The night that had just passed felt as long as a hundred years to all in Ayodhyā, for it was filled with sorrow after the king’s death—he who had been overcome by grief for his beloved son. The great king had now gone to heaven, Rāma had departed to the forest, and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa had followed him there. Meanwhile, Bharata and Śatrughna, both noble and ascetic in spirit, were far away in Kekaya, living in the delightful palace of their maternal grandfather. The people, distressed and leaderless, gathered together. They spoke among themselves, urging, “Let someone from the Ikṣvāku line be made king here today! Our kingdom must not be allowed to fall into ruin without a ruler.” They lamented the state of their land, reflecting that in a kingdom without a king, even the thunderclouds, though they may roar, do not bring rain to the earth. Without a king, seeds are not sown, sons do not heed their fathers, nor wives their husbands. Wealth vanishes, order collapses, and truth itself cannot be found. They observed how, without a king, assembly halls and sacred homes are not built, and lovely gardens do not flourish. The twice-born, devoted to sacrifice and self-control, do not perform their sacred rites, and wealthy brāhmaṇas no longer distribute gifts at great sacrifices. Actors and dancers disappear, festivals and gatherings that once brought prosperity no longer take place. Merchants fail in their business, and those who delight in stories lose their joy. Maidens, no longer adorned, do not play in the gardens at dusk, and men do not venture out to the forests with their beloveds. The wealthy, farmers, and cattle-keepers do not sleep safely with their doors open. Elephants, once adorned with bells and ornaments, are not seen parading the royal roads. The sound of bowstrings and arrows in training grounds is silenced. Merchants, even those who have accumulated much merit, do not travel safely. Solitary ascetics cannot walk freely, nor do sages return home at dusk. Security and welfare vanish, armies cannot withstand enemies, and men do not gather in splendor with horses and chariots. Those skilled in scripture lose their prosperity, and offerings to the gods are neglected. Royal princes, once radiant with sandalwood, aloe, and perfumes, are now like trees in spring without blossoms. The people compared their plight to rivers without water, forests without grass, and cows without herdsmen—a kingdom without a king is just as desolate. As the chariot’s banner marks its presence and smoke reveals the fire, so the king is the banner of the land, the one who upholds order and divinity. In such a land, nothing belongs to anyone; like fish, men prey upon each other. Only the king’s punishment restrains the lawless, the doubters, and the atheists. Just as sight guides the body, the king is the source of truth and righteousness for the kingdom. The king is truth, righteousness, noble lineage, mother, father, and benefactor to all. By great conduct, a noble king surpasses even Yama, Kubera, Indra, and Varuna. Without a king, the world would be plunged into darkness, unable to distinguish good from evil. While the great king lived, the people followed his command as the ocean stays within its bounds. Now, seeing the state of the kingdom—like a wilderness without a king—they implored the best among the twice-born to crown the generous prince, son of Ikṣvāku, as king. At this moment, the sacred Rāmāyaṇa records the beginning of its sixty-eighth chapter in the glorious Ayodhyā section. Hearing these urgent words, the wise Vasiṣṭha addressed the assembled friends, ministers, and brāhmaṇas. “Since Bharata is now living happily in his maternal uncle’s city, together with his brother Śatrughna, let swift messengers go at once with fast horses to bring back those two heroic brothers. Why should we delay?” All present agreed, saying to Vasiṣṭha, “Let them go!” Hearing their approval, Vasiṣṭha spoke again, “Come, Siddhārtha, Vijaya, Jayanta, Aśoka, and Nandana—listen closely, for I will tell you what must be done.