King Daśaratha, overwhelmed by sorrow, gazed upon his beloved Rāma and wondered aloud how one so accustomed to comfort, adorned in splendid garments, could ever endure life clad in the rough bark attire of an ascetic. He lamented the cruelty of the words that had been spoken—those that decreed Rāma’s exile to the forest and Bharata’s installation as heir. What heart could utter such harsh commands? In his grief, Daśaratha denounced the deceitfulness of women, though he clarified he spoke only of Bharata’s mother, Kaikeyi. He accused her of ruthlessness, pursuing worthless gains and bringing sorrow upon him. He questioned what fault she could possibly find in himself or in Rāma, who had always acted for her benefit. The king reflected bitterly that even the closest bonds—between fathers and sons, husbands and wives—could be broken, and that the world itself would be thrown into turmoil upon seeing Rāma’s misfortune. Yet, whenever he saw his son, adorned like a young god, approaching him, Daśaratha felt as though he was rejuvenated, experiencing the joy of youth once more. He declared that, though the world might continue without the sun or rain-bringer, he could not imagine life going on after Rāma’s departure. Such was his conviction. Turning to Kaikeyi, he accused her of wishing for destruction, of being an enemy in disguise whom he had harbored in his own house like death itself. He lamented that, through his own folly, he had held her to his breast as one might hold a serpent, only to be struck down by her venom. Daśaratha resigned himself to the fate Kaikeyi had decreed: with himself, Rāma, and Lakṣmaṇa gone, let Bharata rule alongside her. Let her destroy the city, the kingdom, and their kin, bringing joy to their enemies. He rebuked her cruelty, asking why, after uttering such harsh words, her teeth did not fall out and shatter. He reminded her that Rāma had never spoken a single harsh or unpleasant word, nor did he know how to speak cruelly. How, then, could she find fault in Rāma, who was ever praised for his virtues? Daśaratha declared that he would not carry out her dreadful command, no matter how many times the earth might collapse or burn. He accused Kaikeyi of delighting in falsehood, of having a corrupted mind, and of bringing ruin to her own family. He confessed he could no longer bear to live with her, so unlovely and intent on burning all bonds. Bereft of life and happiness, he pleaded with her not to do him this harm, touching her feet and begging for mercy. Overcome with grief, Daśaratha lamented like one bereft, seized by the overwhelming force of Kaikeyi’s will. He fell at her outstretched feet, just as a stricken man might collapse. Now begins the thirteenth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section. The great king lay there, unfit for such a state, like Yayāti cast down from heaven at the end of his merit. Kaikeyi, fearless yet seeing danger, whose wishes brought only harm, again demanded the very boon she had sought. She taunted Daśaratha, reminding him of his reputation for truthfulness and firmness in his vows, and questioned why he hesitated to grant her request. Thus addressed, Daśaratha, overcome and angered, replied after a moment, bewildered. He told her that once 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 lamented, he would have to endure the reproach of the gods for Rāma’s sake. He agonized that if, out of affection for Kaikeyi, he sent Rāma into exile, his word would become untrue. Through great effort, though he was once childless, he had gained the mighty and radiant Rāma as his son—how could he abandon him? How could he banish Rāma, lotus-eyed, valiant, learned, conqueror of anger, 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 ever witness suffering befall wise Rāma, accustomed only to happiness and unfit for sorrow? If only this transition could occur without causing Rāma pain, Daśaratha thought, then he would attain happiness, for Rāma deserved no suffering. Yet he knew that unparalleled disgrace would befall him in the world as he lamented in this way, his mind bewildered. The sun set, and night arrived; that night, adorned with the moon’s disk, passed for the tormented king. For Daśaratha, sighing in anguish, the night seemed endless as he grieved ceaselessly. He pleaded with Kaikeyi to show him compassion, joining his hands in supplication. Otherwise, he told her, she should go away at once, for he did not wish to see one so merciless. It was for the sake of cruel Kaikeyi, the cause of his misfortune, that he must see her; having spoken thus, the king, with joined palms, addressed her. Knowing royal duty, Daśaratha again sought to appease Kaikeyi, though he was wretched, of good conduct, devoted to her, and his life nearly spent. He implored her to show favor, especially to the king, assuring her his words were not spoken in vain. He begged her to grant him her gracious favor, to be pleased, and let Rāma receive the undiminished kingdom. He asked her to let Rāma, dark-eyed, obtain the kingdom, promising that she would gain supreme renown. He pleaded with her, noble-hipped and lovely-faced, to do what was dear to him, to Rāma, to the people, to the elders, and to Bharata. But Kaikeyi, of wicked intent, hearing her husband’s varied and pitiful lament, though his heart was pure and he wept with coppery tears, spoke not a word. Seeing his beloved wife speak so harshly and oppose him regarding his son’s exile, the king again lost consciousness and fell to the ground in grief. Thus, for the tormented king, the night passed as he gasped in anguish; and when attendants tried to rouse him, the best of kings forbade them.