Ayodhya, once radiant and splendid, now lay shrouded in sorrow. Deprived of her great king, the city seemed like a night stripped of stars, or a woman bereft of her beloved husband—her former brilliance dimmed and lost. Grief overwhelmed the people; families wept openly, women cried “alas!” in anguish, and both the bustling squares and the once-lively houses stood empty and silent, their former gleam vanished. It was as if the sun had suddenly set, leaving the sky bereft of light, and the city, like the night without stars, was plunged into darkness. The gathered friends and citizens, except for the king’s own son, could not bring themselves to perform the cremation rites. Instead, they laid the departed king upon his bed, troubled by the profound mystery of his presence in death. Ayodhya now appeared stripped of her very soul, like the sky without the sun or the night without her stars. The streets and squares, once filled with crowds and vibrant voices, were now deserted, the air heavy with unshed tears. Groups of men and women gathered together, their hearts burdened with grief, and many openly reproached Bharata’s mother for the tragedy that had befallen them. With the king gone, the city was plunged into distress, and no comfort could be found. Thus passed that sorrowful night in Ayodhya, filled with cries and bereft of joy, as the people choked on their tears. When the long, mournful night finally yielded to dawn and the sun rose, the royal priests and twice-born men assembled and made their way to the council chamber. Among those present were the venerable Markandeya, Maudgalya, Vamadeva, Kashyapa, Katyayana, Gautama, and the illustrious Jabali. These revered brahmins, together with the king’s ministers, each spoke in turn, all turning to Vasiṣṭha, the foremost of royal priests. They lamented, “This night, which has seemed as long as a hundred years, has finally passed for us in sorrow, ever since our great king departed, overcome by grief for his son. The king has gone to heaven; Rāma has sought refuge in the forest, and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa has gone with him. Bharata and Śatrughna, both noble and ascetic, are far away in Kekaya, in the palace of their maternal grandfather.” They spoke with urgency: “Let someone from the Ikṣvāku line be made king here today, for our kingdom, without a ruler, must not fall to ruin. In a land without a king, even thunderclouds, though they roar, do not send rain to the earth. In such a kingdom, seeds are not sown, sons do not obey their fathers, nor wives their husbands. Without a king, there is no wealth, nor even the security of a wife; in such disorder, how can truth survive?” They continued, “Where there is no king, assembly halls are not built, nor do people create gardens or sacred homes. The twice-born, devoted to sacrifice and firm in their vows, do not perform their sacred rites. At great sacrifices, wealthy brahmins no longer distribute gifts to the worthy. The city sees no actors or dancers, nor do festivals and gatherings that bring prosperity flourish. Merchants fail in their endeavors, and those who love stories find no joy in pleasant tales. Maidens, adorned and joyful, no longer gather in gardens to play as evening falls. Men do not venture into the forests with swift vehicles, accompanied by their beloved women.” “In a land without a king, the wealthy, farmers, and cattle-keepers cannot sleep safely with their doors open. Elephants, once adorned with bells and ornaments, no longer parade the royal roads. The constant twang of bowstrings and the sound of arrows in the training grounds fall silent. Merchants, even those who have earned much merit, cannot safely travel the roads. Solitary ascetics do not walk freely, nor do sages return home at dusk. Security and welfare vanish, and no army stands firm against enemies. Men do not gather in splendid chariots, and those skilled in the scriptures do not remain prosperous, whether in forests or groves. Garlands, sweets, and offerings are no longer prepared for the gods by disciplined people. Even the royal princes, once radiant with sandalwood and perfumes, no longer shine like trees in spring.” They likened the kingdom to rivers without water, forests without grass, and cows without herdsmen—lifeless and vulnerable without a king. “Just as a banner marks a chariot and smoke reveals fire, so the king is our banner—he who has now ascended to divinity. In a land without a king, nothing truly belongs to anyone; men prey upon each other, like fish in a pond. Those who transgress boundaries, who doubt or deny the sacred, are brought to order only by the king’s just punishment. As sight guides the body, so the king is the very source of truth and righteousness for the kingdom.” With these words, the elders and priests of Ayodhya expressed the depth of their grief and the urgent need for a king, for only through righteous leadership could their beloved city and its people hope to shine once more.