King Daśaratha, overwhelmed by the demands placed upon him, wrestled with his conscience throughout the night. He pondered the painful dilemma before him: if, out of affection for Kaikeyi, he sent his beloved son Rāma into exile in the forest, and declared it to be true, then his own words would become false. The king remembered the great effort he had expended to gain Rāma, mighty and radiant, as his son after years of childlessness. How, then, could he possibly abandon him? Daśaratha’s heart ached as he thought of banishing Rāma, whose lotus eyes shone with virtue, whose valor and learning were unmatched, who conquered anger and was ever devoted to forgiveness. How could he send away Rāma, so pleasing in form, dark as a blue lotus, long-armed and strong, to dwell in the wild Daṇḍaka forest? The king shuddered at the thought of witnessing suffering befall wise Rāma, who had known only happiness and was unfit for sorrow. If only this transition could happen without causing Rāma pain, Daśaratha thought, then he himself would find happiness, for Rāma deserved no suffering. He lamented that unparalleled disgrace would surely befall him in the world as he grieved, his mind bewildered. As the sun set and night arrived, adorned with the moon’s disk, the tormented king passed the hours in agony. The night seemed endless for Daśaratha, who sighed ceaselessly in anguish, unable to find rest. In his desperation, 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 was for the sake of Kaikeyi, the cause of his misfortune, that he must see her. With joined palms, he addressed Kaikeyi, seeking to appease her despite his wretched state 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, 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 Kaikeyi, unmoved and of wicked intent, listened to her husband’s varied and pitiful lament. Though his heart was pure and he wept coppery tears, she spoke not a single word. Seeing his beloved wife speak harshly and oppose him regarding his son’s exile, Daśaratha again lost consciousness and fell to the ground in grief. Thus, for the tormented king, the night passed as he gasped in anguish; when attendants tried to rouse him, the best of kings forbade them. Thus ended the fourteenth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. As dawn approached, Kaikeyi saw the king, afflicted by grief for his son, senseless, fallen to the ground, and writhing. She addressed 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 reminded Daśaratha of noble kings who honored their promises: King Śibi, lord of the earth, who gave his own body to a hawk and attained the highest state; the radiant Alarka, who, 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 boundary, who does not cross his own shore, keeping his promise to truth. “Truth is the one eternal principle,” Kaikeyi continued. “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 urged by Kaikeyi, unwavering in her demand, Daśaratha could not free himself from her bonds, just as Bali could not escape the snare made by Indra. His heart was agitated, his face pale, trembling like a yoked horse between the wheels of a chariot. With his vision impaired, as if unable to see, the king mustered his courage and spoke to Kaikeyi. “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 great-souled king spoke thus, the auspicious night adorned with the moon and stars came to an end. Then Kaikeyi, of wicked conduct, again addressed the king with harsh words, skilled in speech but 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. Install my son on the throne, send Rāma to the forest, and make me free from rivals—then your duty will be fulfilled.