The wise ministers of Ayodhya, deeply aware of their duty, refused to perform the king’s cremation without the presence of the prince. Instead, they kept vigilant watch over the departed lord of the earth, their hearts heavy with grief and responsibility. They laid the king’s body in an oil vessel, as was the custom, and the women of the palace, realizing the king was truly gone, broke into loud and bitter lamentation. With arms raised in despair, their faces streaked with tears, the women wept and mourned, their souls tormented by sorrow. Their cries echoed through the halls: “Alas, great king! Why have you abandoned us, especially now, when we are already deprived of Rama, who always spoke kindly and stood firm in truth? Separated from Raghava by Kaikeyi’s wickedness, how shall we, now widows, live near the one who has brought about our husband’s death? Rama was always our protector and yours, noble and self-possessed, but now he has gone to the forest, leaving behind the royal splendor.” They grieved, “Bereft of you and that heroic one, afflicted by misfortune, how shall we endure, disgraced by Kaikeyi? She who drove away the king, Rama, mighty Lakshmana, and Sita—who is there she would not abandon?” Overwhelmed by immense grief, the noble women of Raghava’s line writhed in their sorrow, joyless and inconsolable. Ayodhya itself seemed plunged into darkness, like a night without stars or a woman bereft of her husband. Deprived of its great king, the city no longer shone. Everywhere, people were overwhelmed by tears; the women of many families cried out in anguish, “Alas!” The city’s squares and houses lay empty, and Ayodhya did not gleam as it once had. It was as though the sun had suddenly set, the day ended, and night had fallen—like the sky without the sun, like the night without its cluster of stars. Still, except for the king’s son, the assembled ministers and friends did not consent to the cremation. So they placed the king upon his bed, pondering the depth of his presence, unable to let go. The city looked bereft of its great soul, the streets and squares empty, the air heavy with sorrowful silence. Groups of men and women gathered, their words full of reproach for Bharata’s mother. The city, now without its king, was distressed and found no comfort. Thus passed the sixty-seventh chapter in the Ayodhyākāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Ayodhya, filled with cries and joyless, its people choked with tears, endured that long, sorrowful night. When at last the night had passed and the sun rose, the royal priests and the twice-born men assembled and went 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, all looking to Vasiṣṭha, the foremost royal priest, for guidance. 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, Rama has taken refuge in the forest, and mighty Lakshmana has gone with him. Both Bharata and Shatrughna, 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.” They spoke of the dangers and chaos of a land without a king: “Where there is no king, even if thunderclouds roar, they do not rain down water upon the earth. Seeds are not sown, sons do not obey their fathers, nor wives their husbands. There is no wealth, nor even a wife; in such disorder, how can truth exist? Men do not build assembly halls, nor construct lovely gardens or sacred homes. Sacrifices are neglected, and wealthy brahmins do not give gifts. Actors and dancers are not seen, nor do festivals and gatherings flourish. Merchants do not succeed, nor do those who love stories delight in pleasant tales. Maidens do not gather in gardens to play, nor do men journey to the forests with their beloved women. The wealthy and those who farm or tend cattle do not sleep safely with their doors open. Elephants, proud and adorned, do not walk the royal roads. The sound of bowstrings and arrows is not heard in the training grounds. Merchants cannot travel safely, nor can ascetics or sages move about freely. Security and welfare vanish, and armies cannot withstand their enemies.” Thus, the elders and priests of Ayodhya, standing before the empty throne, mourned the passing of their king and the absence of Rama, and together resolved that the kingdom must not remain leaderless, lest all order and prosperity be lost.