Kaikeyī, her heart ablaze with unyielding resolve, spoke with a voice heavy with sorrow and determination: “I desire neither the comfort of soft bedding, nor the fragrance of garlands, nor the soothing touch of sandalwood or ointments. I have no wish for food or drink, nor for any pleasure in this world—not even for life itself—if Rāghava does not go to the forest from here.” Having uttered 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, once adorned with the finest garlands and jewels, was now clouded with the darkness of rising anger. The queen, wife of the king, became despondent and forlorn, like the sky veiled in darkness, its stars obscured. Listen now to the tenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. When the queen was harshly reproached by the sinful hunchback Mantharā, she lay upon the earth like an apsaras struck down by poison. Yet, having firmly decided in her mind what must be done, Kaikeyī slowly and thoughtfully revealed her intentions to Mantharā, her discernment clear even in distress. The queen, bewildered and agitated by Mantharā’s words, sighed deeply, like a serpent maiden roused from her lair. For a moment, Kaikeyī pondered a path that might bring her happiness. Devoted to her friend and her own desires, she finally made her decision after hearing Mantharā’s counsel. Mantharā, seeing her influence take root, became exceedingly pleased, her aims seemingly achieved. With anger now seething within her, Kaikeyī’s resolve hardened. Weak and dejected, she lay down on the ground, her brows furrowed in distress. Her splendid garlands and divine ornaments, once symbols of her royal grace, were cast aside and fell to the earth. There, in the chamber of anger, she lay with soiled garments, making the earth itself seem unsightly, just as the stars mar the darkness of the night sky. Her hair, bound in a single, tight braid, made her appear like a kinnari bereft of life. All this transpired even as the great king had already ordered the consecration of Rāghava. Meanwhile, the self-controlled and illustrious king, eager to bring joy to his beloved, entered the inner apartments and made his way to Kaikeyī’s splendid chamber. The room was as beautiful as the sky adorned with pale clouds and the moon seized by Rāhu, filled with the calls of peacocks and barhin birds, and resounding with the cries of cranes and swans. The air vibrated with the music of instruments, and the chamber was alive with hunchbacked and dwarf maidservants, lush bowers, and painted walls, beautified by campaka and aśoka trees. Platforms of ivory, silver, and gold graced the room, surrounded by ever-flowering, fruit-laden trees and shimmering pools of water. The finest seats, crafted from ivory, silver, and gold, were arranged throughout, and the chamber was supplied with every manner of food, drink, and delicacy. Adorned with precious ornaments, the palace gleamed like the very abode of the gods as the great king entered its splendor. But the king did not see his wife Kaikeyī upon the excellent bed. Filled with longing and desire, he searched for her, for never before had she stayed away at such a time, nor had he ever entered an empty chamber. Troubled, he inquired after her. Unaware of her hidden intentions and the storm brewing in her heart, he questioned the doorkeeper. The doorkeeper, frightened and with joined palms, replied, “Lord, the queen is greatly angered and has rushed to the chamber of wrath.” Hearing these words, the king’s heart grew heavy with anxiety. His senses disturbed, he entered the chamber and saw her there, lying on the ground in a manner wholly unbefitting her royal station. The lord of the earth, as if scorched by sorrow, gazed upon his youthful wife—dearer to him than life itself—lying in distress. Though he himself was sinless, he saw her, her mind now set on a dark course, lying like a creeper cut off, like a goddess fallen from grace. She resembled a kinnari cast away, an apsaras cast down, a vanished illusion, or a deer subdued and caught. Like a female elephant wounded by a poisoned arrow in the forest, she lay there, deeply distressed, her heart aching from affection, like a great elephant stricken in the woods. Wiping his face with his hands, his mind deeply troubled, the passionate king spoke to her, his lotus-eyed queen: “O lady, I do not know of any anger residing in you. By whom have you been accused, or by whom insulted? O blessed one, why do you lie here on the ground, covered in dust, causing me such sorrow, when my mind is ever devoted to your happiness?” “It is as if your mind is afflicted by some unknown force, 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 yet unfulfilled, or has someone done you harm?” “Who today has gained great joy, or who has suffered great harm? Do not grieve, do not torment yourself, O lady. Tell me, who that is not to be slain should be slain, or who that is to be slain should be released? Who that is poor should become wealthy, or who that is rich should become destitute?” “Both I and all that is mine are under your command; I am unable to refuse any wish of yours. Speak what is in your heart, even if it should cost me my own life. Knowing my strength, you should not doubt me. I will fulfill your desire, I swear to you by my merit; as long as the wheel of time turns, so long is this earth mine. The Dravidas, Sindhus, Sauvīras, Saurāṣṭras, peoples of the southern lands, Vaṅgas, Aṅgas, Magadhas, Matsyas, the prosperous Kāśis and Kosalas—all are within my power.” Thus did Daśaratha, the great king, address his beloved Kaikeyī, longing to know the cause of her distress, his heart open and his promise unwavering.