When Kaikeyi spoke her harsh resolve, her words fell upon King Daśaratha like thunderbolts. She declared that if she could only see Rama’s mother for a single day and receive her salutation, she would consider death preferable to life. Swearing by Bharata and herself, she insisted to the king that nothing would please her except for Rama’s exile. After uttering these words, Kaikeyi fell silent, offering no reply to the king’s anguished cries. Daśaratha, the great king, was stunned by her unyielding demand: Rama sent to the forest, Bharata raised to sovereignty. His senses reeling, he stared at Kaikeyi, unable to speak, struck motionless by her bitter words. The pain of her declaration pierced his heart, filling him with sorrow and despair. Reflecting on her dreadful vow, he sighed Rama’s name and collapsed, like a mighty tree felled by an axe. His mind was lost in confusion, his vigor drained, as if a serpent had been robbed of its strength. In a weak and broken voice, Daśaratha asked Kaikeyi, “Who has advised you to this ruinous act, which only appears to be for your benefit?” He accused her of speaking shamelessly, as if possessed, and confessed that he had never before seen such vice in her character. Now, he saw in her a reversal, as if she were a child, and wondered from where such fear had arisen that she would ask for such a boon. “You wish Bharata to sit on the throne and Rāghava to dwell in the forest,” he pleaded. “Cease this attitude and this falsehood.” He implored her, “If you wish to do what is pleasing to your husband, to the people, and to Bharata himself, O cruel, evil-minded woman, then abandon this wickedness. What suffering or falsehood do you see in me or in Rama? In no way, except for Rama, would Bharata take the kingdom.” Daśaratha declared that he considered Bharata even stronger than Rama in righteousness, but the thought of sending Rama away tormented him. He wondered how he would be able to see Rama when told to go to the forest, his face pale like the eclipsed moon. The king’s carefully laid plans, made with his friends, would be overturned. He lamented how he would face his army, forced to turn away as if defeated, and what the assembled kings from all directions would say. He mourned that this young scion of Ikshvaku had ruled for so long, even with many wise elders present. “They will question the house of Kakutstha,” he thought, “and what shall I say? That my son was exiled by me, compelled by Kaikeyi?” If he spoke the truth, it would be taken as falsehood. What would Kausalya say to him when Rama had gone to the forest? What answer could he give her after committing such a grievous wrong? Kausalya, who had always served him with the devotion of a maid, a friend, a wife, a sister, and a mother, ever seeking his good, loving her son, and gentle in speech. He remembered with regret that he had not honored Kausalya as she deserved, all for Kaikeyi’s sake, and now, all the good he had done for Kaikeyi pained him. “The wrong done to Rama and his departure to the forest is like food mixed with poison given to a sick man,” he lamented. He wondered how Sumitrā would trust him now, being afraid, and pitied poor Vaidehī, who would hear of both his death and Rama’s exile—two grievous blows. Vaidehī would surely waste away her life in sorrow, like a kinnari left by her mate on the slopes of the Himalaya. The thought of Rama’s exile was unbearable to him. He confessed he did not hope to live long, nor to see Maithilī weeping. “Surely, you will rule the kingdom as a widow, with your son,” he told Kaikeyi. He now saw her, though outwardly virtuous, as utterly unchaste—a beautiful form laced with poison, like a man who has drunk wine. He accused her of having spoken false words of comfort, soothing him only to destroy him, like a hunter luring a deer with song. The honorable would call him dishonorable in the streets—a seller of his 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 evil in a previous life.” He realized that for a long time, 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 with his hand. He acknowledged that the world had every right to reproach him, for by his own wickedness, that great-souled son had been deprived of his father. “Truly, Daśaratha is childish and ruled by desire, for he will send his beloved son to the forest for the sake of a woman.” He mourned that Rama, who had been trained by the Vedas, by the discipline of studentship, and by his teachers, would now face great hardship at the very time he should enjoy the fruits of his learning. Rama would not even reply with a second word; when told to go to the forest, he would simply say, “Very well.” Daśaratha admitted that if Rama were to defy him, it would be dear to his heart, but he knew his son would never do so. He foresaw that when Rāghava entered the forest, he would be condemned by all people, and death, unable to be endured, would carry him to the abode of Yama.