Kaikeyi, invoking tales of great sacrifice, reminded King Dasharatha of the noble Shaibya, who gave his own flesh to a bird in the story of the hawk and the dove, and of Alarka, who surrendered his eyes and attained the highest state. She urged the king to remember the ocean, which, bound by its vow, never crosses its limits, and pressed him not to break his promise, recalling the righteousness of those before him. But then, Kaikeyi’s words turned harsh. She accused Dasharatha of abandoning dharma by wishing to install Rama as king, so that he might forever enjoy himself with Kausalya, calling him wicked-minded. She insisted that, whether righteous or unrighteous, true or false, whatever he had promised to her must not be violated. With fierce resolve, she declared that she would drink poison and die before his eyes if Rama were anointed king. She lamented that even to see Rama’s mother accept her greeting for a single day would be unbearable, and that death would be preferable. Kaikeyi swore by Bharata and herself that nothing would please her except Rama’s exile. Having spoken thus, she fell silent, refusing to answer the king’s lamentations. Dasharatha, hearing Kaikeyi’s striking words about Rama dwelling in the forest and Bharata’s sovereignty, was stunned. For a moment, he could not speak; he gazed at her unmoving, though her words were unpleasant. Her words thundered in his heart, filling him with grief and sorrow, and he was overwhelmed with pain. Reflecting on Kaikeyi’s dreadful resolve and oath, he sighed “Rama,” and collapsed like a tree cut down. His mind lost, confused like one mad or ill, his vigor gone like a serpent deprived of its strength, Dasharatha became the shadow of himself. With a weak and distressed voice, he questioned Kaikeyi: “Who has advised you this ruinous act, which appears as benefit?” He accused her of speaking shamelessly, as if possessed by spirits, and confessed he had never seen such vice in her before. Now, he saw in her a reversal, like that of a child, and wondered from where this fear had arisen, prompting her to choose such a boon. He pleaded with her to abandon her wish for Bharata to sit on the throne and for Raghava to dwell in the forest, urging her to cease from this attitude and falsehood. Dasharatha implored her: if she wished to please her husband, the people, and Bharata, she should abandon her cruel, evil-minded, petty, and wicked deeds. He questioned what suffering or falsehood she saw in him or Rama, insisting that Bharata would never occupy the kingdom except after Rama. He even considered Bharata stronger than Rama in righteousness, but wondered how he would bear to see Rama sent to the forest. He imagined Rama’s face, pale like the eclipsed moon, and lamented his own good resolve, made with friends, now undone. He wondered how he would face the army, turned away as if defeated, and what the assembled kings from all directions would say. He mourned that the young Ikshvaku had ruled for so long, even among many elders, virtuous and learned. He dreaded the questioning of Kakutstha, and what he would reply—would he admit his son was exiled by his own hand, under Kaikeyi’s compulsion? If he spoke the truth, it would be taken as falsehood. He agonized over what Kausalya would say to him when Raghava was gone to the forest, and what reply he could give after committing such a grievous wrong. Dasharatha remembered Kausalya’s unwavering service: as maid, friend, wife, sister, and mother, always seeking his good, loving her son, gentle in speech. He regretted not honoring her, though she deserved it, for Kaikeyi’s sake, and now felt pain for all the good he had done for Kaikeyi. He likened the wrong done to Rama and his departure to the forest to food mixed with poison eaten by a sick man. He wondered how Sumitra would trust him, seeing this, and feared that poor Vaidehī would hear two grievous things—his own death and Rama’s exile. He imagined Vaidehī grieving for him and wasting away her life. He compared himself to a kinnari left by her mate on the slopes of the Himalaya, unable to bear seeing Rama exiled in the great forest. He had no hope to live long or to see Maithilī weeping, and believed Kaikeyi would rule the kingdom as a widow with her son. Now, Dasharatha saw Kaikeyi, though appearing virtuous, as utterly unchaste—a beautiful form laced with poison, like a man who has drunk wine. He accused her of speaking false words of comfort, soothing him, but destroying him like a hunter luring a deer with song. He feared the honorable would call him dishonorable in the streets—a seller of his own son, like a drunken Brahmin. He lamented his sorrow and hardship, feeling as though he suffered for some past evil. For a long time, he realized, he had been guarded by Kaikeyi, a sinner, just as a rope mistaken for a snake is taken up out of ignorance. Delighting in her company, he had not perceived her as death itself, like a child alone touching a black serpent. He acknowledged that the world had every right to reproach him, for by his own wickedness, his great-souled son had been deprived of his father.