Hear now the thirteenth and fourteenth chapters of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. King Daśaratha, once so mighty and revered, now lay upon the ground in a pitiable state, unbefitting his greatness—like Yayāti, who was cast down from heaven when his merit was spent. By his side stood Kaikeyī, the queen whose wishes had brought only calamity. Though fearless, she sensed the danger of her demands, yet her heart remained resolute. Once more, she pressed for the very boon she had claimed. "King," she said, "you boast of being truthful and unshakable in your vows. Why, then, do you hesitate to grant me this boon?" Stung by her words, Daśaratha, his heart overwhelmed and angered, replied after a moment, his mind clouded with confusion: "When I am dead, and Rāma has gone to the forest, O unworthy one, fulfill your desire and rejoice, having destroyed my enemies. Even in heaven, I shall have to bear the reproach of the gods for Rāma’s sake—how can I endure it? "If, out of affection for you, I send Rāma into exile, and declare it true, then truth itself will be turned to falsehood. Through great effort, though I was once childless, I gained Rāma—mighty, radiant, my very life. How can I abandon him now? 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 has known only happiness and is unfit for sorrow? If only this could be done without causing him pain, then I might find some peace—for Rāma deserves no suffering. But certainly, unparalleled disgrace will befall me in this world, as I lament in confusion." The sun set, and night arrived—adorned with the moon’s disk. But for the tormented king, that night passed in ceaseless anguish. He sighed and grieved, unable to find rest, the hours dragging endlessly. In his misery, Daśaratha pleaded, "Show me compassion, O gentle one; I beg you with joined hands. Otherwise, go away—I do not wish to see one so merciless. It is only for the sake of that cruel Kaikeyī, the cause of my misfortune, that I behold her at all." With folded hands, he implored her again. Knowing royal duty, the king—though wretched, of good conduct, devoted to her, and his life nearly spent—sought to appease Kaikeyī once more. "Show favor, O gentle lady, especially to your king. I have not spoken these words 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, her heart hardened, heard her husband's pitiful lament—the tears in his pure heart, the sorrow in his voice—but she spoke not a word. Seeing his beloved wife so unyielding and harsh, opposed to him regarding his son’s exile, the king again lost consciousness and fell to the ground, overcome by grief. Thus, for the tormented Daśaratha, that night passed in anguish; when attendants tried to rouse him, the best of kings forbade them, wishing only to remain in his sorrow. When morning came, the fourteenth chapter began. Kaikeyī, seeing the king afflicted by grief for his son, senseless and writhing on the ground, spoke to the descendant of Ikṣvāku: "Having committed this act, why do you lie collapsed, 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; relying on truth, I have urged you to act righteously. "Did not King Śibi, lord of the earth, keep his promise and give his own body to a hawk, thereby attaining the highest state? Did not the radiant Alarka, though unwilling, give away his own eyes to a learned brāhmaṇa, steadfast in his vow? Even the lord of rivers, bound by truth to his small boundary, does not cross his 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. If you, O noble one, do not fulfill this promise of mine, then, forsaken before your eyes, I will abandon my own life." Thus pressed by Kaikeyī, unwavering in her demand, the king could not free himself from her bonds, just as Bali could not escape the snare of Indra. His heart was agitated, his face turned pale, and he trembled like a yoked horse caught between the wheels of a chariot. His eyes clouded, as if unable to see, the king, mustering his courage with difficulty, spoke to Kaikeyī: "The night has passed, O lady, and the sun is about to rise. Surely the people will hasten me for the consecration." Thus ends the fourteenth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa.