Thus, encouraged by Mantharā’s words, Queen Kaikeyī—her eyes wide and unclouded by pride in her good fortune—rose and went with her confidante to the chamber of anger. Entering that secluded room, the noble queen, worthy of the finest luxuries, began to remove her many hundreds of thousands of pearl necklaces and splendid ornaments, casting them aside one after another. Golden-hued Kaikeyī, now completely under the sway of the hunchback’s influence, sat down upon the bare ground and spoke to Mantharā: “Here, O hunchback, you may report to the king that I am as good as dead. But when Rāghava goes to the forest, then Bharata will obtain the kingdom. I have no desire for gold, nor for jewels, nor for food or drink; this is the end of my life if Rāma is anointed.” Hearing this, Mantharā, emboldened, addressed the queen with bold and piercing words—advice that was both helpful and harmful—concerning Rāma and Bharata: “If Rāghava truly attains this kingdom, then you and your son will suffer. Therefore, O noble lady, strive so that your son Bharata will be anointed.” Struck again and again by the hunchback’s sharp words, Kaikeyī was deeply wounded. Placing her hands on her heart, she gazed in astonishment and angrily reproached Mantharā repeatedly: “When I have departed from this world and gone to the realm of Yama, you may report it, O hunchback; or, when Rāghava has gone to the forest for a long time, Bharata, his desires fulfilled, will prosper. I do not wish for bedding, garlands, sandalwood, ointments, food, or drink. I desire nothing here, not even life itself, if Rāghava does not go to the forest from here.” Having spoken these dreadful words, the radiant queen set aside all her ornaments and lay down upon the bare ground, as if a celestial nymph had fallen from the heavens. Her face, now darkened by rising anger and stripped of its garlands and jewels, became despondent, like the night sky veiled in darkness with its stars obscured. Now begins the tenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Kaikeyī, thus harshly reproached by the sinful hunchback, lay on the ground like a celestial nymph struck down by poison. Yet, having firmly resolved in her mind what must be done, she slowly revealed her intentions to Mantharā, discerning her course. Distressed and determined, bewildered by Mantharā’s words, Kaikeyī sighed long and hot, like a serpent maiden. For a moment, she pondered a path that would bring her happiness; devoted to her friend and her own interests, she made her decision, having heard Mantharā’s counsel. Mantharā was exceedingly pleased, as if her goal had been achieved. The queen, now angered, made her resolve firm. Weak and dejected, she lay down on the ground, her brows furrowed; her splendid garlands and divine ornaments, cast off, fell to the earth. She lay fallen in the chamber of anger, her garments soiled, making the earth appear unsightly, just as stars do to the sky. Her hair was bound in a single, tight braid, like a kinnari bereft of life—while, elsewhere, the great king had already ordered Rāghava’s consecration. Meanwhile, the self-controlled King Daśaratha, ever eager to bring joy to his beloved, entered the inner apartments and proceeded to Kaikeyī’s finest chamber. The chamber was like the sky with pale clouds, the moon seized by Rāhu, filled with peacocks and barhin birds, resounding with the cries of cranes and swans. It echoed with the music of instruments, was filled with hunchbacked and dwarf maidservants, adorned with bowers and painted chambers, and beautified by campaka and aśoka trees. Platforms of ivory, silver, and gold abounded, graced by ever-flowering, fruit-bearing trees and shining pools. The finest seats of ivory, silver, and gold were spread throughout, and the chamber was supplied with various foods, drinks, and all kinds of delicacies. Adorned with precious ornaments, it was like the very abode of the gods. Yet, as the great king entered this splendid inner palace, he did not see his beloved Kaikeyī on her excellent bed. Filled with longing and desire, the lord of men searched for her. Not finding her, he asked after her and became dejected, for never before had the queen stayed away at such a time, nor had he ever entered an empty chamber. He inquired about Kaikeyī, still unaware of her intentions and her lack of wisdom. The frightened doorkeeper, with joined palms, replied, “Lord, the queen is greatly angered and has rushed to the chamber of wrath.” Hearing this, the king became deeply troubled, his senses disturbed and agitated. There, he saw her lying on the ground, in a manner unbefitting her station. The lord of the earth, as if scorched by sorrow, saw his youthful wife—dearer to him than life itself—lying there. Sinless himself, he saw her, whose mind was now set on evil, lying on the bare ground like a creeper cut off, like a goddess fallen, like a kinnari cast away, like a fallen apsaras, like a vanished delusion, like a deer caught and subdued, and like a female elephant wounded by a poisoned arrow from a hunter in the forest. She lay there, deeply distressed, like a great elephant in the woods. Wiping his face with his hands, his mind deeply troubled, the passionate king addressed the lotus-eyed queen: “I do not know of any anger residing in you, O lady. By whom have you been accused, or by whom have you been insulted?