In the palace of Ayodhya, a scene of deep sorrow unfolded. The king’s wives were gathered together, led by Kaikeyi, and they appeared as forlorn as elephant-cows struck down in the forest. Their grief was overwhelming; their cries echoed through the halls as they wept and fell unconscious, unable to bear the sorrow that had befallen them. The sound of their lamentation, which once had filled the royal home with prosperity and joy, now reverberated through the palace, bringing with it only fear, confusion, and distress. All around, the relatives of the royal family joined in the wailing, their sudden happiness shattered. They appeared pitiable and dejected, and the entire palace, once the seat of a mighty king, was now engulfed in despair. The illustrious king, surrounded by his grieving wives, seized his arms and lamented helplessly, as if he were one without protection. Now begins the sixty-sixth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. The king had departed from this world, his life extinguished like a fire gone out, like the ocean drained of its waters, like the sun robbed of its brilliance. He had gone to heaven. Kausalyā, her eyes brimming with tears and her body wasted by many sorrows, embraced the head of her departed husband. Turning to Kaikeyī, she spoke bitterly: “Be satisfied now, Kaikeyī. Enjoy the kingdom without hindrance, for you have cast aside your husband, you cruel one, devoted to wickedness. Rāma has left me, 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, who is her very deity, would wish to continue living—except one such as Kaikeyī, who has abandoned righteousness? The greedy do not see their own faults, just as one who eats poison does not sense its harm. Because of the hunchback, Kaikeyī has destroyed the lineage of the Raghus. The king, forced against his will, exiled Rāma. When Janaka hears this, he too will suffer as I do. Now Rāma, that righteous, lotus-eyed one, has left; he does not know me, left widowed and abandoned. Sītā, the gentle daughter of the king of Videha, unaccustomed to hardship, 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 seek refuge in Rāghava. And Janaka, old and with few sons, thinking of his daughter Vaidehī, will be so overcome by grief that he will surely give up his life. As for me, devoted to my husband, today I shall reach my destined end. Embracing this body, I will enter the fire.” The women of the household, seeing Kausalyā so overwhelmed by grief and lamentation, gathered around and gently restrained her, trying to offer comfort. Meanwhile, the ministers placed the lord of the earth, their king, in an oil vessel and, following the prescribed rites, began preparations for his funeral. Yet, being wise, they would not proceed with the cremation without the presence of the prince, so they kept watch over the king’s body. The king, laid out in the oil vessel by his ministers, was mourned by the royal women, who now fully realized his passing. They raised their arms in distress, tears streaming down their faces, and their cries filled the palace with anguish. “Alas, great king! Why have you abandoned us, deprived of Rāma, who always spoke kindly and was steadfast in truth? Separated from Raghava by Kaikeyī’s wickedness, how shall we, now widows, live near the one who caused our husband’s death? He was always our protector and yours, lordly and self-possessed. Rāma, glorious and noble, has gone to the forest, leaving behind the splendor of the royal house. Bereft of you and that heroic one, afflicted by misfortune, how can we remain, disgraced by Kaikeyī? She who abandoned the king, Rāma, mighty Lakshmana, and Sītā—who else would she not forsake?” Covered in tears and overwhelmed by immense grief, the noble women of Raghava’s line writhed in their sorrow, robbed of all joy. Ayodhya itself was like a night without stars, like a woman bereft of her husband; deprived of its great king, the city no longer shone. Everywhere, people were overcome by tears; women in every household cried out in sorrow, and the city’s squares and homes stood empty and silent, no longer gleaming as before. It was as if the sky had lost the sun, as if night had come suddenly with the setting of the day, and darkness prevailed. Without the king’s son present, the assembled friends and ministers would not consent to the king’s cremation. Therefore, they placed him on a bed and pondered the mystery of his passing. The city, like the sky without the sun, appeared bereft of its great soul; its streets and squares were empty, no longer crowded with people, and the air was thick with grief. Men and women gathered in groups, openly reproaching Bharata’s mother, Kaikeyī. In the city, with the king gone, the people were distressed and found no comfort. Now begins the sixty-seventh chapter of the Ayodhyākāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. That night, Ayodhya was filled with cries and devoid of joy; its people were choked with tears as they endured the darkness. When the night had passed and the sun rose, the royal priests and twice-born men gathered and went to the council hall. Among those present were Markandeya, Maudgalya, Vamadeva, Kashyapa, Katyayana, Gautama, and the illustrious Jabali. These Brahmins, together with the ministers, each spoke in turn, and all eyes turned to Vasiṣṭha, the foremost of royal priests, seeking guidance in the kingdom’s hour of sorrow.