Tormented by the fate that had befallen him, King Daśaratha’s heart was wracked with sorrow. He thought, “Even in heaven, I will have to endure the reproach of the gods because of Rāma—how shall I bear such shame?” The king’s mind churned with anguish as he reflected, “If, out of affection for Kaikeyī, I send Rāma into exile in the forest, and I claim this to be true, then my word itself will become false. Through great effort, though I was once childless, I gained the mighty and radiant Rāma as my son; how, then, can I abandon him now?” He gazed inwardly at his beloved son, asking himself, “How can I banish Rāma, lotus-eyed, valiant, learned, conqueror of anger, ever devoted to forgiveness, by my own hand? How can I send away Rāma, so pleasing, dark as a blue lotus, long-armed and of great strength, to dwell in the wilds of the Daṇḍaka forest?” Daśaratha’s grief deepened as he wondered, “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 happiness—for Rāma deserves no suffering.” His mind, bewildered and lost, Daśaratha lamented, “Certainly, unparalleled disgrace will befall me in the world, as I grieve in this way.” The sun set, and night arrived, its darkness adorned with the moon’s disk, but for the tormented king, that night seemed endless. Sighing in anguish, Daśaratha could find no rest, grieving ceaselessly as the hours crawled by. Desperate and broken, he 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 was for the sake of Kaikeyī, the cause of his misfortune, that he now stood before her. With joined palms and a heart full of sorrow, the king addressed his wife, “Knowing royal duty, I again seek to appease you, Kaikeyī, though I am wretched, of good conduct, devoted to you, and my 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, her heart hardened and intent wicked, listened to her husband’s pitiful lament—his heart pure, his tears coppery with grief—and spoke not a word. Seeing his beloved wife unmoved and opposed to him regarding his son’s exile, the king, overwhelmed by grief, lost consciousness and fell to the ground. Thus, for the tormented king, the night passed as he gasped in anguish, and when his attendants tried to rouse him, he forbade them. Thus ends the fourteenth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. As dawn broke, Kaikeyī beheld the king, still stricken with grief for his son, lying senseless and writhing upon the ground. She spoke harshly to the descendant of Ikṣvāku: “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. 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.” She continued, “Having made a promise, King Śibi, lord of the earth, 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 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.” Kaikeyī pressed her demand, “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 the unwavering Kaikeyī, the king found himself utterly unable to escape her bonds, just as Bali could not escape the snare made by Indra. His heart agitated and his face pale, he was like a yoked horse trembling between the wheels of a chariot. With his vision dimmed, as though unable to see, the king, mustering his courage with great 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. 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 thus, the auspicious night adorned with the moon and stars came to an end. Then Kaikeyī, her conduct wicked and her words harsh, addressed the king once more, her speech skilled but her heart overcome by anger. “Why do you speak these words, O King, as if they were poisoned arrows? You should summon your son Rāma here without delay.