Seeing the reversal in Kaikeyī’s heart, Daśaratha was struck with anguish. He gazed at her as one would at a child, bewildered by her sudden fear and the strange boon she had chosen. “Why,” he asked, “do you wish for Bharata to ascend the throne, while Rāghava is sent to the forest? Cease this attitude and abandon such falsehood.” His voice trembled as he continued, “If you desire to please your husband, the people, and even Bharata, O cruel one, evil-minded and petty, doer of wicked deeds—what suffering or untruth have you found in me or in Rāma? There is no way Bharata would rule the kingdom except through Rāma. In fact, I consider Bharata even more righteous than Rāma. How will I bear to see Rāma when he is commanded to go to the forest? His face will grow pale, like the moon under eclipse, and the resolve I had made with friends will be shattered.” Daśaratha imagined the army, turned away as if defeated, and wondered what the gathered kings would say. “This young Ikṣvāku has ruled for so long, though many elders, virtuous and learned, were present. They will question Kakutstha, and what shall I answer? That my own son was exiled by me, under Kaikeyī’s compulsion? If I speak the truth, none will believe me. What will Kausalyā say to me when Rāghava is gone?” He lamented the grievous wrong he had done to Kausalyā, who had always served him faithfully—as a maid, a friend, a wife, a sister, and a mother—ever seeking his good, loving her son, gentle in speech. “I did not honor her, though she deserved it, for your sake. Now, all the good I did for you brings me pain. Like food mixed with poison eaten by a sick man, so is the wrong done to Rāma and his departure to the forest.” Daśaratha worried how Sumitrā, seeing all this, would ever trust him again. Poor Vaidehī, he thought, would hear two grievous tidings: his death and Rāma’s exile. “She will grieve for me and waste away her life, like a kinnari left by her mate on the slopes of the Himalaya. I cannot bear to see Rāma exiled in the great forest. I do not hope to live long, nor to see Maithilī weeping. Surely, you will rule the kingdom as a widow, with your son.” He looked at Kaikeyī with sorrow, considering her, though outwardly virtuous, to be utterly unchaste—a beautiful form laced with poison, like a man intoxicated by wine. “You soothed me with false words, 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 evil in the past.” Daśaratha realized he had been guarded by Kaikeyī, 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. “Surely, the world has every right to reproach me, for by my wickedness, that great-souled son has been deprived of his father.” He condemned himself, calling himself childish and ruled by desire, for sending his beloved son to the forest for the sake of a woman. “Having been trained by the Vedas, by discipline, and by his teachers, my son will now face great hardship at the very time he should enjoy life. He will not reply to me with a second word; when told to go, he will simply say, ‘Very well.’ If Rāghava were to act against my wishes, it would be dear to me, but my child will not do so.” Daśaratha foresaw his own condemnation by all people when Rāghava left for the forest, and death would take him to Yama’s abode. “When I am dead and Rāma has gone, what sin will you commit with my beloved people remaining? If Kausalyā, unable to bear her sorrows, abandons me and Rāma and her sons, the queen will follow me alone. Having cast Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and me into hell along with our three sons, you, Kaikeyī, will be happy.” He imagined Kaikeyī governing the Ikṣvāku dynasty, eternally honored and unshakable, but now thrown into disorder. “If this exile of Rāma pleases Bharata, let him not perform the funeral rites for me when my life is gone. When I am dead and Rāma has gone to the forest, you will rule the kingdom as a widow with your son. You, princess, have dwelt in my house by fate; my disgrace in the world is certain, and my humiliation as well. Among all beings, I will be despised as one who acts wickedly.” Daśaratha’s heart broke at the thought of Rāma, who was accustomed to traveling by splendid chariots, elephants, and horses, now wandering in the great forest on foot. At mealtime, cooks adorned with earrings used to prepare delightful food and drink for him, with Daśaratha himself preceding them. Now, he wondered, “How will my son live, eating wild food that is sour, bitter, and pungent?” Thus, Daśaratha poured out his grief, his regret, and his despair, lamenting the fate that had befallen his beloved son and the sorrow that now engulfed his house.