King Daśaratha, his heart shattered, cried out in agony to Kaikeyī, "Let the earth collapse, burn, perish, or shatter a thousand times over—I will never carry out your dreadful command, O dust of the Kekaya king, for it brings me only harm." Overwhelmed by grief and anger, he rebuked her, "You, whose words are ever sharp as razors, who delight in falsehood, whose mind is corrupted, who bring ruin to your own family—I cannot bear to live with you, so unlovely, who seek to burn my heart and sever all bonds." With tears streaming down his face, Daśaratha pleaded, "I have no life left—how then could I have happiness? Without my son, what joy is there for those who love their children as themselves? O lady, do not do me this harm—I touch your feet, have mercy on me." Consumed by sorrow, the lord of the earth, lamenting like one bereft, was seized in his heart by the overwhelming force of the woman’s will; he fell at the queen’s outstretched feet, just as a stricken man might collapse. Now begins the thirteenth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section. There the great king lay, in a state most unbefitting, like Yayāti cast down from heaven at the end of his merit. Kaikeyī, fearless yet sensing danger, whose wishes brought only harm, again demanded the very boon she had sought. "You boast, O king, of being truthful and firm in your vows—then why do you hesitate to grant me this boon?" Thus pressed by Kaikeyī, King Daśaratha, overcome and angered, replied after a moment, as if bewildered, "When I am dead and Rāma has gone to the forest, O unworthy one, fulfill your desire and be happy, having destroyed my enemies. Even in heaven, I will have to endure the gods’ reproach for Rāma’s sake—how shall I bear it, alas? If, out of affection for Kaikeyī, I send Rāma into exile in the forest, and I say this is true, then it will become untrue. Through great effort, though I was childless, I gained the mighty and radiant Rāma as my son; how then can I abandon him? How can I banish Rāma, lotus-eyed, valiant, learned, conqueror of anger, devoted to forgiveness, by my own hand? How can I send away Rāma, so pleasing, dark as a blue lotus, long-armed, of great strength, to dwell in Daṇḍaka forest? How could I ever witness suffering befall wise Rāma, who is accustomed only to happiness and unfit for sorrow? If only this transition could occur without causing him pain, then I would attain happiness, for Rāma, who deserves no suffering." Daśaratha lamented, "Certainly, unparalleled disgrace will befall me in the world, as I lament in this way, my mind bewildered." As the sun set and night arrived, that night, adorned with the moon's disk, passed for the tormented king. For Daśaratha, who kept sighing in anguish, the night did not seem to pass as he grieved ceaselessly. In his despair, Daśaratha pleaded again, "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. It is for the sake of that cruel Kaikeyī, the cause of my misfortune, that I must see her." Having spoken thus, the king, with joined palms, addressed Kaikeyī. Knowing royal duty, the king again sought to appease her, though he was wretched, a man of good conduct, devoted to her, and his life nearly spent. "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. 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." But Kaikeyī, of wicked intent, hearing her husband's varied and pitiful lament, though his heart was pure and he wept with coppery tears, spoke not a word. Then the king, seeing his beloved wife speak harshly and oppose him regarding his son's exile, again lost consciousness and fell to the ground in grief. Thus, for the tormented king, that night passed as he gasped in anguish; and when the attendants tried to rouse him, the best of kings forbade them. Thus ends the fourteenth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. As the king lay senseless, fallen to the ground and writhing in his grief for his son, Kaikeyī spoke these words to the descendant of Ikṣvāku: "Having committed this wrongful act, why do you lie collapsed on the ground, after having pledged your word to me? You ought to remain firm in your resolve. For 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 continued, reminding him of ancient 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. 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." Kaikeyī pressed her demand, "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, the night passed with Daśaratha tormented by Kaikeyī’s unyielding words, torn between his love for Rāma and his duty to keep his word.