With a heart heavy with grief and anger, King Daśaratha lamented bitterly before Kaikeyī. “Truly,” he cried, “I am like a foolish child, ruled by desire, for I am about to send my beloved son into the forest for the sake of a woman. Though Rāma has been trained by the Vedas, disciplined as a student, and guided by his teachers, he will now face terrible hardship at a time when he should be enjoying the fruits of his life. “My son is so gentle, he cannot even speak a second word in reply to me; when told to go to the forest, he will simply say, ‘Very well.’ If only Rāghava would resist my wishes when urged to go, that 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 endure the pain, death will certainly seize me and carry me to Yama’s abode. “When I am gone, and Rāma—the best among men—has left for the forest, with my beloved people remaining behind, what further sin will you commit? If Kausalyā, unable to bear her sorrow, abandons me and her sons, she will follow me alone to the next world. You, Kaikeyī, will be happy, having cast Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and me into hell, along with our three sons. “With Rāma and me abandoned, you will rule the Ikṣvāku dynasty—which has always been honored and unshakable, but now is thrown into disorder. If Rāma’s exile brings joy to Bharata, then let Bharata not perform my funeral rites when I am gone. When I am dead and Rāma has departed, you will rule the kingdom as a widow with your son. “By fate you have dwelt in my house, princess, but now my disgrace and humiliation in the world are certain. Among all beings, I will be despised as one who acts wickedly. How will my son Rāma, who is accustomed to traveling in splendid chariots, on elephants and horses, now wander on foot in the great forest? At mealtimes, cooks adorned with earrings would prepare him delightful food and drink, with me leading them. How will he now survive, eating wild food that is sour, bitter, and pungent? He who was adorned in splendid garments and long accustomed to comfort—how will he become one clad in bark? “Whose cruel words are these, spoken in such a manner—Rāma’s exile and Bharata’s consecration? Fie upon women! They are deceitful and devoted only to their own interests—I do not speak of all women, only of Bharata’s mother. You, ruthless and greedy for what is worthless, have been placed here for my sorrow. What fault 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 might 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? 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 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!” That 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 begins the thirteenth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section. There lay the great king, in a state unfit for him, like Yayāti cast down from heaven when his merit was exhausted. That woman, fearless yet seeing danger, whose wishes brought only harm, again demanded the very boon she had sought. She spoke with cold resolve: “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? If, out of affection for Kaikeyī, I send Rāma into exile in the forest, and I say this is true, then it will become untrue. “Through great effort, though I was childless, I gained the mighty and radiant Rāma as my son; how then can I abandon him? How can I banish Rāma, lotus-eyed, valiant, learned, conqueror of anger, devoted to forgiveness, by my own hand?