King Daśaratha, overwhelmed with grief and regret, spoke in anguish to Kaikeyī. “What shall I say to Kausalyā after committing such a grievous wrong?” he lamented. “She has always served me faithfully—not just as a maid, but as a friend, a wife, a sister, and a mother. Always seeking my welfare, gentle in speech, loving her son. For your sake, I neglected to honor her, though she deserved it, and now the pain of all the good I did for you weighs heavily upon me. “The harm done to Rāma, his exile to the forest, is like poisoned food given to a sick man. How will Sumitrā trust me now, seeing this? She will be fearful, and poor Vaidehī, Sītā, will hear two dreadful things: the news of my death and Rāma’s dwelling in the forest. Alas, Vaidehī will mourn for me and waste away her life. Like a kinnari abandoned by her mate on the slopes of the Himalaya, I cannot bear to see Rāma exiled in the vast wilderness. “I do not expect to live long, nor to witness Maithilī’s tears. Surely, you will rule the kingdom as a widow, with your son. Now, I see you, though outwardly virtuous, as utterly unchaste—a beautiful form laced with poison, like one intoxicated by 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. “People will call me dishonorable in the streets—a seller of my own son, like a drunken Brahmin. What sorrow and hardship I must endure from your words! Such suffering has come to me, as if I had committed some evil in the past. 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 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 has every right to reproach me, for by my wickedness, my 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 by the Vedas, by the discipline of studentship, and by his teachers, will face great hardship again at the very time he should enjoy happiness. “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, 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, impossible to endure, will carry me to Yama’s abode. 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 then? “If Kausalyā abandons me and Rāma and her sons, unable to bear her sorrows, she will follow me alone. Having cast Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and myself into hell along with our three sons, you, Kaikeyī, will be happy. With myself and Rāma abandoned, you will govern 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, 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, accustomed to traveling 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? “Whose cruel words are these, spoken in such a manner—Rāma’s going to the forest and Bharata’s consecration? Fie upon women, for they are deceitful and devoted to their own interests; I do not speak of all women, only of Bharata’s mother. You, ruthless and pursuing gain in what is worthless, have been placed for my sorrow; what unpleasant thing do you see in me, or in Rāma, who acts for your benefit? “Even fathers might abandon their sons, and wives their husbands, though bound by deep affection; truly, the whole world would be thrown into turmoil, seeing Rāma plunged into misfortune. But when I see my son, adorned like a young god, approaching me, I rejoice as if beholding him anew, and feel myself restored to youth. “Without the sun, there could still be activity; without the rain-bringer, there might still be rain. But seeing Rāma depart from here, I cannot imagine anyone could go on living—such is my conviction. You, who wish for destruction, who are hostile and an enemy in disguise, I have harbored like death itself within my own house. Alas, I have long held you to my breast like a serpent, and now, through my folly, I am struck down by your deadly venom. “With me, with Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa gone, let Bharata rule, together with you. Destroy the city, the kingdom, and our kin, and bring joy to my enemies and yours. You, whose conduct is cruel and who strike with calamity, today you speak such harsh words by force. Why do your teeth not fall out and shatter into a thousand pieces from your mouth, uttering such things?