As the anguished king sat before Kaikeyi, she pressed her demands with unyielding resolve. “When all the royal sages gather with you, O knower of dharma,” she asked, her voice edged with accusation, “and they speak of righteousness, what will you say in reply? Will you confess, ‘I lived by Kaikeyi’s favor, she protected me, yet I deceived her’? Would you admit such a betrayal to those assembled kings?” She continued, “You will bring shame upon the royal line, O lord of men, if, after granting a solemn boon, you now speak otherwise. Remember the noble Shaibya, who gave his own flesh to save a dove from a hawk, and Alarka, who surrendered his very eyes and attained the highest state. Even the ocean, having made a vow, never crosses its bounds. Recall these examples—do not break your promise.” Her words grew sharper still. “Do you now intend to abandon righteousness, install Rāma as king, and forever enjoy yourself with Kausalyā? O wicked-minded one, whether you think it right or wrong, true or false—whatever you have promised me, it must not be broken. For if you anoint Rāma king, I will drink poison here and die before your very eyes. If I must see Rāma’s mother, even for a single day, accepting my salutation, death would be preferable to me. By Bharata and by myself, O king, I swear: nothing will please me except Rāma’s exile.” Having spoken thus, Kaikeyi fell silent, her demands hanging heavy in the air. The king, hearing her unyielding words about Rāma’s banishment and Bharata’s enthronement, was struck silent himself. For a moment, he could only stare at Kaikeyi, his senses reeling, her words cutting him to the core like thunder. Grief and sorrow overwhelmed him; he was utterly miserable. As he pondered Kaikeyi’s dreadful resolve and the terrible oath she had sworn, he sighed out, “Rāma,” and collapsed, as if felled like a tree. His mind lost and confused, vigor drained from him, the great king seemed like a serpent robbed of its strength. In a weak, broken voice, he addressed Kaikeyi, “Who has advised you to commit this ruinous act, which you present as a benefit? You speak to me without shame, as if possessed by some evil spirit. Never before have I seen such vice in your character. Now, I see in you, as in a child, this sudden reversal. From where has this fear arisen, that you have chosen such a boon?” He pleaded, “You wish for Bharata to take the throne and for Rāghava to dwell in the forest. Cease this attitude and this falsehood. If you truly wish to do what is pleasing to your husband, to the people, and to Bharata himself, O cruel one, evil-minded and petty, then reconsider these wicked deeds.” With anguish, he asked, “What suffering or falsehood do you see in me or in Rāma? In no way, except for Rāma, would Bharata ever take the kingdom. Indeed, I consider Bharata even more righteous than Rāma; how can I bear to see Rāma exiled to the forest?” He pictured the sorrow to come. “His face will grow pale, like the moon in eclipse, and my resolve, made in counsel with friends, will be shattered. How will I face the army, turned away in defeat? What will the assembled kings from every direction say to me?” He lamented, “Alas, this young Ikshvaku has ruled so long, even with so many elders, wise and virtuous, present. They will question me, Kakutstha, and what shall I say? That I exiled my own son, compelled by Kaikeyi?” “If I speak this truth, it will be taken as a lie. What will Kausalyā say to me when Rāghava is sent away? How can I answer her, after committing such a grievous wrong? Kausalyā has always served me faithfully—as a maid, as a friend, as a wife, as a sister, and as a mother—ever gentle, always seeking my good, loving her son.” Regret filled his heart. “I did not honor the queen as she deserved, all for your sake, and now I grieve for every kindness I showed you. The wrong done to Rāma and his exile is like food laced with poison, forced upon a sick man. How will Sumitrā, seeing all this, ever trust me again? And poor Vaidehī will hear two grievous things: of my death and of Rāma’s banishment. Alas, she will grieve and waste away her life.” He compared himself to a kinnari, left alone on the Himalayan slopes, unable to bear the thought of Rāma’s exile. “I have no hope of living long, nor of seeing Maithilī’s tears. Surely, you will rule the kingdom as a widow, with your son.” His voice trembled with bitterness. “Now I see you, though outwardly virtuous, as utterly unchaste—a beautiful form laced with poison, like a man intoxicated with 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.” He foresaw his own dishonor. “The honorable will call me dishonorable in the streets—a seller of my own son, like a drunken Brahmin. Ah, what sorrow, what hardship, that I must endure your words! Such suffering has come to me, as if I had committed some great evil in a former life.