Blinded by greed, a person fails to see faults, just as one who consumes poison does not perceive its harm. Thus, because of the hunchback’s influence, Kaikeyī has brought ruin to the noble lineage of the Raghus. King Daśaratha, compelled against his own will, exiled Rāma. When King Janaka hears of this, he too will be stricken with the same grief that now overwhelms me. Now that Rāma—the righteous, lotus-eyed one—has departed, he does not know the state in which I remain: widowed and abandoned. Sītā, the ascetic 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. Janaka, old and with few sons, thinking constantly of Vaidehī, will be so overcome by grief that he will likely give up his life. As for me, devoted to my husband, I will reach my destined end today; embracing this body, I will enter the fire. At these lamentations, the women of the household gathered around Kausalyā, who was overwhelmed with sorrow, and gently restrained her in her grief. Meanwhile, the ministers placed the lord of the earth, King Daśaratha, in an oil vessel, and, following the prescribed rites, performed all the subsequent ceremonies for the departed king. Yet, without the presence of the prince, the wise ministers did not wish to cremate the king. Thus, they guarded the body of the lord of the earth. Laid out in the oil vessel by his ministers, the king was mourned by the women, who, realizing he was truly gone, wailed aloud. With arms raised and faces streaming with tears, they wept, tormented by sorrow, their hearts writhing in anguish. “Alas, great king!” they cried, “Why have you abandoned us, deprived of Rāma, who always spoke kindly and was steadfast in truth? Separated from Rāghava by Kaikeyī’s wickedness, how shall we, now widowed, live near the one who has slain her husband? 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 can we remain, disgraced by Kaikeyī? By her, the king, Rāma, mighty Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā were abandoned—whom else will she not forsake?” Covered in tears and overwhelmed by immense grief, the noble women of Raghava’s household writhed, joyless. Ayodhyā, deprived of its great king, was like a night without stars, like a woman bereft of her husband—she no longer shone. The city, filled with people overwhelmed by tears, with women crying “alas!” in every household, and with empty squares and homes, no longer gleamed as before. Just as the sky without the sun, or the night without its cluster of stars, so too did Ayodhyā appear—when the sun suddenly sets and day ceases, night comes forth. Except for the king’s son, none of the gathered friends would consent to the cremation. So they placed the king on his bed, pondering the mystery of his unfathomable presence. Ayodhyā, like the sky without the sun, like the night without stars, appeared bereft of its great soul; the streets and squares were no longer crowded, only echoing with tearful cries. Men and women gathered in groups, reproaching Bharata’s mother, and in the city, with the king gone, all were distressed and found no comfort. Thus ended the sixty-seventh chapter in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. That night, Ayodhyā was filled with cries and devoid of joy, its people choked with tears as the sorrowful hours passed. When at last the night gave way and the sun rose, the royal priests and twice-born men assembled and went to the council chamber. There were present the venerable Markandeya, Maudgalya, Vāmadeva, Kāśyapa, Kātyāyana, Gautama, and the illustrious Jābāli. These brahmins, together with the ministers, each speaking in turn, all turned to Vasiṣṭha, the foremost royal priest. They said, “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. The great king has gone to heaven, Rāma has taken refuge in the forest, and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa has gone with him. 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 come to ruin. “In a land without a king, even though thunderclouds resound, they do not rain down water upon the earth. In such a land, handfuls of seed are not sown, nor does a son obey his father, nor a wife her husband. “Where there is no king, there is neither wealth nor even a wife; in such disorder, how can truth exist? Men do not build assembly halls, nor do the joyful construct gardens or sacred homes. The twice-born, devoted to sacrifice and firm in their vows, do not perform sacrificial rites. At great sacrifices, wealthy brahmins do not distribute abundant gifts to worthy recipients. And in a land without a king, there are no actors or dancers, nor do festivals and gatherings that bring prosperity flourish.” Thus, the city mourned, and its elders, priests, and ministers gathered, seeking a way to restore order and righteousness to the kingdom left bereft by the loss of its king and the exile of its beloved prince.