King Daśaratha sat in anguish, his face drained of color, as if the moon itself had been eclipsed. The noble intentions he had once resolved with his trusted friends now seemed shattered. He wondered, with deep sorrow, how he could bear to witness his army—turned away as if defeated, their pride broken—and what the assembled kings from distant lands would think of him. Would they not say, “Alas, this young Ikṣvāku has held the throne for so long, though many elders, virtuous and wise, were present?” He imagined the questions they would ask of Kakutstha’s line, and he agonized over what answer he could possibly give. Should he admit that he had exiled his own son, compelled by Kaikeyī’s demands? Even if he spoke this truth, he feared it would not be believed. He dreaded what Kausalyā would say to him when Rāghava departed for the forest, and what reply he could offer her after committing such a grievous wrong. Kausalyā had always served him with devotion—as a maid, as a friend, as a wife, as a sister, and as a mother, ever seeking his welfare, ever gentle in speech, ever loving her son. He lamented that he had not honored Kausalyā as she deserved, all for Kaikeyī’s sake. Now, the good he had done for Kaikeyī brought him only pain. The wrong done to Rāma, and his departure to the forest, was like food mixed with poison given to a sick man. He wondered how Sumitrā, seeing all this, could ever trust him again, frightened as she was. Poor Vaidehī, Sītā, would hear of two calamities: his own death and Rāma’s exile to the forest. She would grieve for him and waste away her life, like a kinnari abandoned by her mate on the slopes of the Himalaya. He confessed he had no hope of living long, nor of seeing Maithilī, Sītā, weeping. Surely, Kaikeyī would rule the kingdom as a widow, together with her son. He now regarded Kaikeyī, though she appeared virtuous, as utterly unchaste—a beautiful form laced with poison, like a man who has drunk wine. Her words of comfort had been false, soothing him only to destroy him, like a hunter luring a deer with song. He feared that honorable people would call him dishonorable in the streets—a seller of his own son, like a drunken Brahmin. What sorrow, what hardship he must endure from Kaikeyī’s words! Such suffering had come upon him, as if he had committed some evil in a past life. For a long time, he realized, he had been guarded by Kaikeyī—a sinner—just as a rope might be mistaken for a snake and taken up out of ignorance. Delighting in her company, he had not perceived her as death itself, like a child who touches a black serpent with his hand. He admitted that the world had every right to reproach him, for by his wickedness, his great-souled son had been deprived of his father. Truly, Daśaratha was childish and ruled by desire, for he would send his beloved son to the forest for the sake of a woman. Rāma, trained by the Vedas, by discipline, and by his teachers, would again face great hardship when he should be enjoying his life. His son was incapable of replying with a second word; when told to go to the forest, he would simply say, “Very well.” If Rāghava were to act against his wishes, it would be dear to him, but his child would not do so. When Rāma entered the forest, Daśaratha would be condemned by all, and death, unbearable, would carry him to Yama’s abode. He wondered, when he was gone and Rāma had departed to the forest, with his beloved people remaining, what further sin Kaikeyī might commit. If Kausalyā, unable to bear her sorrows, abandoned him and Rāma and her sons, she would follow him alone. Kaikeyī would have cast Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and himself into hell, along with their three sons, and would be happy. With himself and Rāma abandoned, Kaikeyī would govern the Ikṣvāku dynasty, eternally honored and unshakable, but now thrown into disorder. If Rāma’s exile pleased Bharata, Daśaratha prayed that Bharata would not perform his funeral rites when his life was gone. When he was dead and Rāma had gone to the forest, Kaikeyī would rule the kingdom as a widow, together with her son. He told Kaikeyī that she had dwelt in his house by fate, and his disgrace in the world was certain. Among all beings, he would be despised as one who acted wickedly. He wondered how his son Rāma, accustomed to traveling in splendid chariots, elephants, and horses, would now wander in the great forest on foot. At mealtime, cooks adorned with earrings had always prepared delightful food and drink for him, with Daśaratha himself preceding them. Now, how would his son live, eating wild food that was sour, bitter, and pungent? Rāma, adorned in splendid garments and long accustomed to comfort, would become one clad in bark garments. Whose cruel words were these, spoken in such a manner—Rāma’s going to the forest and Bharata’s consecration? He cursed the deceitfulness of women, devoted only to their own interests—not all women, but specifically Bharata’s mother, Kaikeyī. She, ruthless and pursuing gain in what was worthless, had brought him sorrow. What unpleasantness did she see in him or in Rāma, who acted for her benefit? He reflected that even fathers might abandon their sons, and wives their husbands, though bound by deep affection. For truly, the whole world would be thrown into turmoil, seeing Rāma plunged into misfortune.