In the palace of Ayodhya, grief swept like a storm. The women, overwhelmed by sorrow, wept bitterly and collapsed, their cries rising in a mighty, heart-wrenching sound. Where once laughter and prosperity had filled the halls, now fear, confusion, and distress echoed through every chamber. Relatives, once joyful, now wailed in anguish, their happiness shattered, appearing pitiable and dejected. The king’s palace, once radiant, was plunged into mourning. The illustrious king, surrounded by his grieving wives, seized his arms and lamented like one bereft of all protection. The wives, tormented by loss, clung to him, their tears flowing endlessly. Now, hear the sixty-sixth sarga in the Ayodhya Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. The king lay lifeless, extinguished like a fire, like an ocean drained of its waters, like the sun robbed of its brilliance—he had departed for heaven. Kausalyā, her eyes swollen with tears and her body wasted by sorrow, embraced the king’s head. Turning to Kaikeyī, she spoke with anguish: “Be satisfied, Kaikeyī. Enjoy the kingdom unhindered, having cast aside the king. You, cruel one, devoted to wicked deeds, have brought this upon us.” “My beloved Rāma has left me, and my husband has gone to heaven. Like a caravan abandoned on a desolate path, I have no will to live. What woman, having forsaken her husband—her own deity—would wish to live, except one like Kaikeyī, who has turned from righteousness? The greedy do not see their own faults, just as one eating poison does not sense harm. Because of the hunchback, the lineage of the Raghus has been destroyed by Kaikeyī.” “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, unaware that I am 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 seek refuge in Rāghava. 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 Kausalyā’s distress and hearing her lament, embraced her gently and restrained her, soothing her in her grief. Meanwhile, the ministers placed the lord of the earth in an oil vessel, performing the prescribed rites for the king as instructed. Yet, the wise ministers, unwilling to proceed with the cremation without the prince, guarded the king’s body. The king, laid out in the oil vessel, was mourned by the women who, realizing he was gone, lamented aloud, raising their arms in anguish, their faces streaming with tears. “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 Kaikeyī’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 Kaikeyī? By whom the king, Rāma, mighty Lakshmana, and Sītā were abandoned—whom else will she not forsake?” Covered in tears, overwhelmed by immense grief, the noble women of Raghava writhed, joyless. Like a night without stars, like a woman bereft of her husband, Ayodhya, deprived of its great king, lost its radiance. The city, filled with people overwhelmed by tears, with families’ women 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 cremation; thus, they placed the king on the bed, pondering his unfathomable presence. The city appeared bereft of its great soul, its streets and squares empty, not crowded with tearful voices. Men and women gathered in groups, reproaching Bharata’s mother; in the city, with the king gone, they were distressed and found no comfort. Now, hear the sixty-seventh chapter in the Ayodhyākāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Ayodhya, filled with cries and joyless, its people choked with tears, endured that night in sorrow. When the night had passed and the sun rose, the royal priests and twice-born men assembled and went to the council. Among them were Markandeya, Maudgalya, Vamadeva, Kashyapa, Katyayana, Gautama, and the illustrious Jabali. These brahmins, together with the ministers, each speaking separately, all turned toward Vasiṣṭha, the foremost royal priest. “This night, which seemed as long as a hundred years, has passed for us in sorrow, since the king met his end, overcome by grief for his son.” Thus, the city and its people mourned, awaiting guidance for the days to come.