Kaikeyi, resolute in her demand, addressed the king with unwavering certainty: “By Bharata and by myself, O king among men, I swear to you—nothing will please me except Rama’s exile.” With these words, she fell silent, offering no reply to the king’s anguished lament. The king heard Kaikeyi’s words—so striking in their harshness, declaring Rama’s banishment to the forest and Bharata’s ascent to the throne. Stunned and deeply disturbed, he could not speak to her for a while, his gaze fixed upon the queen as if paralyzed, even as her words stung him. The pain of her pronouncement thundered in his heart, filling him with sorrow and grief, and he found no peace. Contemplating the queen’s firm resolve and her dreadful vow, the king sighed, “Rama…” and collapsed, like a great tree felled by an axe. His mind wandered, lost in confusion; he seemed as one possessed, his strength gone, like a serpent deprived of its venom. The lord of the earth was utterly undone. With a voice weak and choked with distress, he finally spoke to Kaikeyi: “Who has advised you to undertake this ruinous act, which only appears to be a benefit? You speak to me without shame, as if possessed by evil spirits; never before have I known such vice in your character. Now I see in you, like a child, this reversal of nature. From where has this fear arisen, that you have chosen such a boon? “You wish for Bharata to take the throne and for Raghava to dwell in the forest. Cease from this attitude and from this falsehood. If you truly wish to do what pleases your husband, the people, and even Bharata himself, O cruel one—evil-minded, petty, and doer of wicked deeds—then abandon this course. “What suffering or falsehood do you see in me or in Rama? In no way would Bharata ever take the kingdom except for Rama’s sake. Indeed, I consider Bharata even more steadfast than Rama in righteousness. How shall I bear to see Rama when he is told to go to the forest? His face will fade, pale as the moon eclipsed, and my firm resolve—decided with friends—will crumble. “How will I face the army as it turns away, defeated in spirit? What will the assembled kings, come from all directions, say of me? Alas, this young prince of the Ikshvaku line has ruled so long, even while elders—virtuous and learned—were present. They will question Kakutstha’s fate, and what will I say? That my own son was exiled by me, compelled by Kaikeyi? If I speak the truth, none will believe it. What will Kausalya say when Raghava has gone to the forest? “And what answer shall I give her, after committing such a grievous wrong? For Kausalya has always served me—like a maid, a friend, a wife, a sister, and a mother—ever seeking my welfare, loving her son, gentle in speech. I did not honor her as she deserved, all for your sake; now I regret all the good I have done for you. “The wrong done to Rama, and his exile, is like food mixed with poison given to a sick man. How will Sumitra trust me, when she sees this and is afraid? And poor Vaidehī—Sita—will hear two grievous tidings: my death and Rama’s exile. Alas, Vaidehī will mourn for me and waste away her life, like a kinnari left alone on the Himalayan slopes by her mate. I cannot bear to see Rama exiled in the great forest. “I do not hope to live long, nor to see Maithilī—Sita—weep; surely, you will rule the kingdom as a widow, with your son. Now I see you, though you appear virtuous, as utterly unchaste—a beautiful form, but laced with poison, like a man intoxicated by 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. 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 sin in the past. “For a long time, O sinful one, I have been guarded by you, a sinner—just as a rope, mistaken for a snake, is picked up out of ignorance. Delighting in your company, I did not see you as death itself—like a child, alone, touching a black serpent with his hand. “The world has every right to reproach me, for by my wickedness, that great-souled son has been deprived of his father. Truly, I am childish and ruled by desire, for I will send my beloved son to the forest for the sake of a woman. Though he has been trained by the Vedas, by the discipline of studentship, and by his teachers, he will face great hardship at the very time he should be enjoying life. “My son is not capable of uttering a second word in reply to me; when told to go to the forest, he will simply say, ‘Very well.’ If Raghava were to resist my wish when urged to go, it would be dear to me, but my child will not do so. When Raghava enters the forest, I will be condemned by all people; death, which cannot be endured, will carry me to the abode of Yama. “When I am dead and Rama, the foremost of men, has gone to the forest, and my beloved people remain, what further sin will you commit?