When the wicked hunchback Mantharā harshly reproached Queen Kaikeyi, the queen was so shaken that she collapsed onto the ground, like a heavenly nymph struck down by poison. After a moment of turmoil, Kaikeyi, radiant even in distress, gathered her thoughts and, with careful discernment, revealed her mind to Mantharā, speaking openly of her feelings and intentions. Troubled and determined, bewildered by Mantharā’s words, Kaikeyi let out long, hot sighs, resembling a serpent maiden in distress. For a while, she pondered what course of action would bring her happiness. Loyal to her confidante and intent on her own interests, she finally made up her mind, heeding Mantharā’s counsel. Seeing this, Mantharā was delighted, as if her plan had already succeeded. Now angered and resolute, Kaikeyi’s determination grew firm. Yet, overwhelmed by weakness and sorrow, she lay down on the ground, her brows tightly furrowed. In her agitation, she cast off her splendid garlands and divine ornaments, letting them fall to the floor. Abandoning her finery, Kaikeyi lay prostrate in the chamber of anger, her garments soiled. She made the earth itself appear unsightly, just as scattered stars mar the sky. Her hair, usually adorned, was now bound in a single, tight braid, and she looked like a kinnari bereft of life. All this happened while the great King Daśaratha had already ordered Rāma’s consecration. Meanwhile, the self-controlled and illustrious king, desiring to bring happiness to his beloved, entered the inner apartments and made his way to Kaikeyi’s finest chamber. The room was like a sky filled with pale clouds, as if the moon had been seized by Rāhu. It was alive with the calls of peacocks and barhin birds, echoing with the cries of cranes and swans. The air resounded with the music of instruments, and the chamber was filled with hunchbacked and dwarf maidservants. Bowers and painted rooms adorned the space, with blossoming campaka and aśoka trees adding to its beauty. Within, platforms of ivory, silver, and gold gleamed, surrounded by ever-flowering, fruit-laden trees and tranquil pools. The finest seats of ivory, silver, and gold were arranged, and tables were laden with delicacies, drinks, and all manner of delights. The chamber sparkled with precious ornaments, resembling the very abode of the gods. Into this splendid palace, the great king entered. But as he looked around, the king did not see his beloved Kaikeyi upon her excellent bed. Filled with longing and desire, he searched for her, wondering at her absence. Never before had she withdrawn from him in such a way, and he grew dejected. He asked after her, troubled by her unusual absence, for he had never before entered an empty chamber at such a time. Unaware of her secret intentions and the selfishness that had taken root in her heart, the king inquired about Kaikeyi. The frightened doorkeeper, with hands joined in respect, replied, “Lord, the queen is greatly angered and has rushed to the chamber of wrath.” Hearing these words, the king became deeply troubled. His senses disturbed and his heart agitated, the king grew despondent. There, in the chamber, he saw Kaikeyi lying on the ground in a manner unbefitting her station. As if scorched by sorrow, the lord of the earth beheld his youthful wife—dearer to him than life itself—prostrate and forlorn. Though he himself was without sin, Daśaratha saw his wife, now consumed by dark intentions, lying on the ground like a creeper cut down, like a fallen goddess. She resembled a kinnari cast away, an apsaras who had lost her place, an illusion that had vanished, or 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 overcome by grief. Wiping his troubled face with his hands, the king, his mind in turmoil, spoke gently to the lotus-eyed Kaikeyi: “O lady, I know of no anger that should reside in you. Who has accused you, or who has insulted you? Why do you lie here on the ground, covered in dust, causing me such sorrow, when my mind is wholly devoted to your happiness?” He continued, “It is as if some being has afflicted your mind, and your suffering disturbs my own heart. I have skilled physicians, all loyal and capable. They will restore your happiness—tell me, beautiful one, what illness afflicts you? Or is there some dear wish 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 should not be slain must be slain, or who that should be slain should be spared? Who that is poor should become wealthy, or who that is rich should be made 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 costs me my own life. You know my strength—do not doubt me. I swear by my own merit, I will fulfill your desire. As long as the wheel of time turns, so long is this earth mine to command.” “The Dravidas, Sindhus, Sauvīras, Saurāṣṭras, peoples of the southern lands, Vaṅgas, Aṅgas, Magadhas, Matsyas, and the prosperous Kāśis and Kosalas—there is abundant wealth, grain, and cattle in all these lands. Therefore, Kaikeyi, choose from them whatever your heart desires.” “Why do you trouble yourself, O fearful one? Rise, rise, O beautiful one! Tell me truly, Kaikeyi, what has brought you fear? I will dispel it for you, just as the sun disperses the mist.” Thus comforted by the king’s words, Kaikeyi, determined to make her harsh request, prepared herself once more to press her husband for what she desired. Here ends this portion of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section.