Tormented by grief and despair, King Daśaratha gazed at Kaikeyī and spoke with a trembling voice, “When I am gone from this world and Rāma has been exiled to the forest, O unworthy one, perhaps then you will rejoice, your desires fulfilled, having destroyed those you see as your enemies. But even if I should ascend to heaven, I will have to bear the reproach of the gods for what I have done to Rāma—how shall I endure such shame, alas?” He lamented further, “If, out of affection for you, Kaikeyī, I send Rāma into exile in the forest, and I say that this is truth, then my word itself will become false. Through great effort, though I was once childless, I gained mighty and radiant Rāma as my son. How, then, can I abandon him now? How could I, with my own hands, banish Rāma—he of lotus eyes, valiant, learned, a conqueror of anger, devoted to forgiveness? How could I send away Rāma, so pleasing, dark as a blue lotus, long-armed and strong, to dwell in the Daṇḍaka forest?” The king’s sorrow deepened as he continued, “How could I ever witness suffering befall wise Rāma, who has known only happiness, and is unfit for sorrow? If only this transition could occur without causing him pain, then I would find some happiness, for Rāma deserves no suffering. But certainly, unparalleled disgrace will befall me in this world, as I lament in this way, my mind bewildered.” As the sun set and night arrived, the moon’s disk adorned the heavens, but for the tormented king, that night seemed endless. He sighed in anguish, unable to find rest, and grieved ceaselessly. The night did not pass for Daśaratha, and he forbade those who tried to rouse him from his sorrow. At last, with hands joined in supplication, Daśaratha pleaded, “Show me compassion, O gentle one. Otherwise, go away at once—I do not wish to see one so merciless.” He spoke thus, forced by misfortune to address Kaikeyī, whom he now saw as the cause of his suffering. Yet, though his heart was pure and he wept with coppery tears, the king, knowing royal duty and devoted to Kaikeyī, tried once more to appease her. “Show favor, O gentle lady, especially to your husband. 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, and 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, whose heart was set on her own will, listened to her husband’s pitiful and varied laments, yet remained silent. She did not speak a word, unmoved by his tears or his suffering. When Daśaratha saw his beloved wife so harsh and opposed to him regarding his son’s exile, grief overwhelmed him. He lost consciousness and fell to the ground, tormented by sorrow. Thus, for the suffering king, that night passed as he gasped in anguish, refusing all attempts to rouse him. So ended the fourteenth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. At dawn, Kaikeyī saw the king, senseless from grief for his son, collapsed and writhing on the ground. She spoke to the descendant of Ikṣvāku, her words sharp and unyielding: “Having committed this wrongful 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; relying on truth, I have urged you to act according to righteousness. Remember King Śibi, lord of the earth, who, 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.” She pressed him further, “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 urged by Kaikeyī, who was unwavering, the king found himself utterly bound by her words, unable to escape, just as Bali was ensnared by Indra. His heart was agitated, his face pale, and he trembled like a yoked horse between the wheels of a chariot. His eyes dimmed, as if unable to see, and with great effort he summoned his courage to speak to Kaikeyī once more. “The night has passed, O lady, and the sun is about to rise; surely the people will hasten me for the consecration. With all the materials prepared for Rāma’s consecration, let Rāma perform the water-rites for me as if I were dead. You, together with your son, must not perform the water-rites for me, if you obstruct Rāma’s consecration, O woman of evil conduct. Today I am unable to see the people, having once seen their faces so joyful; now, with their happiness destroyed, they will turn away in sorrow.” As the king spoke these words, the auspicious night adorned with the moon and stars came to an end. But Kaikeyī, unmoved and resolute in her purpose, addressed the king yet again with harsh words, her speech skilled but her heart hardened by anger.