Kaikeyī, her heart unwavering, addressed King Dasharatha with piercing words. “O king,” she said, “if you now regret granting me the two boons, how will you uphold your reputation for righteousness upon this earth? When the royal sages gather around you, those who know dharma and speak of virtue, what answer will you give them? Will you admit, ‘I lived by her favor—she protected me—yet I deceived Kaikeyī’? If, after granting a boon, you speak otherwise, you will bring disgrace upon the line of kings, O lord of men. Remember the noble Shaibya, who offered his own flesh to save a bird in the tale of the hawk and the dove, and Alarka, who surrendered his eyes and attained the highest state. The ocean, having vowed, never crosses its boundary; so too must you keep your promise, mindful of the deeds of the past. Yet you wish to abandon righteousness, install Rāma as king, and delight forever with Kausalyā, O wicked-minded one. Whether it be unrighteousness or righteousness, truth or falsehood—whatever you have promised me must not be violated. If Rāma is anointed king, I will drink poison before your eyes and die here and now. If I must see Rāma’s mother, even for a day, accepting my salutations, then death is preferable. By Bharata and myself, I swear to you, O king of men: nothing will please me except Rāma’s exile.” Having spoken thus, Kaikeyī fell silent, offering no reply to the king’s lamentations. Her words, so forceful and unyielding, spoke of Rāma’s dwelling in the forest and Bharata’s sovereignty. Dasharatha, shaken and disturbed, gazed at her, unable to speak for a moment, though her words were harsh and unpleasant. The king’s heart was struck as if by thunder; grief and sorrow filled him, and he found no happiness. Reflecting on Kaikeyī’s resolve and her dreadful oath, Dasharatha sighed, uttering “Rāma,” and collapsed like a tree felled by an axe. His mind lost, confused like one mad or ill, his vigor vanished, like a serpent robbed of its strength. In a weak and distressed voice, he addressed Kaikeyī: “Who has advised you this ruinous act, which appears as benefit? You speak to me without shame, as if possessed by spirits; I never saw such vice in your character before. Yet now I see in you, as in a child, this reversal. From where has this fear arisen, that you have chosen such a boon? You wish for Bharata to sit on the throne and Rāghava to dwell in the forest—abandon this attitude and this falsehood. If you wish to please your husband, the people, and 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 rule the kingdom. Indeed, I consider Bharata even stronger than Rāma in righteousness; but how shall I see Rāma, when he is told to go to the forest? His face will become pale, like the moon eclipsed, and my good resolve, decided together with friends, will be shattered. How will I see the army turned away, as if defeated? What will the assembled kings say to me from all directions? Alas, this young Ikshvaku has ruled the kingdom for so long, though elders, virtuous and learned, were present. They will question Kakutstha, and what shall I say? That my son was exiled by me, compelled by Kaikeyī? 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 committing 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 her, though she deserved it, for your sake; now all the good I did for you pains me deeply. Like food mixed with poison eaten by a sick man, so is the wrong done to Rāma and his departure to the forest. How will Sumitrā trust me, seeing this, afraid as she is? And poor Vaidehī will hear two grievous tidings: my death and Rāma’s exile. Alas, Vaidehī will grieve for me and waste away her life. Like a kinnari left by her mate on the slopes of the Himalaya, I cannot bear to see Rāma exiled in the great forest. I do not hope to live long, nor to see Maithilī weeping; surely, you will rule the kingdom as a widow, with your son. Now, I consider you, though appearing virtuous, to be utterly unchaste—a beautiful form laced with poison, like a man who has drunk wine. Truly, you spoke to me with false words of comfort, soothing me, but like a hunter luring a deer with song, you have destroyed me. Surely, the honorable will call me dishonorable in the streets—a seller of my own son, like a drunken Brahmin.