In the royal palace of Ayodhyā, Kaikeyī, the queen, was deeply agitated. In her chamber, she turned to the hunchbacked maidservant Mantharā and declared bitterly, “Here, O hunchback, you may tell the king that I am dead; but when Rāghava goes to the forest, then Bharata will obtain the kingdom.” Her voice was heavy with distress as she continued, “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.” Mantharā, emboldened, spoke to the queen with bold, piercing words—words that were both helpful and harmful, as she offered her own counsel about Rāma and what Kaikeyī should do for her son, Bharata. “If Rāghava surely attains the kingdom,” Mantharā warned, “then you and your son will suffer. Therefore, O noble lady, strive so that your son Bharata will be anointed.” Kaikeyī, wounded deeply by Mantharā’s sharp words, pressed her hands to her heart, astonished and angry, and reproached the hunchback again and again. “When I have gone from here 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 desire bedding, nor garlands, nor sandalwood, nor ointments, nor food or drink; I wish for 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, darkened by rising anger, was now stripped of its garlands and jewels. The king’s wife, once resplendent, became despondent—like the night sky veiled in darkness, its stars obscured. Now, listen to the tenth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. When the queen was harshly reproached by the sinful hunchback, she lay on the ground like a celestial nymph struck down by poison. Yet, her mind firm and resolved, the radiant queen slowly revealed her intentions to Mantharā, discerning what must be done. Distressed and determined, bewildered by Mantharā’s words, she sighed—long and hot—like a serpent maiden. For a moment, Kaikeyī pondered a path that might bring her happiness, and, devoted to her friend and to her own interests, she made her decision after hearing 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 by her own hands—fell to the ground. She lay fallen in the chamber of anger, her garments soiled, making the earth itself appear unsightly, just as stars sometimes mar the darkness of the sky. Her hair was bound in a single, tight braid, like a kinnari bereft of life. All this while, the great king had already ordered Rāghava’s consecration. Meanwhile, the self-controlled king, ever eager to please his beloved, entered the inner apartments, seeking Kaikeyī in her finest chamber. That 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. The music of instruments filled the air; hunchbacked and dwarf maidservants moved about; bowers and painted chambers adorned the space, beautified by campaka and aśoka trees. There were platforms of ivory, silver, and gold, ever-flowering, fruit-bearing trees, and pools of clear water. Fine seats, foods, drinks, and delicacies abounded, and the chamber gleamed with precious ornaments, like the very abode of the gods. But the king did not see his wife Kaikeyī on the excellent bed. Filled with desire and longing for her company, the lord of men searched for her. Not finding his beloved, he became dejected, for never before had the queen withdrawn at such a time. Nor had he ever entered an empty chamber. He inquired after her, his heart troubled, and the doorkeeper, frightened, with joined palms, spoke: “Lord, the queen is greatly angered and has rushed to the chamber of wrath.” Hearing this, the king’s heart was further troubled. Despondent, his senses disturbed and agitated, the king at last saw her lying on the ground, in a manner most unbefitting her station. The lord of the earth, as if scorched by sorrow, beheld his youthful wife—dearer to him than life itself—lying there. Though sinless himself, he saw her, whose mind was now set on dark intent, lying prone—like a creeper cut off, like a goddess fallen from the heavens. She seemed like a kinnari cast away, like a fallen apsaras, like a vanished illusion, like a deer caught and subdued. Like a female elephant wounded by a poisoned arrow 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 spoke to her, the lotus-eyed lady: “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? O blessed one, why do you lie on the ground, covered in dust, causing me such sorrow, when my mind is devoted to your welfare? It is as if your mind is afflicted by some being, disturbing my own heart. I have skilled physicians, all well-pleased and capable. They will restore you to happiness—tell me, beautiful one, what illness afflicts you? Or is there some dear wish to be fulfilled, or has someone done you harm?” Thus, the king anxiously addressed his beloved, bewildered by her sorrowful state, unaware of the storm that was about to descend upon his house.