King Daśaratha, his heart shattered by Kaikeyī’s words, cried out in anguish. “Surely,” he lamented, “the honorable people of Ayodhyā will call me dishonorable in the streets, likening me to a drunken Brahmin who would sell his own son. What sorrow, what hardship is this, that I must endure your words! Such suffering has befallen me, as though I am reaping the fruits of some past evil deed. “For so long, O sinful one, I have been guarded by you—a sinner—just as a rope, mistaken for a snake, is picked up out of ignorance. Delighting in your company, I did not perceive you for what you are—death itself—just as a child, alone, might unwittingly touch a black serpent with his hand. “Surely, the people of this world are justified in reproaching me, for by my wickedness, my great-souled son is being 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. “My son, who has been trained in the Vedas, disciplined as a student, and guided by his teachers, now faces great hardship, just when he should be enjoying the fruits of his learning. He is not one to reply with a second word; when told to go to the forest, he will simply say, ‘Very well.’ “If only Rāghava would act against my wishes when urged to go to the forest—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; unable to bear it, death will carry me to Yama’s abode. “When I am gone, and Rāma—the foremost of men—has departed to the forest, with my beloved people remaining behind, what new sin will you commit then? If Kausalyā, unable to bear her sorrow, abandons me and Rāma and her sons, the queen will follow me alone. “By casting Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and me into hell along with our three sons, you, Kaikeyī, will find happiness. With Rāma and myself abandoned, you will rule the Ikṣvāku dynasty—eternally honored and unshakable, but now thrown into disorder. “If this exile of Rāma pleases Bharata, let him not perform my funeral rites when I am 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 eyes of the world is certain, my humiliation assured. Among all beings, I will be despised as one who acts wickedly. “How will my son Rāma, who was accustomed to traveling by splendid chariots, elephants, and horses, now wander in the great forest on foot? At mealtime, cooks adorned with earrings would prepare delightful food and drink for him, and I would precede them. How will my son live now, 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! Yet I do not speak of all women, only of Bharata’s mother. “You, ruthless and ever seeking gain in what is worthless, have been placed in my life for my sorrow. What fault do you find in me, or in Rāma, who always 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, feeling 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, 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? “Rāma has never spoken a single harsh or unpleasant word, nor does he know how to speak cruelly. How, then, can you find fault with Rāma, who always speaks pleasingly and is ever praised for his virtues? “Let the earth collapse, burn, perish, or shatter a thousand times over—I will not carry out your dreadful command, O dust of the Kekaya king, which brings me only harm. “You, whose words are ever sharp as razors, who delight in falsehood, whose mind is corrupted, who bring ruin to your own family—I cannot bear to live with you, so unlovely, who seek to burn my heart and all bonds. “I have no life left—how, then, could I have happiness? Without my son, what joy is there for those who love their children as themselves? O lady, do not do me this harm—I touch your feet, have mercy on me.” Thus did the lord of the earth, lamenting like one bereft, find his heart seized by the overwhelming force of the woman. He fell at the queen’s outstretched feet, just as a stricken man might collapse. Now, listen to the thirteenth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section. There lay the great king, Daśaratha, in a state most unworthy of him, like Yayāti cast down from heaven at the end of his merit. Kaikeyī, that woman who was fearless yet saw danger, whose wishes brought only harm, again demanded the very boon she had sought. “You boast, O king, of being truthful and firm in your vows—then why do you hesitate to grant me this boon?” Thus addressed by Kaikeyī, King Daśaratha, overcome and angered, replied after a moment, as if bewildered by her words.