Daśaratha, overwhelmed with sorrow and anguish, cried out, “Ah, what misery and hardship I must endure because of your words! Such suffering has come upon me, as if I am being punished for some past wrongdoing. For so long, O sinful woman, 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 never realized you were death itself, like a child alone who touches a black serpent with his hand, unaware of its danger. Surely, the world has every right to reproach me, for through my own wickedness, that 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. Having been trained by the Vedas, disciplined as a student, and taught by his teachers, Rāma will face great hardship again at the very time he should be enjoying life. 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 when urged to go to the forest, it would be dear to me—but my child will never do so. When Rāghava enters the forest, I will be condemned by all people; death, unable to be endured, will take 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, what sin will you commit then? If Kausalyā abandons me, Rāma, and her sons, unable to bear her sorrows, the queen 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, which is eternally honored and unshakable, but now thrown into disorder. If this exile of Rāma pleases Bharata, let Bharata not perform my funeral rites 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, 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 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, who are ruthless and pursue 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; for 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? 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? Collapse, burn, perish, or shatter the earth a thousand times over—I will not carry out your dreadful command, O dust of the Kekaya king, which brings me 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, the lord of the earth, lamenting like one bereft, was seized in his heart by the woman’s overwhelming force; 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. Daśaratha lay there, the great king, in a state unfit for him, like Yayāti cast down from heaven at the end of his merit. That woman, fearless yet seeing 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: “When I am dead and Rāma has gone to the forest, O unworthy one, fulfill your desire and be happy, having destroyed my enemies.