With a heart full of anguish, King Daśaratha turned to Kaikeyī, his beloved queen, and pleaded, “O gentle one, have compassion on me. Be gracious, and let Rāma receive from you the undiminished kingdom. Grant this favor, for your nature is kind.” He implored her further, “Let Rāma, the dark-eyed prince, obtain the throne. By doing so, you will gain supreme renown. O noble-hipped, lovely-faced lady, grant this wish—it is dear to me, to Rāma, to the people, to the elders, and even to Bharata.” But Kaikeyī, her heart hardened and intent on her own desires, listened to the king’s pitiful words and saw his tears, red and burning with sorrow. Yet, she remained silent, unmoved by his suffering. Unable to bear her harshness and opposition regarding his son’s exile, the king, overwhelmed by grief, lost consciousness again and collapsed to the ground. That night passed in torment for Daśaratha, gasping in anguish. When his attendants tried to rouse him, the best of kings forbade them, unable to face the world in his pain. Thus ends the fourteenth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. As the night wore on, Kaikeyī saw the king—afflicted by grief for his son, senseless, fallen, and writhing upon the ground. She spoke to the descendant of Ikṣvāku, her words cold and unyielding: “Why do you lie collapsed on the ground after having pledged your word to me? You have committed yourself—now you must stand firm in your resolve.” She continued, “Those who know righteousness declare truth to be the highest dharma. It is on truth that I have urged you to act according to righteousness. Remember King Śibi, who once gave his own body to a hawk to keep his promise, and thus attained the highest state. Likewise, the radiant Alarka, though unwilling, gave away his own eyes when asked by a learned brāhmaṇa, steadfast in his word. Even the lord of rivers, bound by truth, does not cross his own shores, keeping his promise.” “Truth alone is eternal; 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 the boon I have asked bear fruit—for you are a bestower of boons, O noble one. For the sake of righteousness, and because I urge you, send Rāma into exile. I say this to you three times: send Rāma away. If you do not fulfill this promise of mine, then, forsaken before your very eyes, I shall abandon my own life.” Kaikeyī’s unwavering insistence bound the king as if in iron chains. He could not escape her demands, just as Bali could not escape the snare of Indra. His heart agitated, his face pale, Daśaratha trembled like a yoked horse caught between the wheels of a chariot. His vision dimmed with sorrow, but mustering his strength, he spoke to Kaikeyī with great difficulty. “The night has passed, O lady, and the sun is about to rise. Surely the people will come to hasten me for Rāma’s consecration. All the materials are prepared for the ceremony. Let Rāma perform the water-rites for me as if I were dead, for if you prevent his consecration, neither you nor your son shall perform them for me, O woman of evil conduct.” He continued, “Today, I cannot bear to see the people. Once I saw their faces shining with happiness, but now, with their joy destroyed, they will turn away in sorrow.” As the great-souled king spoke thus, the auspicious night, adorned with the moon and stars, drew to its end. But Kaikeyī, her heart unmoved, addressed the king again with harsh words, her speech sharp and angry: “Why do you utter these words, O King, as if they were poisoned arrows? Summon your son Rāma here without delay. Install my son Bharata on the throne, send Rāma to the forest, and make me free from rivals—then your duty will be fulfilled.” Urged on by Kaikeyī, Daśaratha felt like a noble horse repeatedly struck by a sharp goad. With his mind bound by righteousness and his spirit broken, he said, “Bound by the ties of dharma, my mind is lost. I wish to see my beloved eldest son Rāma, who is devoted to righteousness.” When the auspicious night had passed, the sun rose, the stars aligned favorably, and the proper moment for the consecration arrived. Vasiṣṭha, the revered sage endowed with virtues, gathered his disciples and the necessary items, and entered the foremost city of Ayodhyā. The city was radiant—its streets were sprinkled and swept, adorned with splendid banners, filled with joyful attendants, prosperous with shops and markets. The people bustled with festival preparations, eager for Rāghava’s sake, and the air was perfumed everywhere with sandalwood, aloe, and incense. Passing through this city, which rivaled Indra’s own, the illustrious Vasiṣṭha saw the inner palace, decked with many banners. The palace was crowded with townspeople and countryfolk, graced by Brahmins holding staffs, filled with fine horses, and highly honored. Vasiṣṭha, greatly pleased and surrounded by eminent sages, made his way through the assembled people. There, at the door of the lion among men, he saw Sumantra, the renowned charioteer and pleasing minister. The mighty Vasiṣṭha addressed him: “Quickly inform the king that I have arrived. Here are pitchers of Ganges water, golden vessels from the seas, and a sacred wooden seat of udumbara brought for the consecration. All kinds of seeds, fragrant substances, various jewels, honey, curds, ghee, parched grains, darbha grass, flowers, and milk are here.” Thus, the stage was set for the momentous events to unfold.