When King Daśaratha, his heart broken, spoke to Kaikeyī, his words were heavy with sorrow and despair. “When I am dead, and Rāma—the best among men—has gone to the forest, and my beloved people remain behind, what sin will you commit then?” he asked her, his voice trembling. “If Kausalyā, unable to bear her grief, abandons me and her sons, she will follow me alone to the next world. You will have cast Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and me, along with our three sons, into hell, and you, Kaikeyī, will rejoice in your happiness. “With Rāma and myself abandoned, you will govern the Ikṣvāku dynasty—honored for all time and unshakable, but now thrown into chaos. If this exile of Rāma is pleasing to Bharata, then may Bharata not perform my funeral rites when I am gone. When I am dead and Rāma has gone to the forest, you and your son will rule the kingdom as a widow and her child. “You, princess, have dwelt in my house by fate. My disgrace in the eyes of 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 in splendid chariots, elephants, and horses, now wander on foot through the great forest? At mealtimes, cooks adorned with earrings would prepare delicious food and drink for him, with me leading them. How will my son now live, eating wild food that is sour, bitter, and pungent? He who wore splendid garments and was long accustomed to comfort—how will Rāma now 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—but 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 here only for my sorrow. What wrong do you see in me, or in Rāma, who always acts for your benefit? “Even fathers may abandon their sons, and wives their husbands, though bound by deep affection. Truly, the whole world will be thrown into turmoil, seeing Rāma plunged into misfortune. Yet, whenever I see my son, adorned like a young god, approaching me, I rejoice as if seeing him anew and feel my youth return. Without the sun, there could still be activity; without the rain-bringer, there might still be rain. But if Rāma departs 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? “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 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.” Thus, the lord of the earth, lamenting like one bereft, was seized in his heart by the overwhelming force of the woman’s will; he fell at the queen’s outstretched feet, just as a stricken man might collapse. Listen now to the thirteenth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section. The great King Daśaratha lay there in a state unbefitting him, like Yayāti cast down from heaven at the end of his merit. Kaikeyī, fearless yet aware of the 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? 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? How can I send away Rāma, so pleasing, dark as a blue lotus, long-armed, of great strength, to dwell in the Daṇḍaka forest? How could I ever witness suffering befall wise Rāma, who is accustomed only to happiness and unfit for sorrow? If only this transition could occur without causing him pain, then I would attain happiness, for Rāma, who deserves no suffering. “Certainly, unparalleled disgrace will befall me in the world, as I lament in this way, my mind bewildered.” As the sun set and night arrived, that night, adorned with the moon’s disk, passed for the tormented king, Daśaratha, lost in agony and grief.