With a heart weighed down by anguish, the king spoke of Queen Kausalyā, recalling how she had always cared for him like a devoted wife, a loving sister, and a gentle mother—her every word soft, her every act seeking his well-being, her love for her son unwavering. Yet, he confessed, he had failed to honor her as she rightfully deserved, all for the sake of another. Now, the memory of this neglect tormented him, making even the good he had done for Kaikeyī a source of pain. The king’s sorrow deepened as he compared the wrong done to Rāma—his exile to the forest—to food tainted with poison, forced down the throat of a sick man; so bitter was the outcome of these actions. He wondered how Sumitrā, witnessing these events, could ever trust him again, her heart surely gripped by fear. And poor Sītā, Vaidehī, would soon hear two crushing tidings: the king’s own death and Rāma’s banishment to the wilderness. How could she bear such grief? She would mourn him and, in her sorrow, fade away. He likened himself to a kinnari abandoned by her mate on the cold slopes of the Himalayas, unable to bear the sight of Rāma’s exile to the great forest. He saw no hope of living much longer, nor did he wish to witness Maithilī—Sītā—drowned in tears. The thought tormented him that Kaikeyī would soon rule the kingdom as a widow alongside her son. Turning to Kaikeyī, the king’s words grew sharper. Outwardly beautiful and seemingly virtuous, she was, he said, like a vessel filled with poison, or a man made reckless by wine. She had spoken to him with soothing words, offering false comfort, but in truth, she had lured and destroyed him as a hunter beguiles a deer with song. He lamented the shame that would follow him: people would call him dishonorable in the streets, likening him to a drunken Brahmin who would sell his own son. The sorrow and hardship of enduring her words felt like punishment for some unknown sin from his past. For so long, he realized, he had been guarded not by a devoted wife but by a sinner—just as someone, mistaking a rope for a snake, picks it up in ignorance. He had delighted in her company, never perceiving the danger—like a child reaching out to touch a black serpent, unaware of the peril. The world, he admitted, would be right to reproach him: by his own wickedness, his noble son was being deprived of his father. He berated himself as childish and ruled by desire, for he would send his beloved son to the forest for the sake of a woman. Rāma, who had been schooled in the Vedas, trained by teachers, and disciplined as a student, would now be forced to face great hardship just when he should be enjoying the fruits of his upbringing. “My son,” the king mourned, “is incapable of contradicting me. When I command him to go to the forest, he will simply bow and say, ‘Very well.’ If only Rāghava would defy me in this, I would cherish it—but my son will never disobey.” He foresaw the condemnation that would fall upon him when Rāghava entered the forest, and he felt certain that death would claim him, unable to bear the shame. He wondered aloud what sins Kaikeyī might yet commit when he was gone and Rāma exiled, with only his beloved people remaining. If Kausalyā, unable to endure her sorrow, abandoned him and her sons, she would surely follow him into death. Kaikeyī, he accused, would be content having cast Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and himself—along with their sons—into hell. She would govern the Ikṣvāku dynasty, once eternally honored and unshakable, now thrown into disorder by her actions. If Rāma’s exile pleased Bharata, the king wished that Bharata would not perform his funeral rites. When he was dead and Rāma gone, Kaikeyī would rule the kingdom as a widow, together with her son. He lamented that fate had brought Kaikeyī into his house, ensuring his disgrace and humiliation. He would be despised by all as one who acted wickedly. He wondered how his son Rāma—accustomed to traveling in splendid chariots drawn by horses and elephants—could now wander the great forest on foot. At mealtimes, cooks adorned with earrings would prepare delightful food and drink for Rāma, with the king himself leading them; now, Rāma would have to subsist on wild fare, sour, bitter, and pungent. How could Rāma, once adorned in splendid garments and long used to comfort, now live clad in bark? The king wondered whose cruel words had decreed Rāma’s exile and Bharata’s consecration. He cursed the deceitfulness of women, though not all—only Bharata’s mother. Kaikeyī, he said, was ruthless and greedy for worthless gain, bringing him sorrow. What fault did she find in him or in Rāma, who had always acted for her good? He reflected that even fathers might abandon sons, and wives their husbands, though bound by deep affection; but the world itself would be thrown into turmoil at the sight of Rāma’s misfortune. Yet whenever he saw his son, radiant as a young god, approach him, the king felt as though restored to youth, his heart rejoicing anew. He declared that even if the sun were absent, activity might continue; even without the rain-bringer, rain might fall. But if Rāma left, the king could not imagine life continuing—such was his conviction. He accused Kaikeyī of wishing for destruction, an enemy in disguise whom he had harbored like death itself within his own house. He lamented that he had long held her close like a serpent, and now, through his own folly, was struck down by her venom. With himself, Rāma, and Lakṣmaṇa gone, he foresaw Bharata ruling with Kaikeyī, destroying the city, the kingdom, and their kin, and bringing joy to their enemies. He wondered how Kaikeyī, whose conduct was cruel and who struck with calamity, could utter such harsh words—why her teeth did not fall out from her mouth in shame. He remembered that Rāma had never spoken a harsh or unpleasant word, nor did he know how to speak cruelly. How, then, could Kaikeyī find fault with Rāma, who always spoke sweetly and was ever praised for his virtues?