When the king had breathed his last, his attendants, their throats choked with tears and their hearts weighed down by grief, gently laid his lifeless body upon a bier in the Shibilā. With reverence and sorrow, they lifted him and bore him away. Ahead of the procession, people walked, scattering gold, golden ornaments, and many-colored garments along the path, honoring the departed king with these offerings. Meanwhile, others busied themselves gathering fragrant sandalwood, aloe, resin, pine, lotus wood, and other precious, divine woods to prepare the funeral pyre. Upon this pyre, after offering both rare and common aromatic substances, the priests carefully placed the king at its center, arranging him with all the rites due to his station. The priests then offered the prescribed oblations, reciting sacred prayers, while the singers of the Sāma Veda chanted the hymns according to ancient tradition. The king’s wives, accompanied by elders, left the city in palanquins and carriages, each according to her rank and dignity. When the king’s body was placed upon the pyre, the priests performed the funeral rites, and the women, led by Kausalyā, were overcome by a wave of grief. Their cries rose up together, the sound of their lamentation like the mournful calls of cranes—thousands of anguished voices filling the air with sorrow. Overwhelmed by loss, the noble women descended from their vehicles at the bank of the Sarayu River, weeping and lamenting again and again. There, together with Bharata, the king’s wives, ministers, and priests performed the water rites for the departed soul. Afterwards, they returned to the city, their eyes brimming with tears, and spent ten days in mourning, lying upon the bare ground. When the ten days of mourning had passed and the period of purification was complete, the king’s son, on the twelfth day, performed the final funeral rites. He gave generously to the Brāhmaṇas: abundant jewels, wealth, food, costly garments, and precious stones. He presented them with many white blankets, hundreds of cows, male and female servants, vehicles, and grand houses—gifts offered for the sake of his father’s journey beyond. At dawn on the thirteenth day, Bharata, mighty-armed but overcome with sorrow, his voice thick with emotion, approached the place of purification. At the foot of the pyre, deeply afflicted, he addressed his departed father: “When you entrusted me to Rāghava, who has now gone to the forest, you abandoned me, just as a son is left behind when his protector departs for the wilderness. O dear one, having left behind your wife Kausalyā, where have you gone, O king?” As he gazed upon the reddish ash and the circle of burnt bones, the reality of his father’s absence overwhelmed him. He wailed in despair and, overcome by grief, fell to the ground. As the ministers lifted him, he seemed like the fallen banner from Indra’s chariot. They approached him, steadfast in their duty and purity. Shatrughna, witnessing Bharata’s anguish, was reminded of the sages who saw Yayati fallen at the end of his life. Overcome by his own sorrow, Shatrughna lost consciousness and collapsed, lamenting in his madness and grief. Both brothers, recalling again and again the noble qualities of their father, were submerged in the ocean of sorrow that had arisen from the granting of Kaikeyi’s boons—a sorrow unfathomable and all-consuming. Shatrughna, tender and ever-pampered, cried out: “O father, having abandoned Bharata, who grieves and laments, where have you gone? Was it not you who provided us with food, drink, clothing, and ornaments? You cared for us in all things—who will do so now? Yet, even at this time of parting, the earth does not split apart.” He continued, “Deprived of you, O king, knower of righteousness and great-souled, with our father gone to heaven and Rāma dwelling in the forest—what purpose does my life serve? I will enter the fire as an offering, bereft of both brother and father, in this empty city of the Ikshvakus. I will not enter Ayodhya; I will go to the ascetic forest instead.” Seeing the brothers’ lamentation and distress, all those who followed them were plunged into deeper grief. Exhausted and despondent, Bharata and Shatrughna lay upon the ground, writhing in their sorrow like two bulls with broken horns. Then, the wise priest Vasishtha, who had served their father, approached Bharata and gently raised him, saying, “O illustrious one, this is the thirteenth day since your father’s passing. With only the bones remaining, why do you linger here? Among all beings, three pairs of opposites inevitably arise. In these unavoidable matters, it should not be thus.” Sumantra, too, raised Shatrughna and comforted him, speaking wisely of the coming and going of all beings, helping them to understand the truth of impermanence. Thus, the two brothers, tiger-like in their strength, rose up, their sorrow giving way to a quiet resolve. Though drenched by rain and scorched by the sun, they stood like two Indra-banners, wiping away their tears, their eyes red, and spoke with voices heavy with sorrow. As the seventy-eighth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa unfolds, Bharata, still tormented by grief, prepared for the journey ahead. Shatrughna, Lakṣmaṇa’s younger brother, spoke to him, his words heavy with feeling: “He who is the refuge of all beings—what suffering must he not endure for himself? That Rāma, endowed with every virtue, has been exiled to the forest by a woman.