Upon encountering you, my mother, my father—the great and illustrious King Dasharatha, steadfast in truth—was consumed by overwhelming grief and perished. That righteous king, devoted to dharma, has been destroyed. Why, then, was Rama exiled? For what reason did he have to go to the forest? How could Kausalya and Sumitra, both overwhelmed by sorrow for their sons, possibly survive after facing you? Rama, noble by nature and ever righteous, always treated you with the utmost respect, as a devoted son should his mother. Likewise, my eldest mother, Kausalya—wise and far-seeing—has always conducted herself toward you with righteousness, as one would toward a dear sister. Yet, after sending her son—self-controlled and clad in bark and deer skin—into the forest, how is it, O sinful one, that you do not grieve? You have exiled one who is blameless, heroic, self-mastered, and renowned—one who now wears garments of bark. What reason could you possibly see for this? Surely, I have long known your greed regarding Raghava; for the sake of the kingdom, you have brought about this terrible calamity. Now, deprived of Rama and Lakshmana, those tigers among men, how could I possibly hope to protect the kingdom? By what power or strength could I even attempt it? The mighty king always relied on Rama, the powerful and righteous one, just as Mount Meru depends on its forests. How could I, so weak, bear this heavy burden, like a feeble animal yoked to a great load? With what strength could I endure it? Even if I possessed the power of asceticism or the strength of intellect, I would never fulfill your desires, greedy as you are for a son. I would never wish to abandon you, wicked though you may be, if only Rama would always regard you as his mother. But how did such a cruel thought arise in you, O wicked one—fallen from good conduct and condemned by our ancestors? In our lineage, it has always been the custom that the eldest son is consecrated as king, and the other brothers, with focused minds, serve under his direction. Truly, I do not see justice in you, nor do you uphold royal duty or understand the enduring path of royal conduct. In royal tradition, the eldest is always crowned king; this is the established custom among kings, especially among the Ikshvakus. Among those devoted solely to righteousness and the customs of their lineage, all pride in their conduct has vanished upon encountering you. Though you are descended from the most illustrious kings, how has this blameworthy delusion arisen in you, clouding your judgment? But I will not carry out your wicked desire, for you are set on evil and have begun a calamity that brings death to me. Now, for your sake, I will do this unpleasant deed: I will bring back from the forest my brother, so dear to our family. After bringing back Rama, I, with a steadfast heart, will become his devoted servant, shining with inner strength. Thus, having spoken in this way, the great-souled Bharata, though overwhelmed by grief, wounded his mother with harsh words, roaring again like a lion in a mountain cave. Seized by great anger, Bharata again addressed his mother: “Be deprived of the kingdom, Kaikeyi—cruel one, doer of evil deeds! Abandoned by righteousness, do not die weeping. What wrong did the king or Rama, who is truly righteous, ever do to you, that through your actions both death and exile have come upon them equally? By destroying this family, you have incurred the guilt of killing an unborn child. Kaikeyi, go to hell and do not attain your husband’s world. By this terrible deed you have committed, you have abandoned one beloved by all the worlds and brought fear even to me. Because of you, my father has died and Rama has taken refuge in the forest; you have brought disgrace upon me in the world of the living. You, who appear as my mother but are truly my enemy—cruel one, greedy for the kingdom—I will not speak with you, evil-doer, destroyer of your husband. Kausalya, Sumitra, and my other mothers, afflicted with great sorrow, have suffered because of you, the defiler of our lineage. You are not the daughter of the wise and righteous king, the lord of the horse-sacrifice; you are a demoness, born to destroy your father’s line. Because of you, Rama—steadfast in righteousness and ever devoted to truth—was sent to the forest in sorrow, and our father departed to the heavenly realm. It is for this sinful act that you are now the chief, abandoned by me and fatherless, rejected by your brothers, and despised by the whole world. Having separated Kausalya, who is joined to righteousness, from her son, and being determined on evil, to what world will you go today, you who are bound for hell? Cruel one, do you not realize that the eldest son, Rama—equal to a father and born of Kausalya—is the natural refuge of the family? A son, born from the very limbs and heart of his mother, is dearer to her than any relative, not merely because of kinship. Once, it is said, the righteous Surabhi, honored by the gods, saw her two sons on the earth, exhausted and senseless. Seeing her two sons, weary at midday and lying on the ground, she wept with eyes filled with tears, overcome by grief for her children.