As Mantharā spoke urgently to Queen Kaikeyī, she assured her that by the time Rāma returned from exile in the forest, Bharata—Kaikeyī’s own son—would be firmly established, both inwardly and outwardly, in the kingdom. Surrounded by trusted friends, self-possessed, and supported by loyal followers, Bharata would be secure, and the king, Dasharatha, would have no cause for fear when the time came for succession. Mantharā pressed Kaikeyī to act: she must restrain the king from his resolve to anoint Rāma as heir. She warned her mistress that, misled by others, she was accepting misfortune disguised as fortune. Stirred by these words, Kaikeyī, delighted and convinced, replied to Mantharā. The queen, her mind swayed like that of a young girl, openly praised the hunchback’s wisdom. Kaikeyī marveled at Mantharā’s discernment, calling her the wisest among all hunchbacks on earth, and the only one truly devoted to her interests. She admitted she would never have understood the king’s intentions without Mantharā’s intervention, for there are hunchbacks who are ill-disposed, devious, and wicked—but Mantharā was not one of them. With affection, Kaikeyī described Mantharā’s appearance: she was as lovely as a lotus bent by the wind, her chest rising gracefully from her shoulders, her belly modest and well-formed, her hips full, and her breasts beautifully rounded. Mantharā’s face shone like the spotless moon, adorned with a jeweled girdle at her polished hips. Her thighs were well-shaped, her feet long and elegant, and she was always clad in fine linen, moving with grace. Kaikeyī continued her praise, saying that when Mantharā walked before her, she outshone all others, her beauty and skill rivaling the thousand magical arts once possessed by Shambara, lord of the asuras. All those arts, and more, seemed to dwell in Mantharā’s heart. Her back was long and curved like a chariot’s yoke, and wisdom, knowledge of statecraft, and magical skills all resided within her. Kaikeyī promised Mantharā a golden garland as a reward. When Bharata was anointed king and Rāma had departed to the forest, she would anoint Mantharā herself with pure, refined gold, smearing it on her back and adorning her face with a jeweled tilaka. She vowed to have splendid ornaments made for Mantharā, who would move about like a goddess, dressed in the finest garments. Her face would shine like the moon, her beauty incomparable; she would walk with noble grace, envied by all her rivals. Other hunchbacks, adorned in all manner of ornaments, would serve at Mantharā’s feet, just as Mantharā had always served at Kaikeyī’s. Thus praised, Kaikeyī spoke to Mantharā as she reclined on a pure couch, radiant like a flame upon the altar. She urged Mantharā to act, saying, “When the water is gone, a bridge is useless. Arise, do what is auspicious, and seek out the king.” Encouraged by Mantharā’s words, the queen, her eyes wide and unspoiled by pride, accompanied her confidante to the chamber of anger—a place where grievances were expressed and resolved. There, Kaikeyī, worthy of the finest ornaments, removed her hundreds of thousands of pearl necklaces and splendid jewels. Golden-hued and now fully under Mantharā’s influence, Kaikeyī sat on the bare ground and spoke again to her companion: “Here, O hunchback, you may report to the king that I am dead; but when Rāghava goes to the forest, Bharata will obtain the kingdom. I desire neither gold nor jewels, nor food and drink—if Rāma is anointed, this is the end of my life.” Mantharā, emboldened, addressed the queen once more—her words both helpful and harmful—reminding her that if Rāma were to become king, Kaikeyī and Bharata would suffer. Therefore, she urged Kaikeyī to strive for Bharata’s anointing. Deeply wounded and agitated by Mantharā’s sharp words, Kaikeyī, placing her hands on her heart, repeatedly reproached Mantharā in anger and astonishment. “When I have gone to the realm of Yama, you may report it, O hunchback; or, if Rāghava departs for the forest, Bharata will prosper, his desires fulfilled. I desire no bedding, garlands, sandalwood, ointments, food, or drink—nothing here, not even life itself—if Rāghava does not go to the forest.” Having uttered these dreadful words, the radiant queen cast aside all her ornaments and lay down upon the bare ground, like a celestial nymph fallen from the heavens. Her face, darkened by rising anger and stripped of its former splendor, became despondent, like the night sky veiled in darkness with its stars obscured. Thus begins the tenth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa’s Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. After being harshly reproached by the sinful hunchback, the queen lay on the ground like a celestial nymph struck down by poison. Having made up her mind about what must be done, she confided everything to Mantharā with discernment. Distressed and determined, yet bewildered by Mantharā’s words, the radiant queen sighed deeply, like a serpent maiden. For a moment, she pondered a course that would bring her happiness, and, devoted to her friend and her own interests, she made her decision after hearing Mantharā’s counsel. Mantharā, seeing her influence take effect, was exceedingly pleased, as if her aim had been achieved. The queen, now angered, made her resolve firm. Weakened and dejected, she lay on the ground, her brows furrowed, her splendid garlands and divine ornaments cast aside—her mind and heart set on the path Mantharā had urged her to take.