With gentle resolve, Rāma spoke to his father, King Daśaratha, “Let Bharata rule over this land, with its mountains, cities, and sacred groves, which I have willingly relinquished. Let him govern well within its auspicious borders. Whatever you have commanded, O King, so let it be.” Rāma’s heart was not drawn to the pleasures of the world, nor even to what was dearest to him; above all, he cherished the fulfillment of his father’s word, held sacred by the noble. “May your sorrow on my account depart, O faultless one,” he said, his voice full of filial devotion. He continued, “Therefore, today I do not desire the imperishable kingdom, nor the earth with all its enjoyments, nor even Maithilī herself. I would not choose anything by binding you to falsehood; let truth be your vow.” Rāma expressed his contentment with the simple life that awaited him: “Living in the forest, eating fruits and roots, seeing the mountains, rivers, and lakes, entering the forest with its wondrous trees—I shall be happy; may you, my father, find peace.” Overwhelmed by calamity and pain, King Daśaratha embraced his beloved son, but his grief was too great to bear. He lost consciousness, fell to the ground, and lay motionless. At this sight, all the assembled queens wept—save for Kaikeyī. Sumantra, the loyal charioteer, overcome with grief, also fell into a faint, and throughout the palace arose cries of lamentation. Then, as the thirty-fifth sarga unfolds, Sumantra, shaking his head and sighing deeply, ground his hand in his palm and gnashed his teeth in anguish. His eyes, bloodshot with anger, lost their usual serenity; he was seized by a terrible distress. Observing the king’s agony, Sumantra addressed Kaikeyī with words as sharp as arrows, words that pierced her heart. With thunderous speech, harsh and unmatched, Sumantra rebuked Kaikeyī: “You, for whom King Daśaratha has abandoned his own wife—he who is the lord of all the world, both moving and unmoving—there is no act here more grievous than yours. I consider you a husband-slayer, and ultimately, a destroyer of your lineage. By your deeds, you torment one who is like Indra, unconquerable; like a mountain, unshakable; like the great ocean, unperturbed.” He admonished her further, “Do not look down upon King Daśaratha, your husband and benefactor; for a husband’s wish is for women more important than even a hundred million sons. Just as, upon the king’s death, kingdoms pass according to age, so you wish to deprive the lord of the Ikshvaku line of his due.” Bitterly, Sumantra continued, “Let your son Bharata become king and rule the earth; we will go wherever Rāma goes. No Brahmin should dwell in your realm; today you are about to commit such an unrighteous act. Surely, we will all follow the path that Rāma takes, abandoned by all relatives, Brahmins, and the virtuous. What joy will you, O Queen, find in gaining the kingdom, when you are intent on committing such a disgraceful deed? I see it as a wonder that the earth does not split open at once for one whose conduct is like yours.” He marveled, “Even the terrible, blazing, awe-inspiring rods of the great Brahmarshis, created for cursing, do not harm one who stands firm on sending Rāma to exile. Who, after cutting down a mango tree with an axe, would tend a neem tree? Even if watered with milk, it will not become sweet. I think your lineage is just like your mother’s; for it is said in the world that honey does not flow from a neem tree.” Sumantra recalled, “We know, as heard before, of your mother’s evil nature. Some benefactor once granted your father an excellent boon—the ability to understand the speech of all beings, including animals. Then, while lying on the bed of Jṛmbha, your father heard the sounds of many creatures and laughed repeatedly. There, your mother, angered and desiring the noose of death, said to your father, ‘Tell me, I wish to know the reason for your laughter.’ The king replied, ‘O Queen, if I reveal to you the reason for my laughter, then I will die at once—of this there is no doubt.’ Yet your mother insisted, ‘Tell me, whether you live or die, you must not deceive me.’ Thus addressed by his beloved, the king of Kekaya spoke to him truthfully about granting that boon. Then that boon-giver replied to the king, ‘Let this not be spoken of, O lord of the earth, whether it leads to death or destruction.’ Hearing those words, the king, his mind pleased, at once dismissed your mother and enjoyed himself like Kubera.” “In the same way, you too, on a path followed by the wicked, out of delusion, are seizing this false resolve, O you who see evil. And here, this common saying appears true to me: ‘Men follow after their fathers, women after their mothers.’ Do not act thus; accept what the lord of the earth has said. Attend to your husband’s wishes here, and be the refuge of these people. Do not, urged by sinful people, cause your husband—equal to the king of the gods, the sustainer of the world—to take up unrighteousness.” Sumantra concluded, “For your sinless husband, the illustrious king Daśaratha, lotus-eyed, will not carry out a promise made falsely, O queen. Let Rāma, the eldest, generous, accomplished, and protector even of his own duty and of all living beings, be consecrated as king. For, O queen, a great reproach will spread about you in the world if Rāma goes to the forest, abandoning his royal father.” Thus, in the hall of sorrow, amidst tears and righteous outrage, the fate of Ayodhyā hung in the balance.