Death is an inseparable companion to every person, journeying alongside him wherever he goes, always present whether he sits or travels, and returning with him after the longest of journeys. As time passes, old age marks its presence: wrinkles appear upon the limbs, hair turns white, and a man, worn out by age, finds himself powerless—what, then, can he possibly accomplish at such a time? People rejoice at the rising of the sun and again at its setting, yet they do not realize that with each passing day, their own lifespan is quietly diminishing. They delight in the arrival of each new season, but with every change, the lives of all beings are shortened. Just as two pieces of wood might meet by chance in the vastness of the ocean, only to drift apart again when the time comes, so too do wives, sons, relatives, and friends come together in life and then inevitably separate; such parting is certain. No living being remains unchanged forever, and thus, there is no real power or purpose in lamenting for those who have departed. It is like someone standing by the roadside, watching a caravan pass, and calling out, “I too will come after you.” In the same way, the path our ancestors and forefathers have taken is certain for all; once one has reached it, why should there be grief, since none can deviate from that path? As age declines and the current of life flows only forward, one should turn the mind toward happiness, for offspring are meant to live with joy. Our father, the lord of the earth, righteous and purified by many auspicious sacrifices and generous gifts, has now gone to heaven. By supporting his servants, protecting his people, and giving wealth in accordance with dharma, our father has attained the third heaven. Through his auspicious deeds and sacrifices, King Daśaratha, our father, has reached heaven. Having performed many kinds of sacrifices, enjoyed abundant pleasures, and attained the highest span of life, the king has departed for the celestial realms. Thus, having fulfilled his life and enjoyed its pleasures, honored by the virtuous, our father has gone to heaven and is not to be mourned. Having left behind the worn-out human body, he has attained divine prosperity and now dwells in the world of Brahma. No wise person, of whatever kind or intelligence, who has truly heard and understood, ought to grieve in this way. All these sorrows, lamentations, and weeping are to be avoided by the wise in every circumstance. Therefore, be at peace and do not grieve; remain in the city, for thus you have been instructed by our father, who was master of his senses and foremost among speakers. Where I too have been directed by that virtuous father, there indeed I shall carry out his command. It is not right for me, O subduer of foes, to disregard his word. That father is always to be honored by you as well; he is our kinsman, he is our father. Therefore, Rāghava, I shall uphold the word of our father, who walked the path of righteousness, by dwelling in the forest, as he has approved. One who seeks the next world must act with intelligence, compassion, and obedience to elders, O tiger among men. You too, best of men, should conduct yourself according to your own nature, having heard of the virtuous conduct of our father, Daśaratha. Having spoken these meaningful words, determined to obey his father’s command, the great Rāma—noble and wise—fell silent, ceasing to address his younger brother. Thus ends the one hundred and fifth sarga in the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the ancient and illustrious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When Rāma had finished speaking and sat in silence, Bharata—steadfast in righteousness—addressed him on the banks of the Mandākinī with words of remarkable virtue. “Who in this world could be like you, O subduer of foes? Neither sorrow disturbs you nor joy elates you. You are esteemed by the elders, and you consult them whenever you have doubts. One who, whether living or dead, present or absent, possesses such discernment—why would he be troubled by anything? He who knows both the higher and the lower truths, as you do, O lord of men, should not grieve even in the face of such misfortune. Your nature is like that of the immortals—great-souled, steadfast in truth, all-knowing, all-seeing, and wise, O Rāghava. One endowed with such qualities, who knows the nature of creation and dissolution, should not be afflicted by unbearable sorrow. Whatever wrong my mother, base and misguided, committed on my account while I was away—may you, noble one, forgive that offense of mine. Bound by the ties of righteousness, I do not inflict severe punishment on her, though she deserves it for her evil deed. How could I, born of Daśaratha—pure in lineage and action—knowing what is right, ever perform an unrighteous or despicable deed? The teacher, the one who acts, the elder, the king, and the deceased father—these, in the assembly, I would not reproach, nor the divine powers. For who, wishing to please a woman, would perform such a sinful act, lacking righteousness and purpose, if he truly knows and understands dharma? It is said since ancient times that beings become confused at the end of their lives; by the king acting thus in the world, that tradition has been made manifest before our eyes. Whatever my father transgressed, driven by anger, delusion, or rashness, let you, who aim for what is right, now withdraw that act.