As grief weighed heavily upon Ayodhyā, Kausalyā, bereft of her beloved Rāma and overwhelmed by sorrow, uttered words of anguish and bitter lament. She invoked dire wishes upon the one by whose consent the noble Rāma had departed into exile. May such a person, she said, break promises made to equals, to the distressed, to those who look to him in hope, and to those who supplicate—may he ever delight in deceit, speak harshly, slander others, remain impure and fearful of the king, and stray from righteousness. May he transgress against a virtuous wife at the proper time, and, abandoning his own lawful spouse, consort with the wives of others, his mind estranged from dharma. She wished upon him the sin that befalls a Brahmin whose lineage is lost, the guilt of polluting water or giving poison, and the offense of obstructing offerings meant for Brahmins or taking milk meant for a calf. Let him, she said, deceive a thirsty person even when water is at hand, and thus incur that sin. May he be joined to the sins of those who, in his presence, earnestly argue and seek the right path. Thus, deprived of her husband and son, Kausalyā tried to console herself, but grief overwhelmed her, and she collapsed. Bharata, too, lay insensible, tormented by sorrow, uttering harsh oaths. Seeing him thus, Kausalyā spoke gently, "My son, your words only deepen my pain, for as you swear these vows, you take away what remains of my life. Yet by good fortune, your soul, together with Lakṣmaṇa, has not turned from righteousness. My child, steadfast in your promise, you shall attain the worlds of the virtuous." Having spoken thus, Kausalyā took Bharata, who cherished his brothers, onto her lap, embraced his strong arms, and wept, her heart broken by grief. Bharata, great-souled and in deep distress, found his mind agitated by delusion and the weight of suppressed sorrow. Though comforted by those around him, he lay senseless upon the ground, wisdom lost, sighing deeply again and again, and thus the night passed for him in unrelenting sorrow. As dawn broke, the noble sage Vasiṣṭha, foremost among speakers and revered by all, approached Bharata, who was still tormented by grief. "Enough of sorrow, noble prince of great fame," Vasiṣṭha said gently. "Now is the proper time—perform the final rites for your father, the king." Hearing these words, Bharata gathered himself, recalling what was right, and began to arrange for all the funeral rites. The king, Daśaratha, was removed from the oil bath and placed upon the ground, his face drained of color, lying as if in gentle sleep. Laid upon a splendid couch adorned with many jewels, Bharata, son of Daśaratha, lamented with sorrow, "O king, what did you resolve, exiling righteous Rāma and mighty Lakṣmaṇa, while I was away and had not yet returned? Where will you go, great king, leaving behind these sorrowful people, deprived of Rāma, the lion among men, whose deeds are blameless? Who will ensure the welfare and safety of your city now, when you have departed to heaven and Rāma has gone to the forest? O king, the earth, bereft of you, shines not, like a night without the moon; the city appears to me the same." As Bharata mourned thus, his heart heavy, Vasiṣṭha once more spoke, "Whatever funeral rites must be performed for this lord of men, let them be done promptly, mighty-armed one, without hesitation." Bharata, honoring the sage’s words, replied, "So be it," and quickly summoned all the priests, family chaplains, and learned teachers. Those who had been keeping vigil outside the fire-chamber of the king were guided away by the officiating priests, according to proper rites. The king, his spirit departed, was placed upon a bier in a shibilā, and the attendants, their throats choked with tears and their minds distressed, carried him away. Ahead of the procession, people scattered gold, golden ornaments, and various garments along the path. Others gathered fragrant sandalwood, aloe, resin, pine, lotus wood, and other divine woods to prepare the funeral pyre. There, after offering both rare and common fragrant substances, the priests placed the king in the midst of the pyre. They recited the prescribed oblations, and the singers of the Sāma Veda chanted hymns according to scripture. The king’s wives, accompanied by elders, departed from the city in palanquins and carriages, as was fitting for their rank. The priests performed the funeral rites for the king, and the women, led by Kausalyā, were consumed by grief. The sound of their lamentation rose like the cries of cranes, thousands of anguished voices filling the air. Overwhelmed and weeping, the noble women descended from their vehicles to the bank of the Sarayu, lamenting again and again. There, together with Bharata, the king’s wives, ministers, and priests performed the water rites for the departed king. With tear-filled eyes, they returned to the city, and, in accordance with tradition, spent ten days in sorrow, lying upon the ground, mourning their great loss.