As King Daśaratha, overwhelmed by grief, continued to plead with Kaikeyī for release from the terrible vow she demanded, Kaikeyī's heart only grew harder. She replied to the king with words even more severe than before, her voice cold and unyielding. “O king,” she said, “if, after having granted me the two boons, you now regret your promise, how will you speak of your righteousness before the world? When you sit among the assembly of royal sages, those who know dharma and speak of virtue, what answer will you give them?” She pressed her argument relentlessly. “Will you tell them, ‘I lived by her favor, she protected me, yet I deceived Kaikeyī’? If you go back on your word after granting a boon, you will bring disgrace upon all kings, O lord of men. Remember the great ones before you: Shaibya gave his own flesh to save a dove from a hawk, and Alarka gave up his eyes to attain the highest state. Even the ocean, having made a vow, does not cross its bounds. Do not break your promise—recall what has been done before you.” Her words grew sharper still. “You would abandon righteousness and install Rāma as king, just so you may always enjoy yourself with Kausalyā, you wicked-minded one. Whether it is righteousness or unrighteousness, truth or falsehood—whatever you have promised me, it must not be violated. If you do, I shall drink poison here and now, before your very eyes, and die if Rāma is anointed king. If I must see Rāma’s mother, even for a single day, accepting my salute, then surely death would be better for me.” She swore by Bharata and herself, “Nothing but Rāma’s exile will please me, O king of men.” Having spoken these harsh words, Kaikeyī fell silent, unmoved by Daśaratha’s lamentations. Her words, so piercing and resolute—demanding Rāma’s exile to the forest and Bharata’s installation as king—struck Daśaratha like thunder. For a moment, he could not speak; his senses reeled, and he stared at Kaikeyī, stunned by her cruelty. Grief and sorrow filled his heart, and he found no happiness in her words. Reflecting on her dreadful resolve and unbending oath, he sighed the name “Rāma” and collapsed, like a tree felled by an axe. His mind wandered in confusion; he was like one possessed, his vigor gone, like a serpent deprived of its strength. In a weak and trembling voice, he asked her, “Who has advised you to commit this ruinous act, which only appears as benefit? You speak to me shamelessly, as if possessed by spirits; I have never seen such vice in you before. Now I see in you the reversal of a child’s mind—what fear has driven you to ask for such a boon?” He pleaded, “You wish for Bharata to sit on the throne and Rāghava to dwell in the forest—cast aside this attitude and this falsehood. If you truly wish to please your husband, the people, and Bharata, O cruel and evil-minded woman, cease from these wicked deeds. What fault or falsehood do you see in me or in Rāma? In no way, except for Rāma, would Bharata ever accept the kingdom. Indeed, I consider Bharata even more steadfast than Rāma in righteousness. How will I bear to see Rāma, when he is told to go to the forest?” Daśaratha’s despair deepened as he imagined the consequences. “His face will grow pale, like the moon in eclipse. How will I see the army, turned away, as if defeated? What will the assembled kings say to me? They will wonder how this young Ikṣvāku has ruled for so long, when so many elders, virtuous and wise, were present. They will question Kakutstha, and what shall I say? That my son was exiled by me, compelled by Kaikeyī?” “If I speak the truth, it will be taken as falsehood. What will Kausalyā say to me when Rāghava is gone to the forest? What answer can I give after committing such a grievous wrong? Kausalyā has always served me—like a maid, a friend, a wife, a sister, even a mother—ever seeking my good, gentle in speech, loving her son. I did not honor her as she deserved, for your sake, and now I regret all the good I did for you.” He likened his pain to a sick man forced to eat food mixed with poison: “So is the wrong done to Rāma and his exile to the forest. How will Sumitrā trust me, seeing this? Poor Vaidehī will hear of two terrible things—my death and Rāma’s exile—and she will grieve for me, wasting away her life.” He continued, “Like a kinnari left by her mate on the Himalayan slopes, I cannot bear to see Rāma exiled in the great forest. I do not expect to live long, nor do I wish to see Maithilī weeping. Surely, you will rule the kingdom as a widow, with your son.” Finally, Daśaratha’s sorrow turned to bitterness. “I now see you, though you appear virtuous, as utterly unchaste—a beautiful form laced with poison, like a man who has drunk wine. You spoke to me with false words of comfort, soothing me, but like a hunter luring a deer with song, you have destroyed me.” Thus, in anguish and despair, the great king poured out his heart, his spirit broken by Kaikeyī’s unyielding demands.