Whenever I see my son Rāma, radiant and adorned like a young god, approaching me, my heart fills with joy as if I am beholding him for the first time. In those moments, it feels as though my youth is restored. Without the sun, perhaps activity could continue; without the rain-bringer, there might even be rain. But if Rāma were to leave this place, I cannot imagine that anyone could go on living—such is the conviction rooted in my soul. Yet, you, who seek destruction and harbor enmity in your heart, I have unwittingly sheltered within my own home, like death itself. Alas, I have held you close to my breast as if you were a serpent, and now, through my own folly, I am struck down by your venom. With me, with Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa gone, let Bharata rule at your side. Destroy the city, the kingdom, and our family; gladden the hearts of our enemies and yours alike. You, whose ways are cruel and whose words bring calamity, speak so harshly to me today by force. Why do your teeth not fall out and shatter from your mouth as you utter such dreadful things? Rāma has never spoken a harsh or unpleasant word; he does not even know how to speak cruelly. How can you find fault with Rāma, who always speaks with kindness and is ever praised for his virtues? Let the earth collapse, burn, perish, or shatter a thousand times—I will not carry out your dreadful command, O daughter of the Kekaya king, which brings me such harm. Your words are ever sharp as razors; you delight in falsehood, your mind is corrupted, and you bring ruin upon 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 could I have happiness? Without my son, what joy is there, especially for those who love their children as themselves? O lady, do not do me this harm—I touch your feet in supplication, have mercy on me! The lord of the earth, overcome with grief and lamenting like one bereft, was overpowered by the force of the queen’s will. He fell at her outstretched feet, just as a stricken man might collapse. Now, listen to the thirteenth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section. There lay the great king, Daśaratha, in a pitiable state unworthy of him, like Yayāti cast down from heaven at the end of his merit. Kaikeyī, fearless yet perceiving danger, whose desires brought only harm, again demanded the very boon she had sought. “You pride yourself, O king, on being truthful and steadfast in your vows—then why do you hesitate to grant me this boon?” she pressed. Thus addressed by Kaikeyī, King Daśaratha, overwhelmed 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 reproach of the gods 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 once 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 and strong, to dwell in the Daṇḍaka forest? How could I ever witness suffering befall wise Rāma, who is accustomed only to happiness and is unfit for sorrow? If only this transition could occur without causing him pain, then I would find happiness, for Rāma deserves no suffering.” He continued, “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 at all as he grieved without ceasing. “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,” he pleaded. “It is for the sake of that cruel Kaikeyī, the cause of my misfortune, that I must see her,” the king said, his palms joined, addressing Kaikeyī once more. 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 your 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, with wicked intent, hearing her husband’s pitiful and varied lament—though his heart was pure and he wept with coppery tears—remained silent and spoke not a word. Then the king, seeing his beloved wife speak harshly and oppose 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, senseless and writhing on the ground, overcome by grief for his son, Kaikeyī spoke to the descendant of Ikṣvāku: “Having committed this act, why do you lie collapsed on the ground after having pledged your word to me? You ought to remain firm in your resolve. For those who know righteousness declare truth to be the highest dharma; and, relying on truth, I have urged you to act according to righteousness. Having made a promise, King Śibi, lord of the earth, gave his own body to a hawk, and thus attained the highest state.