Stricken by grief, King Daśaratha turned to Kaikeyī with a heart heavy and voice trembling. He spoke of Kausalyā, saying that if she, unable to bear her sorrows, were to abandon him, Rāma, and her sons, then the queen would follow him alone in his suffering. He accused Kaikeyī of casting Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and himself into a living hell, dragging their three sons down with them, while she herself would find happiness in their misery. He lamented that, with both himself and Rāma abandoned, Kaikeyī would rule over the illustrious Ikṣvāku dynasty—once eternally honored and unshakable, but now thrown into chaos because of her actions. If Rāma’s exile truly pleased Bharata, Daśaratha declared, then Bharata should not perform his funeral rites when his end came. He foresaw a time when, after his death and Rāma’s departure to the forest, Kaikeyī would rule the kingdom as a widow, alongside her son. With a deep sense of shame, Daśaratha told Kaikeyī she had come to his house by fate alone, and now his disgrace and humiliation in the eyes of the world were certain. Among all beings, he would be despised as one who had acted wickedly. He wondered aloud how his beloved son Rāma, who was used to traveling in splendid chariots and on elephants and horses, would now be forced to wander the vast forest on foot. He recalled how, at mealtime, cooks adorned with earrings would prepare delightful food and drink for Rāma, always with Daśaratha himself leading the way. How, he asked in anguish, would his son now survive on wild foods, sour, bitter, and pungent? Rāma, once adorned in splendid garments and long accustomed to comfort, would now have to wear rough bark clothing. Daśaratha questioned whose cruel words had brought about this fate—sending Rāma to the forest and enthroning Bharata. He cursed the deceitfulness and self-interest of women, though he carefully excluded all women except Bharata’s mother from his condemnation. He accused Kaikeyī of being ruthless and pursuing worthless gain, asking what fault she found in him or in Rāma, who had always acted for her benefit. He reflected that even the deepest bonds—between fathers and sons, wives and husbands—could be broken, and the whole world would be thrown into turmoil at the sight of Rāma plunged into misfortune. Yet, whenever he saw his son, adorned like a young god and approaching him, Daśaratha felt renewed, as if regaining his youth. He declared that, though the world might continue without the sun or rain, he could not imagine living after Rāma’s departure. Addressing Kaikeyī as one who wished for destruction and harbored enmity in disguise, Daśaratha compared her to death itself, whom he had sheltered in his house. Now, by his own folly, he was struck down by the venom she had harbored, like a serpent he had held to his breast. He resigned himself to the outcome: with himself, Rāma, and Lakṣmaṇa gone, let Bharata rule with her. Let her destroy the city, the kingdom, and their kin, and bring joy to both their enemies. He condemned her cruel conduct and wondered why, after uttering such harsh words, her teeth did not shatter from her mouth. Daśaratha defended Rāma, saying that his son had never spoken a harsh or unpleasant word, nor did he know how to speak cruelly. How, then, could Kaikeyī find fault with Rāma, who always spoke kindly and was praised for his virtues? The king declared that, even if the earth should collapse, burn, or shatter a thousand times, he would not carry out her dreadful command, which brought him only harm. He accused her of having words sharp as razors, delighting in falsehood, and bringing ruin to her own family. He confessed he could no longer bear to live with her, so unlovely and intent on burning his heart and all bonds. Without his son, he said, his life and happiness were gone, for what joy could remain for one who loves his children as himself? In desperation, Daśaratha pleaded with Kaikeyī, falling at her feet and begging for mercy. Overwhelmed by the force of her will, the great king collapsed at the queen’s feet, like a man struck down by grief. He lay upon the ground, in a state unfit for a ruler, like Yayāti cast down from heaven at the end of his merit. Kaikeyī, fearless yet sensing danger, whose wishes brought only harm, again demanded the boon she had been promised. She challenged him, saying, “You boast of being truthful and firm in your vows, O king—then why do you hesitate to grant me this boon?” Thus addressed, Daśaratha, overcome and angered, replied after a moment, bewildered by her persistence. He told her that, when he was dead and Rāma had gone to the forest, she could fulfill her desire and be happy, having destroyed his enemies. Even in heaven, he said, he would have to endure the reproach of the gods for Rāma’s sake—how could he bear such shame? He reflected that, if out of affection for Kaikeyī, he sent Rāma into exile, his truthfulness would be tainted, for what he said would become untrue. Through great effort, though once childless, he had gained the mighty and radiant Rāma as his son—how, then, could he abandon him? He could not bring himself to banish Rāma, lotus-eyed, valiant, learned, conqueror of anger, and devoted to forgiveness, by his own hand. How could he send away Rāma, so pleasing, dark as a blue lotus, long-armed and strong, to dwell in the Daṇḍaka forest? How could he watch wise Rāma, accustomed only to happiness and unfit for sorrow, suffer such misfortune? If only this transition could take place without causing Rāma pain, Daśaratha said, then he would find happiness, for Rāma deserved no suffering. Yet he knew that unparalleled disgrace would befall him in the world, as he lamented in his bewilderment. As the sun set and night descended, the moon adorned the sky, but for the tormented king, that night seemed endless. Daśaratha, sighing in anguish, found no rest, and the night passed slowly as he grieved ceaselessly over his beloved son’s fate.