When Kaikeyi had spoken her harsh and unyielding words, she fell silent, offering no reply to King Daśaratha, who sat before her, lamenting in anguish. The king, having heard her stunning pronouncement—that Rāma must dwell in the forest and Bharata should ascend the throne—was struck speechless. His senses reeling, Daśaratha gazed at Kaikeyi in disbelief, unmoving, unable to answer her, though her words wounded him deeply. Like thunderbolts, her demands crashed upon his heart, filling him with grief and sorrow. The pain was unbearable, and happiness fled from his soul. As he reflected on Kaikeyi’s dreadful resolve and the terrible vow she had sworn, Daśaratha sighed Rāma’s name and collapsed like a tree felled by an axe. His mind was lost, as if driven mad; he was confused, weakened, and bereft of strength, like a serpent deprived of its venom. The great king, once lord of the earth, was brought low. With a feeble, distressed voice, Daśaratha turned to Kaikeyi and asked, “Who has counseled you to this ruinous act, which seems outwardly good but is truly disastrous?” He accused her of speaking shamelessly, as if possessed by evil spirits, and confessed he had never before seen such vice in her character. Now, he perceived in her a childish reversal, and wondered what fear had driven her to choose such a boon. He pleaded with her to abandon this desire—for Bharata to rule and for Rāghava to be exiled to the forest—and to forsake this falsehood. “If you wish to do what pleases your husband, the people, and even Bharata, O cruel one, evil-minded and petty, then do not persist in this wickedness,” he implored. Daśaratha demanded to know what wrong or deceit she saw in him or in Rāma, insisting that, except for Rāma, Bharata would never become king. Indeed, he considered Bharata even greater than Rāma in righteousness and wondered how he could bear to see Rāma sent away to the forest. He imagined Rāma’s face growing pale, like the moon eclipsed, and lamented the collapse of his own well-laid plans, made in the company of trusted friends. He pictured the army turning away, defeated, and worried what the assembled kings from every direction would say. “Alas,” he thought, “this young Ikṣvāku has ruled the kingdom for so long, despite the presence of many elders, virtuous and learned.” He foresaw them questioning him, and wondered what he could possibly say—that he had exiled his own son at Kaikeyi’s insistence? “If I speak the truth, none will believe me,” he despaired. “What will Kausalyā say when Rāghava is gone to the forest? And how shall I answer her, having committed such a grievous wrong? Kausalyā has always served me faithfully, as a maid, a friend, a wife, a sister, and a mother—always seeking my good, ever gentle, loving her son.” Daśaratha reproached himself for not honoring Kausalyā as she deserved, all for Kaikeyi’s sake. Now, he regretted every kindness he had shown Kaikeyi, for it had turned to pain. “Like food mixed with poison consumed by a sick man,” he said, “so is this wrong done to Rāma and his banishment to the forest.” He wondered how Sumitrā could ever trust him again after witnessing such treachery, and pitied poor Vaidehī, who would soon hear two grievous tidings: his own death, and Rāma’s exile. “Alas, Vaidehī will mourn for me and waste away in sorrow, like a kinnari abandoned by her mate on the slopes of the Himalaya. I cannot bear to see Rāma exiled to the dreadful forest.” He confessed he had no hope of living much longer, nor of witnessing Maithilī’s tears. “Surely,” he told Kaikeyi, “you will rule the kingdom as a widow, with your son.” He now viewed Kaikeyi, though outwardly virtuous, as utterly unchaste—a beautiful form laced with poison, like a man who, intoxicated, drinks wine unaware of its harm. Daśaratha accused her of soothing him with false words, lulling him like a hunter lures a deer with song, only to destroy him. He foresaw that the honorable people of the city would call him dishonorable, a seller of his own son, like a drunken Brahmin. “Ah, what sorrow, what hardship, to endure your words! Such suffering has come to me, as if I had committed some great evil in a past life.” He realized that for a long time he had been guarded by a sinful woman, mistaking a rope for a harmless thing when in truth it was a snake. Delighting in her company, he had not perceived her as death itself—like a child innocently touching a black serpent. He acknowledged that the world would have every right to reproach him, for by his own wickedness, his great-souled son would be deprived of his father. Daśaratha called himself childish and ruled by desire, for he would send his beloved son to the forest for the sake of a woman. He lamented that Rāma, trained by the Vedas, by student discipline, and by his teachers, would now face great hardship at the very time he should enjoy life. He knew that Rāma would not protest or utter a second word of complaint; when told to go to the forest, Rāma would simply say, “Very well.” If only Rāma would defy him, it would please his heart, but he knew his son would never do so. He foresaw that when Rāma entered the forest, all people would condemn him, and that death, unbearable, would soon claim him and take him to Yama’s abode. “When I am dead and Rāma, the foremost of men, is gone to the forest, and my beloved people remain, what further sin will you commit?” he asked Kaikeyi. He feared that Kausalyā, unable to bear her sorrows, would abandon him and follow Rāma and her sons into exile. Thus, in his anguish, King Daśaratha poured out his heart, lamenting the ruin that Kaikeyi’s demands would bring upon his house and his soul.