Daśaratha, the great king of Ayodhyā, found himself in utter despair, his heart torn by the unrelenting demands of his queen, Kaikeyī. With words as sharp as razors, Kaikeyī spoke with a mind corrupted, delighting in falsehood and heedless of the ruin she brought upon her own family. Daśaratha, wounded to his very core, cried out that he could no longer bear to live with her, so unlovely and intent on burning away all bonds of love and kinship. Grief-stricken, Daśaratha lamented that he had no life left within him—how, then, could he find happiness? Without his beloved son, what joy could remain for a father who cherished his child as his own self? In his agony, he pleaded with Kaikeyī, humbling himself at her feet, begging her not to inflict such harm upon him and to have mercy. Overcome by sorrow, Daśaratha, lord of the earth, collapsed at the queen’s outstretched feet, as though struck down by an overwhelming force, lamenting like one bereft. He lay there, a mighty king in a state unfit for his stature, resembling Yayāti, cast down from heaven at the end of his merit. Kaikeyī, unafraid yet aware of the danger she courted, again demanded the very boon she had asked for, her heart set only on her own wishes, heedless of the harm they brought. She challenged the king, questioning his reputation for truthfulness and steadfastness. “You boast of being true to your word, O king—then why do you hesitate to grant me this boon?” Thus pressed, Daśaratha, overcome and angered, replied after a moment’s bewilderment. He declared that when he was dead and Rāma had been sent to the forest, Kaikeyī could fulfill her desire and be happy, having destroyed his enemies. Even in heaven, he said, he would have to endure the gods’ reproach for Rāma’s sake—how could he bear such disgrace? He agonized that if, out of affection for Kaikeyī, he sent Rāma into exile, his own truthfulness would become a lie. Through great effort, though once childless, he had gained the mighty and radiant Rāma as his son—how, then, could he abandon him? How could he banish Rāma, lotus-eyed, valiant, learned, a conqueror of anger and 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 bear to witness suffering befall wise Rāma, who had known only happiness and was unfit for sorrow? If only this transition could occur without causing Rāma pain, then Daśaratha would find happiness, for Rāma deserved no suffering. The king’s mind was bewildered with grief, and he lamented that unparalleled disgrace would befall him in the world for his actions. As the sun set and night arrived, adorned with the moon’s disk, the tormented king found no rest. The night stretched endlessly for Daśaratha, who sighed in anguish and grieved ceaselessly for his son. In his pain, Daśaratha again pleaded with Kaikeyī, his hands joined in supplication. “Show me compassion, O gentle one. Otherwise, go away at once—I do not wish to see one so merciless.” He recognized that his misfortune was due to Kaikeyī, and, with joined palms, addressed her once more, seeking her favor. He reminded her of royal duty and, though wretched and near the end of his life, tried to appease her with gentle words, urging her to show kindness to the king and grant Rāma the undiminished kingdom. He pleaded for her gracious favor, reminding her of her compassion, and begged her to let Rāma receive the kingdom. “Let Rāma, dark-eyed, obtain the throne; 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, remained unmoved. Hearing her husband’s varied and pitiful lament, though his heart was pure and he wept with coppery tears, she spoke not a word. Seeing his beloved wife so harsh and opposed to him regarding his son’s exile, Daśaratha again lost consciousness and fell to the ground in grief. Thus, the tormented king passed the night in anguish, and when attendants tried to rouse him, he forbade them, lost in his sorrow. As dawn came, Daśaratha, still afflicted and senseless, lay fallen to the ground, writhing in his grief for Rāma. Kaikeyī spoke to him, questioning why, after having pledged his word, he now lay collapsed, urging him to remain firm in his resolve. She reminded him that truth is the highest dharma, and that she had urged him to act according to righteousness, relying on truth. She cited the example of King Śibi, who, having made a promise, gave his own body to a hawk and thus 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, does not cross his own shore, keeping his promise to truth. She declared that truth is the one eternal principle, upon which righteousness is established; the Vedas are imperishable through truth, and by truth the highest is attained. “If your mind is set on righteousness,” she said, “then abide by truth. Let this boon I have asked bear fruit, for you are indeed a bestower of boons, O noble one.” Kaikeyī pressed him relentlessly: “For the sake of righteousness, and because I urge you, send Rāma into exile. I tell you this three times. If you, O noble one, do not fulfill this promise of mine, then, forsaken before your eyes, I will abandon my own life.” Thus, urged by Kaikeyī, who was unwavering, Daśaratha found himself utterly bound by her demands, unable to free himself from her bonds, just as Bali could not escape the snare made by Indra.