The queen, her face streaked with tears of deep grief, had lost her former radiance. As she gazed upon the king and the noble queens lying prostrate in sorrow, the inner palace itself seemed transformed, its lord now lifeless in his final sleep. The noble women, overcome with anguish, raised their voices in loud lamentation. Like a herd of female elephants whose leader has fallen in the forest, these women, suddenly regaining consciousness, cried out in piercing wails. Kausalya and Sumitra, abandoning the embrace of sleep, rose and approached the king. As they saw and touched him, realization struck, and with a desperate cry of “Alas, lord!”, they collapsed to the ground. The daughter of the king of Kosala, Kausalya, writhed upon the earth, her body covered in dust, her beauty dimmed like a fallen star. The king lay peacefully, his form still, while Kausalya lay beside him, overcome by grief. All around, I beheld the royal women, like slain elephant-cows, prostrate in their sorrow. Led by Kaikeyi, all the king’s wives, tormented by grief, wept uncontrollably and fell unconscious. Their cries rose together in a mighty, harrowing sound. Once, the palace had echoed with joyous voices and prosperity; now, it was filled with fear, confusion, and distress. Throughout the royal residence, tumultuous wailing arose from the king’s relatives, whose sudden joy had turned to pitiable sorrow and dejection. Thus, the palace of the king, who had reached his destined end, was transformed. The illustrious king, surrounded by his wives who wept bitterly, seemed to seize his arms and lament like one left without protection. Hear now the sixty-sixth sarga in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When the people saw the king, extinguished like a fire gone out, like the ocean drained of water, like the sun bereft of brilliance, having departed for heaven, Kausalya, her eyes streaming with tears and her body wasted by many sorrows, embraced the king’s head and addressed Kaikeyi. “Be satisfied now, Kaikeyi,” she said with anguish, “Enjoy the kingdom without hindrance, for you, cruel one, devoted to wicked deeds, have cast aside the king. Rāma has left me, and my husband has departed to heaven. Like a caravan abandoned on a desolate path, I have no will to live. What woman, having lost her husband, her own deity, would wish to live—except one like you, Kaikeyi, who has forsaken righteousness? The greedy do not perceive their faults, just as one who eats poison does not sense its harm. Because of the hunchback, the lineage of the Raghus has been destroyed by you, Kaikeyi. “The king, compelled against his will, exiled Rāma. When Janaka hears of this, he too will grieve as I do. Now, Rāma, righteous and lotus-eyed, has departed and does not know that I am left here, widowed and abandoned. Sītā, the ascetic daughter of the king of Videha, unaccustomed to suffering, will surely be troubled by sorrow in the forest. At night, hearing the dreadful cries of wild beasts and birds, she will be frightened and take 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 Kausalya lamenting and afflicted with great sorrow, embraced her and gently restrained her from her intent. 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, the wise ministers, without the presence of the prince, did not wish to perform the king’s cremation; so they guarded 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, lamented aloud. Raising their arms, their faces streaming with tears, they wept in deep anguish, tormented by sorrow. “Alas, great king!” they cried, “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, widows, live near the husband-slayer? 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’s line writhed in sorrow, joyless and bereft. Like a night without stars, like a woman bereft of her husband, Ayodhya, deprived of its great king, did not shine. The city, filled with people overwhelmed by tears, with the women of families crying “alas!”, with empty squares and houses, did not gleam as before. Like the sky without the sun, like the night without its cluster of stars, when the sun suddenly sets and day ceases, night comes forth. Except for the king’s son, the gathered friends did not consent to the king’s cremation; thus, they placed the king on the bed, pondering his unfathomable presence. Ayodhya, like the sky without the sun, like the night without its cluster of stars, appeared bereft of its great soul, and the streets and squares were empty, not crowded with tearful throats as before.