When the mighty king had reached his destined end, his once-glorious palace became a place of sorrow. The illustrious monarch lay surrounded by his grieving wives, who wept bitterly, clinging to his arms and lamenting like those left unprotected in the world. Now begins the sixty-sixth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the venerable Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki. The king, once radiant and strong, now lay extinguished—like a fire gone out, like the ocean drained of its waters, like the sun bereft of its brilliance, departed to heaven. Queen Kausalyā, her eyes swollen with tears and her body worn thin from many sorrows, embraced her husband’s head as she turned to Kaikeyī. “Be content, Kaikeyī,” she said, her voice trembling with grief and indignation. “Now enjoy the kingdom without hindrance. 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 wish to live. What woman, having lost her husband—her own god—would still desire to live, except for one like you, Kaikeyī, who has forsaken righteousness? The greedy do not see their own faults, just as one eating poison does not sense its harm. Because of the hunchback’s influence, Kaikeyī, you have destroyed the lineage of the Raghus. “The king, forced against his will, sent Rāma away. When Janaka hears 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 gentle daughter of the king of Videha, unaccustomed to hardship, will surely be troubled by sorrow in the forest. At night, when the dreadful cries of wild beasts and birds fill the air, she will be frightened and seek refuge in Rāghava. And Janaka, old and with few sons, thinking of Vaidehī, will surely be overwhelmed by grief and give up his life. “I, devoted to my husband, will today reach my destined end. Embracing his body, I will enter the fire.” As Kausalyā lamented thus, the women of the household gathered around her, embracing her in her grief and gently restraining her from her desperate resolve. Meanwhile, the ministers placed the lord of the earth in an oil vessel, performing all the subsequent rites as prescribed. Yet, being wise and mindful of tradition, they would not proceed with the king’s cremation without the presence of his son. Therefore, they guarded his body, waiting. The king, laid out by his ministers in the oil vessel, was mourned by the women of the palace. Realizing he was truly gone, they raised their arms in anguish, their faces streaming with tears, and wept aloud, 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 Kaikeyī’s wickedness, how shall we, now widows, live near the one who brought about our husband’s death? 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 Kaikeyī? She who abandoned the king, Rama, mighty Lakshmana, and Sita—whom else will she not forsake?” Weeping and overwhelmed by immense grief, the noble women of Raghava’s line writhed in sorrow, joyless. Ayodhya itself, like a night without stars, like a woman bereft of her husband, lost its luster without its great king. The city, filled with people overcome by tears, with families’ women crying “alas!” and with its squares and houses empty, no longer gleamed as before. It was like the sky without the sun, like the night without its cluster of stars; when the sun sets and day ends, night descends. The king’s friends and counselors, except for the absent prince, would not consent to the cremation. So, they placed the king on his bed, pondering the unfathomable presence of death. The city, too, appeared as the sky without the sun, its streets and squares empty, the crowds silenced by grief. Men and women gathered in groups, openly reproaching Bharata’s mother. With the king gone, the people of Ayodhya were distressed and found no comfort. Now begins the sixty-seventh chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki. That night, Ayodhya was filled with cries and devoid of joy, its people choked with tears as they passed through the long hours of darkness. When dawn finally broke and the sun rose, the royal priests and twice-born men assembled and made their way to the council chamber. Among them were Markandeya, Maudgalya, Vamadeva, Kashyapa, Katyayana, Gautama, and the illustrious Jabali. These brahmins, together with the ministers, each spoke in turn, their words turning toward Vasiṣṭha, the foremost royal priest. “This night, which seemed as long as a hundred years, has passed for us in sorrow,” they said, “since the king met his end, overcome by grief for his son. The great king has gone to heaven, Rāma has taken refuge in the forest, and mighty Lakṣmaṇa has followed Rāma. Both Bharata and Śatrughna, great ascetics, are in Kekaya, in the delightful palace of their maternal grandfather. Let someone from the Ikṣvāku line be made king here today, for our kingdom, without a ruler, must not fall to ruin.” In this way, the city and its people, bereft of their king and their beloved Rāma, mourned in deep sorrow, seeking guidance and hope for the future.