Hearing Kaikeyi’s harsh and thunderous words, which struck his heart with unbearable pain, King Dasaratha was overwhelmed by grief and sorrow. The king found no happiness in her speech. As he reflected on the queen’s firm resolve and her terrible vow, he could only sigh, “Rama,” before collapsing, like a mighty tree felled by an axe. His mind plunged into confusion, Dasaratha seemed like one possessed, lost in madness and weakness, his strength sapped as if he were a serpent deprived of its very power. In this state of distress, his voice trembling and faint, he turned to Kaikeyi and asked, “Who has guided you to such a ruinous act, one that seems to promise benefit but brings only destruction?” He gazed at her, pained, and said, “You speak to me without shame, as though your mind is haunted by spirits. Never before have I seen such vice in you. But now, like a child, you act in reversal of your nature. From where has such fear arisen that you would demand this dreadful boon?” Accusingly, he continued, “You wish for Bharata to take the throne and for Raghava to live in the forest. Abandon this attitude and this untruth. If you truly wish to do what is pleasing to your husband, to the people, and even to Bharata himself, O cruel one, evil-minded, petty, and doer of wicked deeds, then why pursue this course?” He pleaded, “What fault or falsehood have you seen in me or in Rama? In no way, except for Rama, would Bharata ever ascend the throne. Indeed, I consider Bharata even more righteous than Rama. But how can I bear to see Rama when he is told to leave for the forest?” Dasaratha’s voice grew heavy with sorrow. “His face will grow pale, like the moon shadowed by an eclipse. The resolve I made with my friends, the hopes for my kingdom—what will become of them? How will I face the army, turned away in defeat, or the assembled kings from distant lands? What will they say of me?” He lamented, “Alas, this young scion of the Ikshvaku line has ruled the kingdom for so long, even though elders, wise and virtuous, were present. When they ask Kakutstha, what answer shall I give? That my son was sent into exile by me, compelled by Kaikeyi?” “If I speak the truth, it will be taken as a lie. What will Kausalya say to me when Raghava is gone to the forest? And what reply can I offer her, after having wronged her so deeply? For Kausalya has always served me with devotion—like a maid, a friend, a wife, a sister, a mother—always seeking my welfare, loving her son, gentle in speech.” Regret filled his heart. “I did not honor the queen as she deserved, for your sake, Kaikeyi. Now, all the good I did for you brings me only pain. It is like food laced with poison, forced upon a sick man—such is the wrong done to Rama, and his exile to the forest.” He thought of Sumitra. “How will Sumitra, witnessing this, ever trust me again? And poor Vaidehi—she will hear two grievous tidings: of my death, and of Rama dwelling in the forest. Alas, Vaidehi will grieve for me and waste away her life, like a kinnari left by her mate on the Himalayan slopes.” Dasaratha’s hope faded. “I do not expect to live long, nor to see Maithili weep. Surely, you will rule the kingdom alone, as a widow, with your son. Now, I see you, Kaikeyi, though you appear virtuous, as truly unchaste—your beauty is laced with poison, like a man who has drunk wine.” He accused her, “You spoke to me with false words of comfort, soothing me, but like a hunter luring a deer with song, you have destroyed me. Surely, the honorable will call me dishonorable in the streets—a seller of my own son, like a drunken Brahmin.” He cried out in despair, “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 the past. For a long time, O sinful one, you have guarded me, just as a rope mistaken for a snake is taken up out of ignorance.” He mourned, “Delighting in your company, I did not perceive 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, my great-souled son is deprived of his father.” He condemned himself, “Truly, Dasaratha is childish and ruled by desire, for he will send his beloved son to the forest for the sake of a woman. Though trained by the Vedas, by studentship, and by his teachers, Rama will face hardship again at the very moment he should enjoy happiness.” He reflected on Rama’s nature. “My son is not capable of replying with a second word; when told to go to the forest, he will simply say, ‘Very well.’ If Raghava were to resist my command, it would be dear to me, but my child will not do so.” Dasaratha’s despair deepened. “When Raghava enters the forest, I will be condemned by all. Death, which cannot be endured, will claim me and take me to the abode of Yama. When I am dead and Rama, foremost among men, has gone to the forest, with my beloved people left behind, what further sin will you commit, Kaikeyi?” He worried for Kausalya. “If Kausalya, unable to bear her sorrows, abandons me and her sons, the queen will follow me alone. Having cast Kausalya, Sumitra, and myself into hell, along with our three sons, you, Kaikeyi, will find happiness.” He foresaw the future. “With myself and Rama abandoned, you will rule the ancient and unshakable Ikshvaku dynasty, now thrown into turmoil. And if this exile of Rama pleases Bharata, then let Bharata not perform my funeral rites when my life is gone.” Thus, Dasaratha, torn by grief and remorse, poured out his anguished heart before Kaikeyi, lamenting the ruin brought upon his family, his kingdom, and himself.