Separated from Raghava by the cruel designs of Kaikeyi, how could we, now widowed, remain near the one who has slain her own husband? Rama was always our protector, as well as yours—noble, self-controlled, and resplendent. Now, he has departed for the forest, leaving behind all the grandeur of royal life. Deprived of you, O king, and bereft of that heroic Rama, afflicted by suffering, how shall we endure, shamed by Kaikeyi’s actions? Whoever could abandon the king, Rama, mighty Lakshmana, and Sita—who else would she not forsake? Overwhelmed by tears and immense grief, the noble women of the house of Raghava writhed in sorrow, joyless and forlorn. Like a night stripped of stars, like a woman left without her husband, Ayodhya, now without its great king, lost its luster. The city’s people, overwhelmed by grief, wept; women cried out in anguish, and the once-bustling squares and homes stood empty, no longer shining as they once did. Ayodhya seemed like the sky without the sun, or the night without its cluster of stars—when the sun suddenly sets and the day ends, darkness rushes forth. Except for the king’s son, none of the assembled friends agreed to cremate the king; instead, they laid him upon his bed, pondering the mystery of his presence, now beyond their reach. The city appeared bereft of its great soul, like the sky without the sun, like the night without stars. The streets and squares were not crowded, and those who walked them did so with tear-choked voices. Men and women gathered in groups, openly reproaching Bharata’s mother Kaikeyi. With the king gone, the city’s people were distressed and found no consolation. Thus, Ayodhya, filled with sorrowful cries and devoid of joy, its people choked with tears, passed through that long and mournful night. When at last the 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 Markandeya, Maudgalya, Vamadeva, Kashyapa, Katyayana, Gautama, and the illustrious Jabali. These brahmins, together with the king’s ministers, each speaking in turn, all turned toward Vasiṣṭha, the foremost of royal priests. They addressed him: “This night, which felt as long as a hundred years, has finally 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 sought refuge in the forest, and mighty Lakshmana has gone with him. Both Bharata and Shatrughna, noble ascetics, are far away in Kekaya, in the delightful 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 when thunderclouds resound, they do not pour out life-giving rain upon the earth. In such a kingdom, no one sows seeds, sons do not obey their fathers, nor wives their husbands. Without a king, there is no wealth, not even a wife; and where such chaos reigns, how can truth endure? In a land 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 holy rites. At grand sacrifices, wealthy brahmins do not distribute generous gifts to the worthy. Actors and dancers are not seen, nor do festivals and gatherings that bring prosperity flourish. Those engaged in business fail to achieve their aims, and lovers of stories find no delight in pleasant tales. Adorned maidens do not gather in gardens to play at dusk. Men do not journey to the forests with swift vehicles, accompanied by their beloved women. The wealthy, and those who live by farming or cattle-keeping, do not sleep safely with their doors open. Without a king, elephants adorned with bells and ornaments no longer walk the royal roads in their full glory. The sound of bowstrings and arrows in the training grounds is not heard. Merchants who travel far do not journey safely, even if they have accumulated much merit. Even a solitary ascetic does not walk freely, lost in contemplation, nor does the sage return home at dusk. Safety and welfare vanish, and armies cannot withstand their enemies in battle. Men do not assemble swiftly, adorned with splendid horses and chariots. Those skilled in the scriptures do not thrive, whether in forests or groves. Garlands, sweets, and offerings are not prepared by disciplined people for the worship of the gods. Royal princes no longer shine, adorned with sandalwood, aloe, and perfumes, like trees in spring. Thus, the city, bereft of her king and her beloved Rama, grieved and yearned for order, for prosperity, and for the return of dharma.