As grief swept through the palace, Kausalya—bereft of her husband and son—tried to console herself, but sorrow overwhelmed her and she collapsed. In the midst of this anguish, Bharata, tormented and insensible with pain, uttered fierce oaths. He invoked dreadful fates upon the one whose consent had led the noble Rama to depart: may that person always delight in deceit, be harsh, slanderous, impure, and fearful of the king, unrighteous in soul; may he transgress against a virtuous wife at the proper time; may he abandon his lawful wife and consort with others, estranged from righteousness; may he incur the sin that befalls a Brahmin whose lineage is lost; may he obtain the sin of polluting water or giving poison; may he, with impure senses, hinder worship meant for a Brahmin or milk a cow meant for a calf; may he deceive a thirsty person when water is available and thus incur that sin; may he be joined to the sins of others who sincerely seek the right path in his presence. Kausalya, witnessing Bharata’s anguish and hearing these harsh declarations, spoke gently to him: “My suffering only increases, my son, for as you swear these oaths, you are taking away my very life. Yet, by good fortune, your soul, together with Lakshmana, has not turned away from righteousness. My child, steadfast in your promise, you shall attain the worlds of the virtuous.” With these words, she gathered Bharata, who cherished his brothers, onto her lap, embraced his mighty arms, and wept, overwhelmed by grief. Bharata, distressed and pained, was agitated by delusion and the suppression of sorrow. As he lay senseless on the ground, sighing deeply again and again, comforted but lost in grief, the night passed for him. When dawn arrived, the seventy-sixth sarga of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Ayodhya Kanda, unfolded. Vasistha, foremost among sages and speakers, approached Bharata, son of Kekayi, who was still tormented by sorrow. “Enough of grief, noble prince of great fame,” Vasistha said. “Now is the proper time—perform the final rites for the king.” Hearing Vasistha’s words, Bharata regained his composure. Knowing what was right, he arranged for all the funeral rites. The king, Daśaratha, was removed from the oil bath and placed on the ground, his face drained of color, lying as if asleep. Laid upon a splendid couch adorned with various jewels, Bharata, overwhelmed by sorrow, lamented: “O king, what did you resolve, exiling righteous Rama and mighty Lakshmana, while I was away and had not yet returned? Where will you go, great king, leaving behind these sorrowful people, deprived of Rama, the lion among men, whose deeds are blameless? Who will ensure your city’s welfare and security now, when you have departed to heaven and Rama has gone to the forest? The earth, bereft of you, shines not—like a night without the moon; the city appears to me the same.” As Bharata mourned, his mind cast down, Vasistha spoke again: “Whatever funeral rites must be performed for this lord of men, let them be done promptly, mighty-armed one, without hesitation.” Bharata, honoring Vasistha’s words, replied, “So be it,” and quickly summoned all the priests, family chaplains, and teachers. Those who had been stationed outside the fire-chamber of the king were led away by the officiating priests and sacrificers, according to proper rites. Then, having placed the king, whose consciousness had departed, upon a bier in Shibilā, the attendants, their throats choked with tears and minds distressed, carried him away. People went ahead of the king, scattering gold, gold ornaments, and various garments along the path. Others gathered sandalwood, aloe, resin, pine, lotus wood, and divine woods, preparing the funeral pyre. After offering fragrant substances both rare and common, the priests arranged the king in the midst of the pyre. They offered the prescribed oblations and recited prayers, while the singers of the Sama Veda chanted hymns according to scripture. The king’s wives, accompanied by elders, departed from the city in palanquins and carriages, befitting their status. The priests performed the funeral rites for the king upon the pyre, and the women, led by Kausalya, were consumed by grief. The sound of their lamentation arose, like the cries of thousands of cranes, voices filled with sorrow. Overwhelmed and weeping, the noble women descended from their vehicles to the bank of the Sarayu. Together with Bharata, the king’s wives, ministers, and priests performed the water rites. Entering the city with tear-filled eyes, they spent ten days in sorrow upon the ground. Thus concludes the seventy-seventh chapter.