Kausalyā, overwhelmed with grief, lamented bitterly over the tragic turn of events. She cried, “What woman, having abandoned her husband—her own lord and deity—would wish to continue living, save for one like Kaikeyī, who has forsaken righteousness itself? Greed blinds Kaikeyī to all faults, just as a person who consumes poison fails to sense its deadly effects. Because of the hunchback’s influence, Kaikeyī has brought ruin upon the noble lineage of the Raghus. The king, compelled against his will, has exiled Rāma. When Janaka, Sītā’s father, hears of this, he too will be stricken with grief, as I am now. Rāma, righteous and lotus-eyed, has departed from here, oblivious to my suffering—left widowed and forsaken. And Sītā, that ascetic daughter of the king of Videha, unaccustomed to hardship, will surely be tormented by sorrow in the harsh forest. At night, hearing the dreadful cries of wild beasts and birds, she will be frightened and cling to Rāghava for refuge. Janaka, now aged and with few sons, will think constantly of his beloved Vaidehī. Overwhelmed by grief for his daughter, 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 and follow my lord.” Seeing Kausalyā’s anguish and hearing her resolve, the women of the royal household gathered around her. They embraced her with gentle words and sought to restrain her from her grief-stricken intention. Meanwhile, the ministers placed the departed king, lord of the earth, in an oil vessel and performed all the prescribed rites, as tradition demanded. Yet, wise as they were, they did not wish to proceed with the cremation in the absence of the prince; thus, they guarded the king’s body, awaiting Rāma’s return. The king, laid out by his ministers in the oil vessel, was mourned by the palace women, who, realizing he was truly gone, wept aloud. Raising their arms in distress, their faces streaming with tears, they were tormented by sorrow and mourned with anguished cries. “Alas, great king!” they wailed, “Why have you abandoned us, deprived as we are of Rāma, who always spoke kindly and was steadfast in truth? Separated from Rāghava by Kaikeyī’s wickedness, how shall we, now widows, live near the very woman 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 all royal splendor. Bereft of you and that heroic one, afflicted by misfortune, how shall we remain, disgraced by Kaikeyī? She who has abandoned the king, Rāma, mighty Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā—whom else will she not forsake?” Covered in tears and overwhelmed by immense grief, the noble women of Raghava’s line writhed in their sorrow, joyless and inconsolable. Ayodhya, like a night without stars or a woman bereft of her husband, did not shine without its great king. The city, filled with people overwhelmed by tears and women crying “alas!” in empty squares and houses, had lost its former brilliance. Like the sky bereft of the sun, like the night without its cluster of stars, Ayodhya was plunged into darkness as day faded and night came forth. Except for the king’s son, none of the assembled friends would consent to the cremation; so, pondering his unfathomable presence, they laid the king on his bed and waited. The city, like the sky without the sun, appeared empty—its streets and squares no longer crowded, only tearful voices echoing in the silence. Men and women gathered in sorrowful groups, openly reproaching Bharata’s mother, Kaikeyī. With the king gone, the people of the city were deeply distressed and found no comfort. Thus passed the sixty-seventh chapter in the Ayodhyākāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. That night, Ayodhya was filled with cries and devoid of joy; its people, choked with tears, endured the darkness in misery. When at last the night ended and the sun rose, the royal priests and twice-born men assembled and made their way to the council chamber. There, the venerable Markandeya, Maudgalya, Vāmadeva, Kāśyapa, Kātyāyana, Gautama, and the illustrious Jābāli were all present. These brahmins, together with the ministers, each spoke in turn, directing their words to Vasiṣṭha, the foremost royal priest. They said, “This night, which seemed as long as a hundred years, has passed in sorrow since the king, overcome by grief for his son, departed from this world. The great king has gone to heaven, Rāma has taken refuge in the forest, and mighty Lakṣmaṇa has accompanied him. Both Bharata and Śatrughna, great ascetics, are far away in Kekaya, in the palace of their maternal grandfather. Let someone from the Ikṣvāku line be made king here today, for our kingdom must not fall into ruin without a ruler. In a land without a king, even the thundercloud, though it resounds, does not bring rain to the earth. In such a land, handfuls of seed are not sown; a son does not obey his father, nor a wife her husband. Where there is no king, there is no wealth, nor even a wife; and in such disorder, how can truth survive? In a land without a king, men do not build assembly halls, nor do the joyful construct gardens or sacred homes. The twice-born, devoted to sacrifice and self-control, do not perform their sacred rites. At great sacrifices, wealthy brahmins do not distribute abundant gifts to the worthy. Thus, let us act swiftly, for the welfare of the kingdom and its people depends upon the presence of a just and noble king.