Even the children of Ayodhyā, gathered in playful groups at the thresholds of their homes, spoke of nothing but Rāma’s upcoming consecration. Throughout the city, the royal road gleamed, splendidly adorned with offerings of flowers and fragrant with incense, lovingly prepared by the citizens in anticipation of Rāma’s anointing. To dispel the darkness of night, trees bearing lamps were set up along every side street, illuminating the city with a gentle glow. Having thus adorned their beloved city, the people of Ayodhyā waited in eager expectation, their hearts longing for the moment when Rāma would be installed as crown prince. In the squares and assembly halls, groups gathered together, their conversations filled with praise for the lord of the people. “Ah,” they said, “the great-souled king, the joy of the Ikṣvāku line, knowing his own age, will anoint Rāma as king. How blessed we are! Rāma, who understands the ways of the world, will be our king and protector for many years to come. Rāghava, free from arrogance, learned, righteous, and loving toward his brothers, is as affectionate to us as he is to them. Long may the righteous and faultless King Daśaratha live, by whose favor we shall witness Rāma’s anointing!” As the citizens spoke thus, news of Rāma’s impending consecration spread far and wide. People from the countryside, having heard the joyful tidings, flocked from all directions into the city. Ayodhyā became filled with these visitors, and as the crowds swelled, a great sound arose—like the mighty roar of the ocean at the time of the full moon. With the city thronged on all sides by eager villagers, Ayodhyā shone like the abode of Indra, resounding tumultuously and gleaming like the ocean brimming with its waters. Now, let the seventh chapter be heard. In the palace, a maidservant named Mantharā—who had long lived with Queen Kaikeyī—happened by chance to ascend to a terrace that shone with the brilliance of the moon. From this lofty vantage, Mantharā looked out over Ayodhyā, where the royal roads were freshly sprinkled and strewn with lotuses and water-lilies. She saw the city adorned with splendid banners and flags, its streets perfumed with sandalwood water, and filled with people whose heads had been bathed in ceremonial preparation. The air resounded with the voices of distinguished Brāhmaṇas holding garlands and sweets, with the white doorways of temples, and with the music of all instruments. The city was alive with joyful people, the chanting of Brahmins, magnificent elephants and horses, and the bellowing of excited bulls and cows. Beholding Ayodhyā so beautifully adorned, its citizens elated and rejoicing, Mantharā was struck with utter astonishment. Absorbed in thoughts of gain and the highest joy, she wondered, “What wealth is Rāma’s mother distributing to the people?” She questioned further, “Tell me, what is the reason for this extraordinary happiness among the people? What will the delighted king do?” At that moment, Rāma’s nurse, overwhelmed with joy and filled with delight, shared the good news with Mantharā: “Tomorrow, under the Pushya star, King Daśaratha will anoint Rāma, who is faultless and has conquered anger, as crown prince.” Hearing these words, Mantharā, quick to anger, descended from the palace—radiant like the peak of Mount Kailāsa—her mind burning with resentment. Filled with malice, Mantharā approached Kaikeyī, who was resting, and spoke harshly: “Rise, fool! Why do you lie there? Danger is coming upon you. Overwhelmed by a flood of misfortune, you do not perceive your own peril. Though you appear fortunate, you boast of your good fortune in what is truly undesirable; your fortune is as unsteady as a river’s current in the heat of summer.” Stung by these harsh words from the angry and ill-intentioned Mantharā, Kaikeyī fell into deep distress. She asked gently, “Is all well, Mantharā? For I see you with a troubled face, greatly afflicted.” Hearing Kaikeyī’s soft inquiry, Mantharā—skilled in speech but filled with anger—replied, her own dejection deepening. Wishing to unsettle Kaikeyī and turn her heart against Rāghava, she said, “O queen, a great and unending calamity has begun for you: King Daśaratha will anoint Rāma as crown prince. I am plunged in deep fear, filled with sorrow and grief, burning as if by fire; I have come here for your welfare. Your sorrow will be my sorrow, your decline will be my decline, and your prosperity will be my prosperity—of this there is no doubt.” She continued, “You were born in a royal family and are the chief queen of the king; how is it, O queen, that you do not understand the severity of royal duties? Your husband, though he speaks of righteousness, is deceitful; his words are gentle, but his nature is harsh. You, with your pure heart, trust him, and thus you have been thoroughly deceived. Now he approaches you with empty consolations, but in truth, today your husband will unite Kausalyā with prosperity. That wicked-hearted man, having removed Bharata from among your kin, will soon install Rāma in the kingdom, with all obstacles destroyed. An enemy disguised as a husband, and a mother who claims to wish you well, is like a venomous serpent embraced by a child—so have you been held.” Thus, Mantharā’s words, brimming with bitterness and cunning, sowed the first seeds of distress in Kaikeyī’s heart, casting a shadow over the joy that filled Ayodhyā.