Hearing Kaikeyī’s words, the king was overcome by anguish. In his grief, he addressed her, his heart heavy with pain: “You torment me deeply with such words. This house, once filled with joy, now feels empty, as if it has fallen under another’s control, and you seem possessed by some strange influence. O queen, a great calamity has befallen the house of the Ikshvākus. Your mind, once guided by virtue and righteousness, has turned astray, and I cannot understand it. Never before, O large-eyed one, have you done anything improper or displeasing to me. Because of this, I find it hard to believe what I hear from you now. Surely, Rāghava—Rāma—is equal to Bharata, that great-souled one, in your eyes. When he was a child, you often told me so yourself. How then, O gentle one, can you desire the exile of that righteous and renowned Rāma to the forest for fourteen years? How can you wish for such a harsh fate for him, who is so delicate and whose mind is always set upon righteousness? O auspicious-eyed one, why do you seek the banishment of Rāma, who is charming and ever devoted to serving you? Indeed, Rāma serves you with greater devotion than even Bharata does. I do not see any special regard from Bharata towards you that could compare. Who else, apart from that best of men, would show such service, respect, and obedience, both in word and deed? Among the many thousands of women and dependents in the palace, never has there been a single word of reproach or slander against Rāghava. Rāma, the tiger among men, with a heart pure and gentle, wins over all with his kind words and wins the affection of the people. He conquers the worlds by his truth, the twice-born by his charity, his elders by his service, and his enemies in battle by the bow. Truthfulness, generosity, austerity, renunciation, friendship, purity, straightforwardness, learning, and service to elders—these qualities are steadfast in Rāghava. In him, endowed with uprightness and brilliance equal to the gods and great sages, how can you wish for evil against Rāma? I have never spoken a harsh word to anyone, always speaking kindly to all. How, then, can I now, for your sake, speak to Rāma a word that pleases you but wounds him? In whom else could I find such patience, austerity, renunciation, truth, righteousness, gratitude, and even nonviolence to all beings? Apart from him, where could I possibly turn? Kaikeyī, you ought to show compassion to me—an old man, worn out, devoted to austerity, wretched, and lamenting in my distress. Whatever can be obtained on earth, up to the ocean’s edge, I will give it all to you; but do not let anger seize your heart. I fold my hands to you, Kaikeyī, and even touch your feet. Be the refuge of Rāma—let not unrighteousness touch me in this matter. Thus, overwhelmed by sorrow, lamenting and nearly losing consciousness, the great king was completely overcome by grief. Again and again, he pleaded with Kaikeyī to deliver him from this ocean of suffering. But Kaikeyī replied to him with words even harsher than before. She said, “If, having granted me the two boons, O king, you now regret it, how will you speak of your righteousness on earth? When the royal sages gather and speak of dharma, what will you say in reply? Will you confess, ‘I lived by her favor, she protected me, yet I deceived her—Kaikeyī’? You will bring disgrace upon the kings, O lord of men, if, after granting a boon, you now speak otherwise. Remember Shaibya, who gave his own flesh to a bird in the tale of the hawk and the dove, and Alarka, who gave up his eyes and attained the highest state. The ocean, having made a vow, never crosses its boundary; so too, do not break your promise, remembering what was done before. But you, abandoning righteousness and installing Rāma as king, wish always to enjoy yourself with Kausalyā, O wicked-minded one. Let it be unrighteousness or righteousness, truth or falsehood—whatever you have promised to me, there can be no violation of it. For I will drink poison right now, here before you, and die before your eyes if Rāma is anointed king. If I must see Rāma’s mother even for a single day, accepting my salutation, then surely death is better for me. By Bharata and by myself, O king of men, I swear to you: nothing will please me except Rāma’s exile.” Having spoken thus, Kaikeyī fell silent and did not reply further to the king, who was lamenting. Hearing Kaikeyī’s striking words—about Rāma’s dwelling in the forest and Bharata’s sovereignty—the king, his senses disturbed, was silent for a moment. He gazed at the queen, unmoving, though her words were so unpleasant. Those words, like thunder, pierced his heart and filled him with grief and sorrow; he was not happy. Reflecting on Kaikeyī’s resolve and her dreadful oath, sighing “Rāma,” he collapsed like a tree cut down. His mind lost, like one mad or sick, his vigor gone, like a serpent deprived of strength, the lord of the earth was utterly broken. With a weak and distressed voice, he spoke to Kaikeyī: “Who has advised you to this ruinous act, which only appears to be for your benefit? You speak to me without shame, as if your mind has been possessed by spirits. I never knew this vice in your character before.