Tormented by the dreadful news, King Daśaratha cried out in anguish, “Whose cruel words are these, spoken so harshly—this talk of Rāma’s exile to the forest and Bharata’s consecration?” His pain overflowed into bitter reproach: “Fie upon women, for they are deceitful and devoted only to their own interests. I do not speak of all women, only of Bharata’s mother.” Addressing Kaikeyī, he accused her, “You, ruthless and greedy for worthless gain, have been placed here only for my sorrow. What fault do you find in me, or in Rāma, who acts always for your benefit?” The king’s grief deepened as he reflected, “Even fathers may abandon sons, and wives their husbands, despite deep affection. Truly, the whole world would be thrown into turmoil, seeing Rāma plunged into misfortune.” Yet, he recalled the joy Rāma brought him, “When I see my son, adorned like a young god, approaching me, I rejoice anew, as if restored to youth.” Daśaratha’s despair grew as he lamented, “Without the sun, activity might still go on; without the rain-bringer, rain might still fall. But if Rāma leaves, I cannot imagine anyone could live—such is my conviction.” Turning to Kaikeyī, he cried, “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 held you to my breast like a serpent, and now, through my folly, I am struck down by your deadly venom.” Overwhelmed, he declared, “With me, with Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa gone, let Bharata rule with you. Destroy the city, the kingdom, and our kin, and bring joy to our enemies.” He questioned her cruelty, “You, whose conduct is harsh and who strike with calamity, today you speak such words by force. Why do your teeth not shatter and fall out for uttering such things?” He defended Rāma, “Rāma has never spoken a single harsh or unpleasant word, nor does he know how to speak cruelly. How can you find fault with him, who always speaks pleasingly and is ever praised for his virtues?” In utter defiance, he cried, “Collapse, burn, perish, or shatter the earth a thousand times—I will not carry out your dreadful command, O dust of the Kekaya king, which brings me harm.” Daśaratha’s sorrow was absolute. “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.” The king, lamenting like one bereft, was seized in his heart by the overwhelming force of Kaikeyī’s resolve; he fell at her outstretched feet, just as a stricken man might collapse. Now begins the thirteenth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section. King Daśaratha lay there, the great monarch, 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, 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?” He pleaded, “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.” He mourned, “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, sighing in anguish, the night did not seem to pass as he grieved ceaselessly. In his agony, Daśaratha begged, “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. 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 her, 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. Grant me your gracious favor, O young one, for you are compassionate; be pleased, lady, let Rāma receive from you the undiminished kingdom. Let Rāma, dark-eyed, obtain the kingdom; you will gain supreme renown. O noble-hipped, lovely-faced one, do this which is dear to me, to Rāma, to the people, to the elders, and to Bharata.” But Kaikeyī, 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. Then the king, seeing his beloved wife speak harshly and opposed to him regarding his son’s exile, again lost consciousness and fell to the ground in grief. Thus, for the tormented king, that night passed as he gasped in anguish; and when they tried to rouse him, the best of kings forbade them. Thus ends the fourteenth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa.