The king, forced against his will, sent Rama into exile; when Janaka hears of this, he too will grieve as I do. “Now Rama, righteous and lotus-eyed, has gone from here. He does not know me, widowed and abandoned. Sita, 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 seek refuge in Raghava. “And Janaka, now old and with few sons, thinking of Vaidehi, will, 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.” Seeing Kausalya so distraught and lamenting, the women of the household gathered around her, gently restraining her in her grief. Meanwhile, the ministers, following the prescribed rites, placed the lord of the earth in an oil vessel, performing all the necessary ceremonies for the departed king. Yet, wise as they were, the ministers would not proceed with the king’s cremation without the presence of the prince; thus, they kept watch over the lord of the earth. The king, laid out by his ministers in the oil vessel, was mourned by the women, who, realizing he was truly gone, raised their voices in lamentation. With arms lifted in despair, faces streaming with tears, they wept in anguish, tormented by sorrow. “Alas, great king!” they cried. “Why have you abandoned us, deprived of Rama, 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 husband? He was always our protector and yours, lordly and self-possessed; Rama, 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, Rama, mighty Lakshmana, and Sita—whom will she not forsake?” Covered in tears and overwhelmed by immense grief, the noble women of Raghava’s house writhed in sorrow, joyless. Ayodhya, deprived of its great king, was like a night without stars, like a woman bereft of her husband—no longer shining. Everywhere, people were overwhelmed by tears; women in every household cried “alas!”; the city’s squares and houses stood empty, and Ayodhya no longer gleamed as it once had.