Stricken with grief and regret, King Daśaratha poured out his heart in anguish to Kaikeyī. He lamented that, for her sake, he had neglected to honor the queen Kausalyā, though she was truly deserving of respect. Now, all the good he had done for Kaikeyī seemed to bring him only pain. The wrong done to Rāma, his beloved son, and Rāma’s impending exile to the forest weighed upon him like poisoned food forced upon a sick man. Daśaratha wondered how Sumitrā, seeing all that had transpired, could ever trust him again, fearing his actions. Poor Vaidehī, Sītā, would soon hear two terrible tidings: his own death and Rāma’s banishment to the forest. She would grieve deeply for him, wasting away her life in sorrow. Like a kinnari abandoned by her mate on the slopes of the Himalaya, Daśaratha felt he could not bear to witness Rāma’s exile in the wilds. He confessed that he no longer hoped to live long, nor could he bear the sight of Maithilī, Sītā, weeping. Kaikeyī would surely rule the kingdom as a widow with her son, Bharata. Now, Daśaratha saw Kaikeyī’s outward beauty as hiding utter unchastity—a fair form laced with poison, like wine that intoxicates and destroys. He accused her of soothing him with false words, like a hunter luring a deer with song, only to destroy him. The honorable would surely call him dishonorable in the streets, likening him to a drunken Brahmin who sells his own son. The sorrow and hardship he now endured from Kaikeyī’s words seemed like punishment for some evil he must have committed in the past. For a long time, he realized, he had been guarded by Kaikeyī—a sinner—just as one might pick up a rope thinking it a snake, out of ignorance. Delighting in her company, he had failed to see her as death itself, like a child innocently touching a black serpent. The world would rightly reproach him, for by his own wickedness his great-souled son had been deprived of his father. Daśaratha called himself childish and ruled by desire, for he would send his beloved son to the forest for the sake of a woman. Rāma, trained in the Vedas, disciplined as a student, and educated by his teachers, would now face terrible hardship at a time when he should be enjoying life. His son was incapable of replying with a second word; when told to go to the forest, Rāma would simply say, “Very well.” If Rāghava, Rāma, were to act against his wishes, it would please him, but his child would not do so. When Rāma entered the forest, Daśaratha knew he would be condemned by all people, and death would surely claim him, taking him to Yama’s abode. He wondered what sin Kaikeyī would commit once he was dead and Rāma was gone, with his beloved people remaining. If Kausalyā, unable to bear her sorrows, abandoned him and Rāma, 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 cast into disorder. If Rāma’s exile was pleasing to Bharata, Daśaratha begged that Bharata not perform his funeral rites after his death. When he was gone and Rāma exiled, Kaikeyī would rule the kingdom as a widow with her son. He declared that Kaikeyī, a princess, had dwelt in his house by fate, and his disgrace and humiliation in the world were now certain. Among all beings, he would be despised as one who acts wickedly. He wondered how his son Rāma, accustomed to traveling by splendid chariots, elephants, and horses, could now wander the great forest on foot. At mealtime, cooks adorned with earrings had prepared delightful food and drink for Rāma, with Daśaratha himself preceding them. How would his son now live, eating wild food that was sour, bitter, and pungent? Rāma, who was adorned in splendid garments and long accustomed to comfort, would now be clad in rough bark garments. Daśaratha asked whose cruel words had brought about Rāma’s exile and Bharata’s consecration. He cursed women for their deceit and devotion to their own interests, though he clarified he spoke only of Bharata’s mother, Kaikeyī. She, ruthless and pursuing gain in what was worthless, had been placed in his life for his sorrow. He wondered what fault she found in him or in Rāma, who always acted for her benefit. He acknowledged that even fathers might abandon sons and wives their husbands, despite deep affection. Indeed, the whole world would be thrown into turmoil seeing Rāma plunged into misfortune. Yet, when Daśaratha saw his son, adorned like a young god, approaching him, he rejoiced as if beholding him anew, feeling himself restored to youth. He declared that, even without the sun, there could still be activity; even without the rain-bringer, rain might still fall. But, seeing Rāma depart, he could not imagine anyone could go on living. Kaikeyī, wishing for destruction, was hostile and an enemy in disguise. He had harbored her like death itself within his own house, long holding her to his breast like a serpent, and now, through his folly, he was struck down by her deadly venom. Daśaratha told Kaikeyī to let Bharata rule with her, now that he, Rāma, and Lakṣmaṇa would be gone. She could destroy the city, the kingdom, and their kin, bringing joy to their enemies. Her conduct was cruel, striking with calamity, and her words were harsh. He wondered why her teeth did not fall out and shatter into a thousand pieces for uttering such things. Rāma had never spoken a single harsh or unpleasant word, nor did he know how to speak cruelly. How, then, could Kaikeyī find fault with Rāma, who always spoke pleasingly and was ever praised for his virtues? Daśaratha wished the earth would collapse, burn, perish, or shatter a thousand times over, but he would not carry out her dreadful command. He addressed her as the dust of the Kekaya king, whose command brought him only harm.