With deep anguish in his heart, King Daśaratha turned to Kaikeyī, his words trembling with pain and remorse. “For so long, O sinful one,” he lamented, “I have been guarded by you—a sinner—just as a rope, mistaken for a snake, is taken up out of ignorance. Delighting in your company, I never perceived you as death itself, much like a child, alone, touching a black serpent with his hand, unaware of the danger.” He was overwhelmed by guilt, his voice heavy. “Surely, the world has every right to reproach me, for by my wickedness, that great-souled son has been deprived of his father. Truly, I am childish and ruled by desire, for I will send my beloved son to the forest for the sake of a woman. Having been trained by the Vedas, by the discipline of studentship, and by his teachers, Rāma will face great hardship again at a time when he should enjoy happiness.” Daśaratha’s sorrow deepened as he thought of Rāma’s nature. “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 not do so.” He foresaw the condemnation that awaited him. “When Rāghava enters the forest, I will be condemned by all people; death, unable to be endured, will take me to the abode of Yama. When I am gone and Rāma, the foremost of men, has departed, with my beloved people remaining, what sin will you commit then?” His mind turned to Kausalyā. “If Kausalyā abandons me and Rāma and her sons, unable to bear her sorrows, the queen will follow me alone. Having cast Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and me into hell along with our three sons, you, Kaikeyī, will be happy. With myself and Rāma abandoned, you will govern the Ikṣvāku dynasty, eternally honored and unshakable, but now thrown into disorder.” He spoke of Bharata. “If this exile of Rāma is pleasing to Bharata, let not Bharata perform the funeral rites for me when my life is gone. When I am dead and Rāma has gone to the forest, you will now 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.” Daśaratha’s thoughts wandered to Rāma’s suffering. “How will my son Rāma, who was accustomed to travel repeatedly 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?” He wondered at the cruelty of Kaikeyī’s demand. “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?” He reflected bitterly, “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.” His pain was now unbearable. “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.” He cursed her cruelty. “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?” He cried out in refusal. “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.” His sorrow reached its peak. “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.” Overwhelmed, the lord of the earth, lamenting as 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 begins the thirteenth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section. There lay the great king—Daśaratha—in a state unfit for him, like Yayāti cast down from heaven at the end of his merit. That woman, Kaikeyī, 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. Even in heaven, I will have to endure the gods’ reproach for Rāma’s sake—how shall I bear it, alas?