In the royal palace, the air was thick with sorrow as King Daśaratha, his heart weighed down, turned to Kaikeyī with desperate words. He spoke of Rāma, in whom patience, austerity, renunciation, truth, righteousness, gratitude, and even nonviolence toward all beings dwelled. “Apart from him,” the king lamented, “where could I possibly turn?” With hands folded and voice trembling, Daśaratha pleaded, “Show compassion to me, Kaikeyī. I am old, spent, devoted to austerity, wretched, and lamenting in my distress. Whatever can be obtained on earth, up to the ocean’s edge, I will give you—only do not let anger take hold of you.” In humility, he bowed to her and even touched her feet, begging, “Be the refuge of Rāma—let unrighteousness not touch me here.” But grief overwhelmed the king. Lamenting, reeling, and nearly unconscious, Daśaratha was completely overcome by sorrow. Again and again he pleaded for deliverance from this ocean of grief. Yet Kaikeyī answered him, her words harsher than before. “If, having granted me the two boons, O king, you now regret it, how will you speak of your righteousness on earth, O hero?” she demanded. “When royal sages gather and speak of dharma, what will you say in reply? Will you confess, ‘I live by her favor, and she protected me, yet I deceived her—Kaikeyī’? You will bring disgrace upon kings if, after granting a boon, you now speak otherwise.” She reminded him of the great ones of old: “Shaibya gave his own flesh to a bird in the tale of the hawk and the dove; Alarka, giving up his eyes, attained the highest state. The ocean, having made a vow, does not cross its boundary. Do not break your promise, remembering what was done before.” Accusingly, she said, “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 could see Rāma’s mother for even a single day, accepting my salutation, surely death would be better for me. By Bharata and by myself, O king of men, I swear to you: I would not be pleased by anything except Rāma’s exile.” Having spoken thus, Kaikeyī fell silent, refusing to answer the king’s lamentations. Hearing her striking words about Rāma’s exile and Bharata’s sovereignty, Daśaratha’s senses faltered. He gazed at her, unmoving, though her words were harsh and painful as thunder, piercing his heart. Grief and sorrow filled him; he was not happy. Reflecting on the queen’s resolve and her dreadful oath, he sighed, “Rāma,” and collapsed like a tree cut down. His mind lost, confused and weak, his vigor gone, the mighty king was as a serpent deprived of strength. In a voice weak and distressed, he asked Kaikeyī, “Who has advised you to this ruinous act, which appears as benefit? You speak to me without shame, as if your mind is possessed by spirits; I never knew this vice in your character before. But now I see in you, as in a child, this reversal. From where has this fear arisen, that you have chosen such a boon?” He pleaded, “You wish for Bharata to sit on the throne and for Rāghava to dwell in the forest; cease from this attitude and from this falsehood. If you wish to do what is pleasing to your husband, to the people, and to Bharata, O cruel one, evil-minded, petty, and doer of wicked deeds—what suffering or falsehood do you see in me or in Rāma? In no way, except for Rāma, would Bharata occupy the kingdom. Indeed, I consider him even stronger than Rāma in righteousness; how will I see Rāma, when he is told to go to the forest?” The king’s anguish deepened as he imagined Rāma’s face, pale as the eclipsed moon, and his own resolve, once firm with friends, now shattered. “How will I see the army, turned away, as if defeated by others? What will the kings, gathered from all directions, say to me? Alas, this young Ikṣvāku has ruled the kingdom for so long, though many elders, virtuous and learned, were present. They will question Kakutstha, and then what shall I say here? That my son was exiled by me, under Kaikeyī’s compulsion?” “If I speak this truth, it will be taken as falsehood. What will Kausalyā say to me when Rāghava has gone to the forest? And what shall I reply to her, after having done such a grievous wrong? For Kausalyā has always served me as a maid, as a friend, as a wife, as a sister, and as a mother—ever seeking my good, loving her son, gentle in speech. I did not honor the queen, though she deserved honor, for your sake; now, it pains me, all the good I did for you. Like food mixed with poison eaten by a sick man, so is the wrong done to Rāma and his departure to the forest.” He wondered in agony, “How will Sumitrā, seeing this, trust me, being afraid? And poor Vaidehī will hear two grievous things.” Thus, the king, tormented by Kaikeyī’s unyielding demands, was left in the depths of despair, his heart broken by the fate he was forced to inflict upon his beloved son and family.