The ministers, following the ancient rites, placed the departed lord of the earth, King Dasharatha, in an oil vessel, performing all the prescribed ceremonies for a king who had left this world. Yet, though they were wise and dutiful, the ministers would not proceed with the king’s cremation in the absence of his son, the prince. Instead, they kept careful watch over the body of their sovereign, guarding him with reverence. As the king lay in the oil vessel, the women of the palace, realizing the finality of his passing, raised their voices in anguished lament. With arms lifted in despair, their faces streaked with tears, they were overcome by sorrow, mourning deeply for the one who had protected and cherished them. Their cries echoed through the halls: “Alas, great king! Why have you abandoned us, especially now, when we are bereft of Rama, who always spoke with kindness and was steadfast in truth?” Their grief was sharpened by the memory of Kaikeyi’s cruel actions, which had sent Rama into exile. “Separated from Raghava by Kaikeyi’s wickedness,” they wept, “how are we, now widows, to live near the very one who brought about our husband’s death? He was always our protector and yours. Rama, glorious and self-possessed, has gone to the forest, leaving behind the royal splendor.” Distressed and disgraced by Kaikeyi, the women wondered how they could remain in the palace, now that both their king and the heroic Rama were gone. “By whom the king, Rama, mighty Lakshmana, and Sita were abandoned—whom else will she not forsake?” they cried, overwhelmed by immense grief. The noble women of Raghava’s household writhed in sorrow, their hearts joyless and broken. Ayodhya, once radiant, now resembled a starless night or a woman bereft of her husband. Deprived of her great king, the city’s luster faded. Everywhere, people were overwhelmed by tears; the women of every household cried out in anguish, and the squares and homes stood empty and silent, no longer gleaming as before. It was as if the sun had set suddenly, plunging the world into night, or as though the sky had lost its stars. The king’s friends and ministers, except for the absent prince, could not bring themselves to arrange the cremation. Instead, they placed the king upon his bed, pondering the mystery of his presence, unable to let go. The city, like the sky without the sun or the night without stars, seemed hollow and lifeless. The streets and squares, once filled with bustling crowds, now stood empty, echoing only with the sound of weeping. Men and women gathered in sorrowful groups, openly reproaching Bharata’s mother, Kaikeyi, for the calamities that had befallen them. With the king gone, the people of Ayodhya were distressed and found no comfort. Thus, the sixty-seventh chapter of the Ayodhyākāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa begins. That night, Ayodhya was filled with cries and sorrow. Its people choked on tears, and the city passed through the darkness joyless and bereft. When at last the long night ended and the sun rose, the royal priests and twice-born men assembled and made their way to the council chamber. Among them were the venerable Markandeya, Maudgalya, Vamadeva, Kashyapa, Katyayana, Gautama, and the illustrious Jabali. These great brahmins, together with the ministers, each spoke in turn, their eyes turning to Vasiṣṭha, the foremost of royal priests. They said, “This night, which has seemed as long as a hundred years, has passed for us in sorrow, ever since the king met his end, overcome by grief for his son. The great king has gone to heaven; Rama has taken refuge in the forest, and mighty Lakshmana has gone with him. Bharata and Shatrughna, both noble and ascetic, are far away in Kekaya, in the palace of their maternal grandfather. Let someone from the Ikṣvāku line be installed as king today, for our kingdom must not fall into ruin without a ruler. In a land without a king, even the thundercloud, though it resounds mightily, does not rain down water upon the earth. In such a land, seeds are not sown, sons do not obey their fathers, nor wives their husbands. There is no wealth, nor even the bond of marriage, and where disorder reigns, how can truth endure? Without a king, men do not build assembly halls, nor do the joyful create beautiful gardens or sacred homes. The twice-born, devoted to sacrifice and firm in their vows, do not perform their rites. At great sacrifices, wealthy brahmins do not distribute gifts to the worthy. There are no actors or dancers, nor do festivals and gatherings that bring prosperity flourish. Merchants and storytellers find no joy; adorned maidens do not gather in gardens to play in the evening, and men do not venture into the forests with their beloveds. The wealthy, the farmers, and cattle-keepers no longer sleep safely with doors open. Elephants with bells and ornaments do not walk the royal roads. The sound of bowstrings and arrows in the training grounds is no longer heard. Merchants do not travel safely, even if they have amassed great merit, and solitary ascetics do not walk freely, nor do sages return home at dusk. Thus, without a king, the order and joy of Ayodhya have vanished. The people, weighed down by grief and uncertainty, looked to Vasiṣṭha and the ministers for guidance, longing for the restoration of righteous rule and the return of peace to their beloved city.