The king, having departed from this world, was laid out by his ministers in the oil vessel, in accordance with royal custom. The palace was filled with the sound of lamentation as the women, realizing the king was truly gone, raised their voices in grief. Their arms lifted in despair, their faces streaked with unceasing tears, they wept aloud, tormented by sorrow and anguish. Their cries echoed through the halls: “Alas, great king! Why have you abandoned us, especially now, when Rama—who always spoke with kindness and stood firm in truth—has been sent away? Bereft of Rama by Kaikeyi’s cruel will, how shall we, now widows, endure living near the one who caused our husband’s death?” They mourned the loss of their protector, recalling how Rama, glorious and self-controlled, had left for the forest, forsaking the royal splendor. Now, deprived of both their beloved king and the heroic Rama, they felt lost and disgraced by Kaikeyi’s actions. “By whom the king, Rama, mighty Lakshmana, and Sita have been abandoned—whom else will she not forsake?” they lamented, their hearts heavy with fear and uncertainty. Overwhelmed by grief, their tears flowed without end, and the noble women of Raghava’s household writhed in sorrow, joy utterly absent from their lives. Ayodhya itself seemed shrouded in darkness, like a night without stars, like a woman bereft of her husband; deprived of her great king, the city no longer shone. Everywhere, families were overwhelmed by tears, the city squares and houses echoed with cries of “Alas!”—all was empty, and Ayodhya’s former radiance was gone. The city seemed like the sky without the sun, like the night without its cluster of stars—when the sun suddenly sets and day ends, darkness swiftly follows. Yet, except for the king’s son, the assembled friends did not consent to the king’s cremation; instead, they placed him on the bed, contemplating the profound and unfathomable presence he had left behind. Ayodhya, its great soul gone, appeared empty and forlorn, its streets and squares no longer crowded, only tearful voices echoing in the silence. Men and women gathered in groups, openly reproaching Bharata’s mother, Kaikeyi, their distress deepened by the king’s absence. The city, once full of life, now found no comfort. So passed that night in Ayodhya—filled with cries, joyless, its people choked with tears. When morning came and the sun rose, the royal priests and twice-born men assembled and made their way to the council chamber. Among them were Markandeya, Maudgalya, Vamadeva, Kashyapa, Katyayana, Gautama, and the illustrious Jabali. These venerable brahmins, together with the ministers, each spoke in turn, but all turned to Vasiṣṭha, the foremost of royal priests, for guidance. They said, “This night, which seemed as long as a hundred years, has finally passed for us, weighed down by sorrow since the king, overcome by grief for his son, departed from this world. The great king has gone to heaven, Rama has sought refuge in the forest, and the mighty Lakshmana has followed him. Bharata and Shatrughna, both noble and ascetic, are far away in Kekaya, in the delightful palace of their maternal grandfather. Let someone from the Ikṣvāku lineage be made king today, for our kingdom, without a ruler, must not be allowed to fall into ruin. In a land without a king, even when thunderclouds resound, they do not bring rain to the earth. In such a place, seeds are not sown, sons do not obey their fathers, nor wives their husbands. There is no wealth, nor even the security of a wife; where disorder reigns, how can truth endure? Without a king, men do not build assembly halls, nor do they create gardens or sacred homes. The twice-born, devoted to sacrifice and firm in their vows, do not perform sacred rites. At great sacrifices, wealthy brahmins do not bestow abundant gifts upon the worthy. Actors and dancers are not seen, nor do festivals and gatherings flourish to bring prosperity. Merchants do not achieve their aims, and those who delight in stories find no joy in pleasant tales. Adorned maidens do not gather in gardens to play in the evening, nor do men venture into the forests with their beloved women. The wealthy and those who live by farming or tending cattle do not sleep safely with their doors open. Elephants adorned with bells and ornaments do not walk the royal roads. The twang of bowstrings and the sound of arrows are no longer heard in the training grounds. Merchants who travel far do not journey safely, even if they have accumulated much merit. Solitary ascetics do not walk freely, lost in contemplation, nor do sages return home at dusk. Security and well-being vanish, and armies cannot withstand their enemies in battle. Men no longer assemble swiftly, adorned with splendid horses and chariots. Thus, Ayodhya, deprived of her king, grieves deeply, awaiting the one who will restore her order, prosperity, and light.