King Daśaratha sat in his chamber, his heart torn and anguished, tormented by the dreadful task that lay before him. How could he possibly send away his beloved Rāma—so pleasing in every way, dark as a blue lotus, long-armed and mighty—to dwell in the wilds of the Daṇḍaka forest? The very thought of wise Rāma, who had known only happiness and was unfit for sorrow, enduring suffering was unbearable to the king. “If only this transition could occur without causing him pain,” Daśaratha lamented to himself, “then I would find some happiness, for Rāma, who deserves only joy, should never have to suffer.” Yet, Daśaratha knew that unparalleled disgrace would befall him in the eyes of the world as he mourned in this way, his mind bewildered and lost. As the sun set and night descended, its darkness adorned by the moon’s gentle disk, the king found no rest. The hours dragged on for Daśaratha, who sighed ceaselessly in anguish, the night seeming endless as he grieved for his son. Desperate and broken, Daśaratha pleaded, “Show me compassion, O gentle one,” his hands joined in supplication. “Otherwise, go from me at once—I cannot bear to see one so merciless.” The king’s words were directed at Kaikeyī, whose cruel demands had brought him to this state of misery. Still, for her sake, he forced himself to see her, though it was she who had caused his misfortune. Bowing to her, he tried once more to soften her heart. Knowing well the duties of a king, Daśaratha, though wretched and his life nearly spent, sought to appease Kaikeyī. “Show favor, O gentle lady, especially to your king,” he begged. “I have not spoken these words to you in vain, O fair-hipped one. Grant me your gracious favor, for you are compassionate; be pleased, lady, and let Rāma receive from you the undiminished kingdom. Let Rāma, dark-eyed and noble, obtain the throne; 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, her heart hardened and intent on her own purpose, heard her husband’s pitiful lament—his heart pure, his eyes red with tears—and did not utter a single word in reply. The king, seeing his beloved wife remain harsh and opposed to him regarding his son’s exile, was overcome. He lost consciousness and fell to the ground in grief. Thus, the tormented king passed that night, gasping in anguish, and when his attendants tried to rouse him, he forbade them. The night wore on, and with its passing, the fourteenth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa drew to a close. With dawn, Kaikeyī approached the king, who lay senseless and writhing on the ground, overwhelmed by grief for his son. She spoke to the descendant of Ikṣvāku, “Having committed this wrongful act, why do you 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, and relying on truth, I have urged you to act according to righteousness.” She reminded him of the great King Śibi, 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 own shore, keeping his promise to truth. “Truth is the one eternal principle,” Kaikeyī pressed on. “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 urged by Kaikeyī, unwavering in her demand, the king found himself utterly trapped, unable to free himself from her bonds, just as Bali could not escape the snare made by Indra. His heart agitated, his face pale, Daśaratha resembled a yoked horse trembling between the wheels of a chariot. His eyes dimmed as if he could not see, and mustering his courage with great difficulty, he spoke to Kaikeyī. “The night has passed, O lady, and the sun is about to rise; surely the people will 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 dead. You, together with your son, must not perform the water-rites for me, if you obstruct Rāma’s consecration, O woman of evil conduct. Today I am unable to see the people, having once seen their faces so joyful; now, with their happiness destroyed, they will turn away in sorrow.” As Daśaratha spoke thus, the auspicious night adorned with the moon and stars came to an end. But Kaikeyī, her heart unmoved, again addressed the king with harsh words, skilled in speech but overcome by anger. “Why do you speak these 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 by Kaikeyī like a noble horse repeatedly struck by a sharp goad, Daśaratha, bound by the ties of righteousness and his mind lost, replied, “I wish to see my beloved eldest son Rāma, who is ever devoted to dharma.” And so, when the auspicious night had passed, the sun had risen, the stars were in a favorable conjunction, and the proper moment had arrived. The king, broken by grief and bound by his promise, prepared to summon Rāma, his heart heavy with sorrow and love.