With his heart overwhelmed by grief, King Daśaratha turned to Kaikeyi, his voice trembling, hands joined in desperate supplication. “Show me compassion, O gentle one,” he pleaded. “I beg you with folded hands—if you cannot, then leave me at once. I do not wish to see one so merciless.” The king’s anguish was clear: it was only for the sake of Kaikeyi, the source of his suffering, that he forced himself to face her. Thus, with joined palms, he addressed her, hoping to move her heart. Though Daśaratha was wretched and his life seemed nearly spent, his devotion to Kaikeyi and his sense of royal duty remained unshaken. Again, he tried to appease her. “Show favor, O gentle lady, especially to your king,” he implored. “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.” He continued, “Let Rāma, dark-eyed and noble, obtain the kingdom. By this, you will gain supreme renown. O noble-hipped, lovely-faced one, grant this which is dear to me, to Rāma, to the people, to the elders, and to Bharata as well.” But Kaikeyi, her heart hardened by her own resolve, listened to her husband’s pitiful and varied lament. Though his tears fell like copper, and his heart was pure, she uttered not a single word in response. Seeing his beloved wife unmoved, speaking harshly and opposed to him regarding Rāma’s exile, the king’s spirit broke once more. Overcome by grief, Daśaratha lost consciousness and collapsed to the ground. Thus the tormented king spent the night, gasping in anguish, refusing to be roused by those who attended him. Thus ended the fourteenth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. As the night wore on, Kaikeyi looked upon the king, who lay senseless and writhing on the ground, overcome by sorrow for his son. She spoke to the descendant of Ikṣvāku, her words sharp and unyielding. “Having committed this wrongful act, why do you now 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. 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 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 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 Kaikeyi, unwavering in her demand, Daśaratha found himself utterly bound, unable to escape her words—just as Bali could not escape the snare set by Indra. Agitated and pale-faced, he trembled like a yoked horse between the wheels of a chariot. His vision clouded, he struggled to gather his courage and at last spoke to Kaikeyi. “The night has passed, O lady, and the sun is about to rise. Surely the people will soon come to 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 already dead. You, together with your son, must not perform these water-rites for me if you obstruct Rāma’s consecration, O woman of evil conduct. Today, I cannot bear to see the people—those whose faces once shone with joy will now, their happiness destroyed, turn away from me in sorrow.” As the great-souled king spoke thus, the auspicious night adorned with the moon and stars came to an end. Yet Kaikeyi, her conduct harsh and heart unmoved, addressed the king again, her words sharp and skilled, but fueled by anger. “Why do you speak such 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.” Urged on relentlessly, like a noble horse struck by a sharp goad, the king replied, his mind bound by righteousness but lost in sorrow. “My heart is in turmoil. I wish to see my beloved eldest son Rāma, who is ever devoted to dharma.” As the night ended and the sun rose, the stars favorably aligned, and the proper moment arrived. Vasiṣṭha, the virtuous sage, surrounded by his disciples, quickly gathered all the necessary items and entered the foremost city. He passed through Ayodhyā, whose streets had been swept and sprinkled, adorned with splendid banners, bustling with joyful attendants, and prosperous with shops and markets. The city was alive with festival preparations, eager for Rāghava’s sake, and everywhere perfumed with sandalwood, aloe, and incense. Passing through this city—radiant as the city of Indra himself—the illustrious Vasiṣṭha came to the inner palace, adorned with many banners, crowded with townspeople and countryfolk, graced by Brahmins with staffs, filled with fine horses, and highly honored. Reaching the inner palace, Vasiṣṭha, greatly pleased and surrounded by eminent sages, passed through the assembled people, ready to fulfill his sacred duty.