The royal city of Ayodhyā was transformed with splendid preparations for Rāma’s anointing. The main road, radiant and beautiful, was adorned with offerings of flowers and sweetly scented with incense, a tribute from the joyful citizens. To dispel the darkness of night, trees bearing lamps were set up along every side street, so that light would shine everywhere. Having so decorated their beloved city, the people of Ayodhyā, their hearts filled with longing for Rāma’s installation as crown prince, waited eagerly in anticipation. Gathered in groups in the public squares and assembly halls, they spoke among themselves, praising 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. Indeed, we are all blessed, for Rāma—wise in the ways of the world—will be our king and protector for a long time. Rāghava, whose mind is free of arrogance, learned and righteous, 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 see Rāma anointed!” As the citizens rejoiced in this way, others from the countryside, having heard the happy news, streamed into the city from all directions to witness Rāma’s anointing. The city filled with these eager crowds, and the sound of their excitement rose like the roar of the ocean at the full moon. Ayodhyā, resplendent and bustling on all sides with people from town and country alike, shone like the very abode of Indra, vibrant and tumultuous as the ocean filled with its waters. Let us now hear the seventh chapter. Among those in the royal household was a maidservant named Mantharā, born among Kaikeyī’s kin and long a companion to the queen. By chance, Mantharā ascended a palace that gleamed like the moon. From its heights, she gazed down upon Ayodhyā, whose royal roads were sprinkled and strewn with lotuses and water-lilies. She saw the city adorned with splendid banners and flags, its streets sprinkled with sandalwood water, and thronged with people whose heads were freshly bathed. The air resounded with the voices of distinguished Brāhmaṇas bearing garlands and sweets, the white temple doorways gleaming, and the sounds of all manner of musical instruments filling the city. Joyful people mingled with delighted elephants and horses, and the excited bellowing of bulls and cows echoed everywhere. Seeing Ayodhyā thus decorated, its banners raised high and its citizens rejoicing, Mantharā was overcome with astonishment. Absorbed in thoughts of gain and joy, she wondered, “What wealth is Rāma’s mother distributing to the people?” Puzzled, she asked, “What is the cause of this extraordinary happiness among the people? What will the delighted king do?” Just then, Rāma’s nurse, radiant with joy, approached the hunchbacked Mantharā and, her heart brimming with delight, shared the news of the great fortune about to befall Rāghava: “Tomorrow, under the Pushya star, King Daśaratha will anoint Rāma, who has conquered anger and is faultless, as crown prince.” Hearing these words, Mantharā’s anger flared. She quickly descended from the palace, which gleamed like the peak of Mount Kailāsa, her heart burning with fury. Approaching Kaikeyī as she lay at ease, Mantharā, perceiver of evil, spoke harshly: “Rise, fool! Why do you lie there? Danger is upon you, yet you do not perceive it. Though you seem fortunate, you boast of your good fortune in what is actually undesirable; your fortune is as unsteady as a river’s current in the hot season.” Struck by these bitter words, Kaikeyī was deeply distressed. She turned to Mantharā and asked gently, “Is all well, Mantharā? I see you troubled and afflicted—what has happened?” Hearing Kaikeyī’s gentle inquiry, Mantharā, skilled in speech yet burning with anger, replied. Growing even more dejected, she spoke words meant to distress the queen and estrange her from Rāghava: “O queen, a great and unending calamity has begun for you—King Daśaratha is going to anoint Rāma as crown prince. I am filled with fear, sorrow, and grief, burning as if by fire, and I have come here for your welfare. Your sorrow will be my sorrow, your decline my decline, your prosperity my prosperity—there can be no doubt of this. “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 affairs? Your husband, though he speaks of righteousness, is deceitful. His words are gentle, but his nature is harsh. You, with your pure heart, have trusted him and have been thoroughly deceived. Now he comes to 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, all obstacles overcome. “An enemy in the guise of 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. Just as an enemy or a neglected serpent would act, so today King Daśaratha has treated you and your son.” Thus did Mantharā’s words sow the first seeds of sorrow in Kaikeyī’s heart, as the city outside continued to rejoice in anticipation of Rāma’s coronation.