Daśaratha, the mighty king of Ayodhyā, was plunged into a sea of anguish. With his heart burning and his voice trembling, he turned to Kaikeyī, Bharata’s mother, and cried out in despair. “Fie upon women!” he lamented, “for they are so often deceitful and attached only to their own interests. But I do not speak of all women—only of you, Kaikeyī.” He continued, his words sharp with pain. “You, ruthless in your pursuit of worthless gain, have been placed here only for my sorrow. What fault do you find in me, or in Rāma, who acts for your benefit? Even fathers may abandon their sons, and wives their husbands, though bound by affection. If Rāma is cast into misfortune, the whole world will be thrown into turmoil.” But Daśaratha’s heart soared whenever he saw his beloved son, Rāma—adorned like a young god—approaching him. In those moments, he felt rejuvenated, as if youth had returned to him. Yet, he despaired, “Without the sun, people may still act; without rain-bringers, rain may still fall. But if Rāma leaves this place, I cannot imagine how anyone could continue living. That is my conviction.” Turning his grief into anger, he accused Kaikeyī, “You, who wish for destruction, who are hostile and an enemy in disguise, I have harbored like death itself within my house. Alas, I have held you to my breast like a serpent, and now, through my own folly, I am struck down by your venom.” 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.” His words grew harsher, “You, whose conduct is cruel, who inflict calamity, today you speak such harsh words by force. Why do your teeth not fall out and shatter from your mouth, uttering such things?” Daśaratha’s sorrow deepened as he reflected, “Rāma has never spoken a single harsh word, nor does he know how to speak cruelly. How can you find fault with Rāma, who is ever praised for his virtues?” He could not bring himself to obey Kaikeyī’s dreadful command: “Collapse, burn, perish, or shatter the earth a thousand times—I will not carry out your command, O dust of the Kekaya king, which brings me harm.” He rebuked her further, “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.” His agony was complete: “I have no life left—how 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.” Overwhelmed, Daśaratha, the lord of the earth, lamented like one bereft, seized in his heart by Kaikeyī’s overwhelming force. He collapsed at the queen’s outstretched feet, as a stricken man might fall. Now begins the thirteenth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section. Daśaratha lay there, the great king, in a state unfit for him, like Yayāti cast down from heaven when his merit ended. Kaikeyī, fearless yet seeing danger, whose wishes brought only harm, demanded once more 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, King Daśaratha, overcome and angered, replied after a moment, 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 agonized, “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?” He wished desperately, “If only this transition could occur without causing him pain, then I would attain happiness, for Rāma, who deserves no suffering.” Yet he knew, “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. He pleaded again, “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 was for Kaikeyī’s sake, the cause of his misfortune, that he must see her. Having spoken thus, the king, with joined palms, addressed Kaikeyī. Knowing royal duty, Daśaratha 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. Grant me your gracious favor, O young one, for you are compassionate; be pleased, lady, let Rāma receive from you the undiminished kingdom.” He pleaded, “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. 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. Seeing the king, afflicted by grief for his son, senseless, fallen to the ground, and writhing, Kaikeyī spoke these words to the descendant of Ikṣvāku.