Throughout the long night, King Daśaratha lay restless and anguished, sighing continuously as grief tormented his heart. The darkness seemed endless, for sorrow refused to grant him any respite. In his despair, he pleaded with Kaikeyi, his voice trembling, “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.” The king’s suffering was not for himself, but for the sake of Kaikeyi, whose actions had become the source of his misfortune. Still, with joined palms, he addressed her, compelled by duty and love. Despite his wretched state, Daśaratha, who understood royal duty, tried again to appease Kaikeyi. Though his conduct was noble and he had always been devoted to her, his life now seemed nearly spent. He implored, “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.” He continued, “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.” Yet Kaikeyi, her heart hardened and intent wicked, listened to her husband’s pitiful and varied lament. Though his heart was pure and he wept tears as red as copper, she remained silent, unmoved by his suffering. Seeing his beloved wife speak so harshly, opposing him about his son’s exile, Daśaratha was overcome by grief. He lost consciousness and collapsed to the ground. The tormented king gasped through the night, and when attendants tried to rouse him, he forbade them. Thus, the night passed for Daśaratha in anguish. When dawn broke, Kaikeyi, seeing the king fallen and senseless with grief for his son, addressed the descendant of Ikṣvāku. “Having committed this wrongful act, why do you lie collapsed on the ground after pledging your word to me? You ought to remain firm in your resolve. 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 him of noble examples: “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.” Kaikeyi’s words pressed the king: “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 urged by Kaikeyi, unwavering in her demand, Daśaratha could not free himself from her bonds, just as Bali could not escape Indra’s snare. His heart was agitated, his face pale, and he trembled like a yoked horse caught between the wheels of a chariot. With his vision dimmed, struggling to muster courage, the king 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.” He lamented, “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 moon and stars came to an end. Kaikeyi, her conduct still wicked, addressed the king with harsh words, her anger overcoming her skill in speech. “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.” Like a noble horse repeatedly struck by a sharp goad, Daśaratha, urged on by Kaikeyi, spoke, “Bound by the ties of righteousness, my mind is lost; I wish to see my beloved eldest son Rāma, who is devoted to dharma.” When the auspicious night had passed and the sun had risen, with the stars in favorable conjunction and the proper moment arrived, Vasiṣṭha, endowed with virtues and surrounded by his disciples, quickly gathered the necessary items and entered the foremost city. He entered Ayodhyā, whose streets were sprinkled and swept, adorned with splendid banners, filled with joyful attendants, and prosperous with shops and markets. The city was alive with festival preparations, eager for Rāghava’s sake, and perfumed everywhere with sandalwood, aloe, and incense. Passing through this city, which rivaled Indra’s own, the illustrious Vasiṣṭha saw the inner palace adorned with many kinds of banners. The palace was crowded with townspeople and countryfolk, graced by Brahmins holding staffs, filled with fine horses, and highly honored. Thus ends the fourteenth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa.