As Ayodhya mourned, sorrow weighed heavily upon Kausalyā’s heart. She lamented for Sītā, the ascetic daughter of the king of Videha, who was unaccustomed to hardship and would surely be troubled by sorrow in the wild forest. Kausalyā imagined Sītā’s fear as she heard the dreadful cries of wild beasts and birds at night, seeking refuge in Rāghava, her beloved husband. She thought of Janaka, aged and with few sons, who, overwhelmed by grief for his daughter Vaidehī, might even give up his life. Overcome by despair, Kausalyā resolved to meet her destined end, devoted to her husband, and declared she would embrace her body and enter the fire. The women of the household, seeing Kausalyā’s anguish, gently restrained her, embracing her as she wept. Meanwhile, the wise ministers placed the lord of the earth, King Daśaratha, in an oil vessel, performing all the subsequent rites as instructed. Yet, without the prince, they did not wish to cremate the king, so they guarded his body, awaiting Rāma’s return. The women, realizing the king was dead, mourned aloud, their faces streaming with tears, raising their arms in distress and crying out in anguish. They lamented, “Alas, great king! Why have you abandoned us, deprived of Rāma, who always spoke kindly and was steadfast in truth? Separated from Rāghava by Kaikeyi’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 Kaikeyi? By whom 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 in sorrow, joyless. Ayodhya, deprived of its great king, was like a night without stars or a woman bereft of her husband—it did not shine. The city, overwhelmed by tears, echoed with cries of “alas!” from the families’ women, its squares and houses empty, no longer gleaming as before. Like the sky without the sun or the night without stars, when the sun suddenly sets and day ceases, Ayodhya was plunged into darkness. The king’s friends, except for his son, did not consent to cremation; they placed the king on his bed, pondering his unfathomable presence. The city appeared bereft of its great soul, the streets and squares no longer crowded, only tearful throats echoing in the emptiness. Men and women gathered in groups, reproaching Bharata’s mother, Kaikeyi, distressed and without comfort in the city now bereft of its king. Thus ended the sixty-sixth chapter in the Ayodhyākāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Ayodhya, filled with cries and joyless, its people choked with tears, passed through that sorrowful night. When the night had passed and the sun rose, the royal priests and twice-born men assembled and went to the council. Markandeya, Maudgalya, Vamadeva, Kashyapa, Katyayana, Gautama, and the illustrious Jabali were present. These brahmins, together with the ministers, each speaking separately, all turned toward 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 Rāma as well. Both Bharata and Śatrughna, great ascetics, are in Kekaya, in the delightful royal 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.” They reflected on the calamity of a land without a king: the thundercloud, though resounding greatly, does not rain down heavenly 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. There is no wealth, nor even a wife; and where there is such disorder, how can truth exist? Men do not build assembly halls, nor do the joyful construct lovely gardens or sacred homes. Twice-born men devoted to sacrifice, self-controlled and firm in their vows, do not perform sacrificial rites. At great sacrifices, wealthy brahmins do not distribute abundant gifts to worthy recipients. Numerous actors and dancers are not seen, nor do festivals and gatherings that bring prosperity flourish. Those engaged in business do not achieve their aims, nor do those fond of stories delight in pleasant tales. Adorned maidens do not gather in gardens to play in the evening, nor do men go out to the forests with swift vehicles, accompanied by their beloved women. Thus, the city of Ayodhya, bereft of its king, mourned deeply. Its people, priests, and ministers gathered, seeking guidance and longing for the restoration of righteous rule, so the land and its people might once again flourish.