The anguished words of Queen Kaushalya poured forth as she confronted Kaikeyi, her heart heavy with grief and outrage. She spoke, “You wish for Bharata to sit on the throne and for Rāghava, my beloved son, to dwell in the forest. Cease this attitude and abandon this falsehood, Kaikeyi. If you truly desire to please your husband, the people, and even Bharata, O cruel one—evil-minded, petty, and a doer of wicked deeds—then why pursue such a path? What suffering or falsehood do you see in me or in Rama? In no way, except for Rama, should Bharata occupy the kingdom. Indeed, I even consider Bharata stronger than Rama in righteousness; but how will I bear to see Rama when he is told to go to the forest? His face will become pale, just as the moon is eclipsed, and my good resolve—decided together with friends—will be shattered. How will I see the army turned away, as if defeated by others? What will the kings, gathered from all directions, say to me? Alas, this young Ikshvaku has ruled the kingdom for so long, though many elders, virtuous and learned, were present. They will question Kakutstha, and what shall I say? That my son was exiled by me under Kaikeyi’s compulsion? If I speak this truth, it will be taken as falsehood. What will Kausalya say to me when Rāghava has gone to the forest? What shall I reply to her, after having done such a grievous wrong? For Kausalya has always served me—as a maid, as a friend, as a wife, as a sister, and as a mother. She has always attended to me, ever seeking my good, loving her son, gentle in speech. I did not honor the queen, though she deserved honor, for your sake; now, it pains me—all the good I did for you. Like food mixed with poison eaten by a sick man, so is the wrong done to Rāma and his departure to the forest. How will Sumitrā, seeing this, trust me, being afraid? And poor Vaidehī—Sītā—will hear two grievous things: she will hear of my death and of Rāma dwelling in the forest. Alas, Vaidehī 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. I now consider you, though appearing virtuous, to be utterly unchaste—a beautiful form laced with poison, like a man who has drunk 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. Surely, 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 done some evil in a previous life. For a long time, O sinful one, I have been guarded by you, a sinner—just as a rope, mistaken for a snake, is taken up out of ignorance. Delighting in your company, I did not perceive you as death itself—like a child, alone, touching a black serpent with his hand. Surely, the world of the living has every right to reproach me, for by my wickedness, that great-souled son has been deprived of his father. Truly, King Daśaratha is childish and ruled by desire, for he will send his beloved son to the forest for the sake of a woman. Having been trained by the Vedas, by the discipline of studentship, and by his teachers, Rāma will face great hardship again at the time of enjoyment. My son is not capable of replying to me with a second word; when told to go to the forest, he will simply say, 'Very well.' If Rāghava were to act against my wishes when urged to go to the forest, it would be dear to me, but my child will not do so. When Rāghava enters the forest, I will be condemned by all people; death, unable to be endured, will take me to the abode of Yama. When I am dead and Rāma, the foremost of men, has gone to the forest, with my beloved people remaining, what sin will you commit? If Kausalyā abandons me and Rāma and her sons, unable to bear her sorrows, the queen will follow me alone. Having cast Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and me into hell along with our three sons, you, Kaikeyī, will be happy. With myself and Rāma abandoned, you will govern the Ikṣvāku dynasty, which is eternally honored and unshakable, but now thrown into disorder. If this exile of Rāma is pleasing to Bharata, let not Bharata perform the funeral rites for me when my life is gone. When I am dead and Rāma, the foremost of men, has gone to the forest, you will now rule the kingdom as a widow together 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. How will my son Rāma, who was accustomed to travel repeatedly by splendid chariots, elephants, and horses, now wander in the great forest on foot? At mealtime, cooks adorned with earrings used to prepare delightful food and drink for him, with me preceding them. How will my son now live, eating wild food that is sour, bitter, and pungent? He who was adorned in splendid garments and long accustomed to comfort—how will Rāma become one clad in bark garments?