In the royal chambers, King Daśaratha, his heart heavy and voice trembling, turned to Kaikeyī and spoke with deep anguish. “If you truly wish to do what pleases your husband, the people, and Bharata, O Kaikeyī—though you have shown yourself cruel, evil-minded, petty, and the doer of wicked deeds—then listen to me. What fault or suffering have you seen in me or in Rāma? There is no way Bharata would ever ascend the throne except through Rāma. In fact, I consider Bharata even more steadfast in righteousness than Rāma himself. How, then, will I bear to see Rāma when he is told to depart to the forest? His radiant face will grow pale, like the moon eclipsed, and all the good intentions I held, resolved together with trusted friends, will come to nothing. How will I face the army, turning away in defeat, as if bested by enemies? What will the assembled kings from distant lands say to me? ‘Alas, this young prince of the Ikṣvāku line has ruled for so long, even though many elders, virtuous and wise, are present.’ They will question the scion of the Kakutstha dynasty, and what answer shall I give? That I exiled my own son, compelled by Kaikeyī? If I speak the truth, they will not believe me—they will think I am lying. What will Kausalyā say to me when her beloved Rāghava is gone to the forest? How shall I respond to her after committing such a grievous wrong? Kausalyā has always served me faithfully, as a maid, as a friend, as a wife, a sister, and even as a mother. She has always looked to my welfare, loved her son, and spoken gently. Yet, for your sake, I did not honor her as she deserved. Now, I am tormented by all the good I once did for you. It is as if I have eaten food mixed with poison while already ill—the wrong done to Rāma and his banishment to the forest weighs on me just so. How will Sumitrā ever trust me again, seeing this and being fearful? And poor Vaidehī, Sītā, will hear of two terrible things: my death, and Rāma dwelling in the forest. Alas, Vaidehī will mourn for me and waste away her life, like a kinnari left alone by her mate on the slopes of the Himalaya. I cannot bear the thought of Rāma exiled in the great forest. I do not expect to live long, nor do I wish to witness Maithilī, Sītā, weeping. Surely, you will rule the kingdom as a widow, together with your son. Though you appear virtuous, I now see you as utterly unchaste—a beautiful form laced with poison, like a man who has drunk wine. You spoke to me with false words of comfort, soothing me, but, like a hunter luring a deer with song, you have destroyed me. Truly, the honorable will call me dishonorable in the streets—a seller of my own son, like a drunken Brahmin. What sorrow, what hardship, that I must endure your words! Such suffering has come to me, as if I had committed some evil in a past life. For a long time, O sinful one, I have been guarded by you—a sinner—just as a rope is mistaken for a snake and picked up in ignorance. 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, that great-souled son has been deprived of his father. Truly, Daśaratha is childish and ruled by desire, for he will send his beloved son to the forest for the sake of a woman. Rāma, trained in the Vedas, disciplined as a student, and instructed by his teachers, will now face great hardship at the very time when he should enjoy happiness. My son is not one to answer me with a second word; when told to go to the forest, he will simply say, ‘Very well.’ If Rāghava were to refuse my command, it would please me, but my child will not do so. When Rāghava enters the forest, all people will condemn me. Death, unbearable, will surely claim me and take me to the abode of Yama. When I am gone and Rāma, the foremost of men, has departed to the forest, with my beloved people left behind, what further sin will you commit? If Kausalyā, unable to bear her sorrows, abandons me and her sons, she will follow me alone. Having cast Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and me into hell, along with our three sons, you, Kaikeyī, will be happy. With me and Rāma abandoned, you will govern the Ikṣvāku dynasty, honored and unshakable, now thrown into disorder. If this exile of Rāma pleases Bharata, then let Bharata not perform the funeral rites for me when I am gone. When I am dead and Rāma has gone to the forest, you will 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 now certain, and I will be humiliated everywhere—despised among all beings as one who acts wickedly. How will my son Rāma, who was accustomed to traveling in splendid chariots, on 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 presiding. How will my son now live, eating wild food that is sour, bitter, and pungent? He who wore splendid garments and was long accustomed to every comfort—how will Rāma now become one clad in bark? Whose cruel words are these, spoken in such a manner—Rāma’s going to the forest and Bharata’s consecration?” Thus, Daśaratha poured out his sorrow, his heart shattered by Kaikeyī’s relentless demands, as the fate of his beloved son and the royal house hung in the balance.