As the king sat in his chamber, his mind was tossed by a tempest of confusion and anguish. “Is this a waking dream?” he wondered. “Has my mind been deluded, or am I suffering from some affliction, some disturbance that clouds my thoughts?” But no answer brought him comfort. Tormented by Kaikeyī’s harsh words, he drifted in and out of awareness, unable to find peace. He was like a startled deer before a tigress—distressed, bewildered, and vulnerable. Sinking to the bare ground, his breath came heavy and quick, as if the very air was weighed down by sorrow. Like a venomous serpent trapped within a charmed circle, powerless despite its deadly strength, the lord of men was bound by Kaikeyī’s demands. Anger flared within him, and he cried out in reproach. But grief overwhelmed him again, clouding his senses, and for a long time he sat lost in misery. At last, deeply afflicted, the king regained his composure, though his heart still burned with pain. With a voice trembling with rage and sorrow, he addressed Kaikeyī: “Cruel one, your wickedness destroys this family! What wrong has Rāma ever done to you? What sin have I committed, O heartless woman? Rāghava has always honored you as his own mother—so why are you bent on bringing such harm?” He continued, “I brought you into this house, yet you seek my ruin. You are like a serpent whose venom is hidden, striking without warning, even as the whole world praises Rāma’s virtues. For what offense should I abandon my beloved son? I could forsake Kausalya and Sumitrā, or give up all my wealth, but never Rāma. “If I do not see Rāma, I will lose my very consciousness. Can the world exist without the sun, or crops without water? Without Rāma, my life will not remain in this body. Abandon this sinful resolve at once! I am ready to bow my head at your feet—show me mercy. Why have you conceived such a dreadful thought, O sinful one? “If you wish to test my love for Bharata, let it be as you once declared regarding Rāghava. He is my eldest son, illustrious and foremost in righteousness. Your words, always gentle, were spoken only out of service. But now, tormented by grief, you cause me unbearable pain. In this empty house, under another’s sway, you seem possessed. “O Queen, a great calamity has befallen the house of the Ikshvākus, for your mind, once guided by virtue, has turned astray. Never before, O large-eyed one, did you do anything improper or displeasing to me. I cannot believe this of you. Surely, Rāghava is as dear to you as Bharata; you have said so yourself since he was a child. “How, O timid one, can you wish exile to the forest for that righteous and renowned prince for fourteen years? How can you desire such hardship for him, who is delicate and whose heart is set on righteousness? O auspicious-eyed one, why do you seek the banishment of Rāma, who is ever charming and devoted to serving you? “Indeed, Rāma serves you even more than Bharata does; I see no special regard from Bharata towards you in this. Who else, apart from that best of men, could show greater service, respect, and obedience in both word and deed? Among the many thousands of women and dependents in this palace, no reproach or slander is ever spoken against Rāghava. “Rāma, the tiger among men, with a pure heart, wins all beings with gentle words and the people’s love. He conquers the worlds by truth, the twice-born by charity, his elders by service, and his enemies in battle with his bow. Truthfulness, generosity, austerity, renunciation, friendship, purity, straightforwardness, learning, and service to elders—these virtues are steadfast in Rāghava. “In him, upright and godlike, how can you wish for evil, O lady, when his brilliance is like that of great sages? I have never spoken a harsh word to anyone, always speaking kindly to all. How, then, can I now, for your sake, say to Rāma a word that pleases you but wounds him? “In whom else could I find patience, austerity, renunciation, truth, righteousness, gratitude, and even nonviolence toward all beings? Who else could I possibly turn to? Show compassion to me, Kaikeyī, who am old, worn, devoted to austerity, wretched, and grieving in my distress. “Whatever can be found on earth, up to the edges of the ocean, I will give to you—only do not let anger seize you. I fold my hands to you, Kaikeyī, and even touch your feet. Be the refuge of Rāma; let unrighteousness not stain me here.” Thus, overwhelmed by sorrow, lamenting, losing and regaining consciousness, the great king was utterly overcome by grief. Again and again, he pleaded for release from this ocean of suffering. But Kaikeyī, unmoved, replied with words even harsher than before. “If, having granted me two boons, O king, you now regret it, how will you speak of your righteousness on earth, O hero? When royal sages gather with you and speak of dharma, what will you say in reply? Will you confess, ‘I lived by her favor, she protected me, yet I deceived Kaikeyī’? You will bring disgrace upon all kings, O lord of men, if, after granting a boon, you now speak otherwise.” Thus did Kaikeyī answer, her words sharp and unyielding, while the king’s heart ached with sorrow and despair.