Rāma, whose words were always gentle and never harsh, who knew not how to speak cruelly, was ever praised for his virtues and pleasing speech. How then, could any fault be found with him? Yet, in the palace, a storm raged. King Daśaratha, tormented by Kaikeyī’s dreadful demand, cried out in anguish, “Let the earth collapse, burn, shatter a thousand times—I will not carry out your terrible command, O dust of the Kekaya king, for it only brings me harm!” His heart broken, Daśaratha addressed Kaikeyī, “Your words are sharp as razors, delighting in falsehood, your mind corrupted, bringing ruin to your own family. I cannot bear to live with you, so unlovely, who seek to burn my heart and break all bonds.” Desperate and grief-stricken, Daśaratha pleaded, “I have no life left—how can there be happiness? Without my son, what joy remains for those who love their children as themselves? O lady, do not do me this harm—I touch your feet, have mercy on me.” Overcome by the force of Kaikeyī’s will, the lord of the earth, lamenting like one bereft, fell at her outstretched feet, just as a stricken man might collapse. Thus begins the thirteenth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section. The great king lay there in a state unfit for him, like Yayāti cast down from heaven when his merit was spent. Kaikeyī, fearless yet sensing danger and intent only on her own desire, pressed her claim again. “You boast of being truthful and firm in your vows, O king—then why do you hesitate to grant me my boon?” Addressed so harshly by Kaikeyī, 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? If, out of affection for you, I send Rāma into exile and say it is true, then my truth becomes falsehood. “With 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 the Daṇḍaka forest? How could I ever bear to see 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 find happiness, for Rāma 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; the moon shone, but for the tormented king, that night brought no rest. He sighed in anguish, and the night seemed endless as he grieved without ceasing. Once more, Daśaratha pleaded, “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.” With joined palms, the king addressed Kaikeyī again, seeking to appease her, though he was wretched, devoted, 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, 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 what is dear to me, to Rāma, to the people, to the elders, and to Bharata.” But Kaikeyī, her heart set on her purpose, heard her husband’s pitiful lament, saw his tears, yet spoke not a word. Seeing his beloved wife so harsh and unmoved, Daśaratha lost consciousness again and fell to the ground in grief. Thus, for the tormented king, that night passed in anguish, and when his attendants tried to rouse him, the best of kings forbade them. Thus ends the fourteenth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. As the king lay senseless, fallen and writhing in grief for his son, Kaikeyī spoke to him, “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. Those who know righteousness declare truth to be the highest dharma; and, relying on truth, I have urged you to act according to righteousness. “King Śibi, lord of the earth, having made a promise, gave his own body to a hawk and attained the highest state. Likewise, the radiant Alarka, when asked by a learned brāhmaṇa, gave away his own eyes, though unwilling, yet steadfast. Even the lord of rivers, bound by truth to his small boundary, does not cross his own shore, keeping his promise to truth. “Truth is the one eternal principle; upon truth is righteousness established. The Vedas are imperishable through truth, and by truth the highest is attained. If your mind is set on righteousness, then abide by truth. Let this boon I have asked bear fruit, for you are indeed a bestower of boons, O noble one. For the sake of righteousness, and because I urge you, send Rāma into exile. I tell you this three times.” Thus, the king, torn between his love for his son and his unyielding promise, was left in utter despair, bound by dharma and the cruel demand of fate.