King Daśaratha, stricken by sorrow and despair, poured out his anguish before Queen Kaikeyī. He spoke of Sītā, lamenting that she would hear of his death and of Rāma’s exile to the forest; poor Vaidehī would grieve for him and waste away in her pain. The king confessed that, like a kinnari abandoned by her mate on the slopes of the Himalaya, he could not bear the thought of Rāma being sent to the great forest. He lost all hope for his own life, unable even to imagine witnessing Maithilī’s tears; surely, he said, Kaikeyī would rule the kingdom as a widow, with only her son beside her. Daśaratha’s words turned bitter. He accused Kaikeyī, who appeared virtuous, of being utterly unchaste—a beautiful form hiding poison, like a man ruined by wine. He declared that her words of comfort had been false and soothing only in appearance; like a hunter luring a deer with song, she had destroyed him. He foresaw that the honorable would call him dishonorable in the streets, likening him to a drunken Brahmin who sells his own son. “What sorrow, what hardship, that I must endure your words!” he cried, wondering what evil deed he must have committed in a former life to deserve such suffering. He likened himself to one guarded by a sinful woman, just as a rope mistaken for a snake is taken up out of ignorance. Delighting in her company, he had not recognized her as death itself—like a child, alone, foolishly touching a black serpent. He admitted that the world had every right to reproach him, for through his own wickedness, his noble son would be 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. He reflected on Rāma’s upbringing—trained in the Vedas, disciplined as a student, and guided by teachers—only to face such hardship at the very time when he should have enjoyed life’s rewards. Rāma, he said, would never reply with a second word when told to go; he would simply say, “Very well.” If Rāghava were to resist, it would bring Daśaratha some comfort, but his son would never go against his father’s wishes. Daśaratha foresaw that when Rāghava entered the forest, he would be condemned by all, and death—unbearable—would claim him. He wondered what sin Kaikeyī would commit after he was gone and Rāma, the best of men, had departed, leaving his beloved people behind. If Kausalyā, unable to bear her sorrows, abandoned him and Rāma and her sons, the queen would follow him alone. Kaikeyī, he accused, would have cast Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and himself into hell, along with their three sons, and would be happy. He pictured Kaikeyī ruling the Ikṣvāku dynasty, eternally honored but now thrown into disorder, with himself and Rāma abandoned. He declared that if Rāma’s exile pleased Bharata, then Bharata should not perform his funeral rites. Once he was dead and Rāma gone, Kaikeyī would rule the kingdom as a widow with her son. He said she had dwelt in his house only by fate, and now his disgrace and humiliation in the world were certain; he would be despised by all as one who acted wickedly. He mourned for Rāma, once accustomed to traveling in splendid chariots, on elephants and horses—how would he now wander the great forest on foot? He remembered how cooks, adorned with earrings, would prepare delightful meals and drinks for Rāma, with Daśaratha himself preceding them. Now, his son would have to live on wild food that was sour, bitter, and pungent. Rāma, who had always worn splendid garments and known only comfort, would now have to wear bark clothing. Daśaratha questioned whose cruel words had brought about Rāma’s exile and Bharata’s consecration. He cursed the deceitfulness of women, though he clarified that he spoke only of Bharata’s mother, Kaikeyī. He accused her of ruthlessness and selfishness, wondering what fault she found in him or in Rāma, who always acted for her benefit. Even fathers might abandon sons and wives their husbands, he said, but the whole world would be thrown into turmoil at the sight of Rāma’s misfortune. Yet, whenever he saw his son, adorned like a young god, approaching, Daśaratha’s heart rejoiced as if he were young again. Without the sun, he mused, there might still be activity; without the rain-bringer, there might still be rain. But if Rāma left, he could not imagine how anyone could go on living. He called Kaikeyī an enemy in disguise, wishing for destruction, whom he had harbored like death itself within his house. He lamented that he had long held her to his breast like a serpent, and now, through his own folly, was struck down by her deadly venom. With himself, Rāma, and Lakṣmaṇa gone, he told her to let Bharata rule with her, destroying the city, the kingdom, and their kin, and bringing joy to their enemies. He condemned her cruelty, wondering how she could speak such harsh words, and questioned why her teeth did not fall out from uttering them. Rāma, he reminded her, had never spoken a harsh or unpleasant word, nor did he know how to speak cruelly—how then could she find fault with him, who was always praised for his virtues? Daśaratha, unable to bear her dreadful command, declared he would never carry it out. He called her words sharp as razors, her mind corrupted, her presence a ruin to her own family. He could not bear to live with her, who sought to burn his heart and sever all bonds. He confessed he had no life left, and wondered how he could find happiness. Without his son, there was no joy for a father who loved his child as himself. In desperation, he pleaded with Kaikeyī, touching her feet and begging her not to harm him. At last, that lord of the earth, lamenting as one bereft, was overcome by the queen’s relentless force. His heart seized by anguish, Daśaratha collapsed at Kaikeyī’s outstretched feet, utterly stricken.