King Daśaratha, overwhelmed by grief and despair, spoke to Kaikeyī with trembling voice and heavy heart. “When I am dead and Rāma, the foremost among men, has gone to the forest, you will rule the kingdom as a widow, together with your son. Fate has placed you in my house, princess, but my disgrace in the world is certain—my humiliation inevitable. 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, on elephants and horses, now wander in the vast forest on foot? At mealtime, cooks adorned with earrings used to prepare delightful food and drink for him, with me preceding them. Now, how will he survive, 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? Whose cruel words are these, spoken in such a manner—Rāma’s exile 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, ruthless and pursuing 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? 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. Yet 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. 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 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. 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.” The 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. He lay there, the great king, in a state unfit for him, like Yayāti cast down from heaven at the end of his merit. 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? 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 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. The sun set, and night arrived; that night, adorned with the moon’s disk, passed for the tormented king. For the king, Daśaratha, who kept sighing in anguish, the night did not seem to pass as he grieved ceaselessly. “Show me compassion, O gentle one,” he pleaded, joining his hands in supplication. “Otherwise, go away at once—I do not wish to see one so merciless.” It is for the sake of that cruel Kaikeyī, the cause of my misfortune, that I must see her. Having spoken thus, the king, with joined palms, addressed Kaikeyī. Knowing royal duty, the king again sought to appease Kaikeyī, though he was wretched, of good conduct, devoted to her, and his life nearly spent. “Show favor, O gentle lady, especially to the king; I have not spoken these words to you in vain, O fair-hipped one.” Thus, the king’s sorrow poured forth, his anguish deepened by Kaikeyī’s relentless demands, as he begged for mercy and lamented the fate that had befallen him and his beloved son Rāma.