Kaushalya, Sumitra, and I, along with our three beloved sons, have been cast into a living hell by you, Kaikeyi, and you alone will find happiness in this. With Rama and myself abandoned, you will rule over the Ikshvaku dynasty—a line eternally honored, once unshakable, now thrown into chaos by your actions. If this exile of Rama brings joy to Bharata, then let Bharata not perform my funeral rites when my time comes; let him not honor me in death. When I am gone, and Rama—the noblest of men—has been driven to the forest, you will rule the kingdom as a widow, side by side with your son. O princess, fate has placed you in my house, but now my disgrace is certain, my humiliation assured; among all beings, I shall be despised as one who has acted wickedly. How will my dear son Rama, who was accustomed to traveling in splendid chariots, on elephants and horses, now be forced to wander the vast forest on foot? At mealtimes, cooks adorned with earrings would prepare delightful food and drink for him, always with me preceding them. How will my son now survive on wild fare that is sour, bitter, and pungent? He who was always clad in fine garments and long accustomed to comfort—how will Rama wear only bark clothing? Whose cruel words are these, spoken so harshly—Rama’s exile and Bharata’s coronation? Fie upon women, for they are often deceitful and devoted only to their own interests. Yet I do not speak of all women, but only of Bharata’s mother. You, ruthless and ever seeking gain in what is worthless, have been placed here only for my sorrow. What wrong do you perceive in me, or in Rama, who has always acted for your benefit? Fathers may abandon sons, wives may forsake husbands, even when bound by deep affection, but truly, the whole world would be thrown into turmoil to see Rama plunged into such misfortune. Yet, whenever I see my son, adorned like a young god, approaching me, I rejoice as though beholding him anew, and feel myself restored to youth. Without the sun, activity may still continue; without the rain-bringer, there might yet be rain. But if Rama departs from here, I cannot imagine how anyone could go on living—of this I am certain. You, bent on destruction, hostile and an enemy in disguise, I have harbored like death itself within my home. Alas, I have long held you to my breast like a serpent, and now, through my own folly, I am struck down by your deadly venom. With me, Rama, and Lakshmana gone, let Bharata rule with you. Destroy the city, the kingdom, our kin, and bring joy to the hearts of our enemies and yours. You, whose actions are cruel and who bring calamity, today you speak such harsh words with force. Why do your teeth not fall out and shatter into a thousand pieces from your mouth, uttering such things? Rama has never spoken a single harsh or unpleasant word, nor does he know how to speak cruelly. How then can you find fault with Rama, who always speaks gently 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 daughter of the Kekaya king, which brings only harm to me. You, whose words are sharp as razors, who delight in falsehood and 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 sever all bonds. I have no life left—how then could I have happiness? Without my son, what joy remains for those who love their children as their very selves? O lady, do not do me this harm—I touch your feet, I beg you, have mercy on me. Thus, that 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. Now, listen to the thirteenth chapter in the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, in the Ayodhya section. There lay the great king, Daśaratha, in a state most unfit for him, like Yayati cast down from heaven at the end of his merit. Kaikeyi, fearless yet perceiving 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?” she pressed. Thus addressed by Kaikeyi, King Daśaratha, overcome and angered, replied after a moment, as if bewildered, “When I am dead and Rama 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 reproach of the gods for Rama’s sake—how shall I bear it, alas? “If, out of affection for Kaikeyi, I send Rama 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 Rama as my son; how then can I abandon him? How can I banish Rama, lotus-eyed, valiant, learned, conqueror of anger, devoted to forgiveness, by my own hand? How can I send away Rama, so pleasing, dark as a blue lotus, long-armed, of great strength, to dwell in the Dandaka forest? How could I ever witness suffering befall wise Rama, who is accustomed only to happiness and is unfit for sorrow? If only this transition could occur without causing him pain, then I would attain happiness, for Rama, who deserves no suffering. “Certainly, unparalleled disgrace will befall me in the world, as I lament in this way, my mind bewildered.” The sun set, and night arrived; that night, adorned with the moon’s disk, passed for the tormented king. For Daśaratha, who kept sighing in anguish, the night did not seem to pass, as he grieved ceaselessly. Show me compassion, O gentle one; I have joined my hands in supplication. Otherwise, go away at once—I do not wish to see one so merciless.