Despite the flood of arguments and counterarguments that sought to dissuade him, the king, holding onto a fragile strand of hope, addressed the queen with a plea mingled with earnest advice, cautious warnings, and subtle threats aimed at awakening her latent conscience. He believed, perhaps desperately, that such an appeal might untangle the intricate knot of fate and avert impending catastrophe.
“O Queen! Who guided you to demand that Bharata be crowned while banishing Rama to the wilderness, all under the guise of a boon? Whom do you fear, and what danger shadows you? If you indeed seek the well-being of your husband, sons, and the continuity of power, abandon this grievous request and align yourself with the noble will of the people. Your imagination, plagued by shadows of doubt, sees flaws and perils where there are none—especially in your husband and sons.
You, beloved above all, should heed this: Bharata treasures virtue above all else and will not seize power unrightfully. I know his heart and soul, for he holds loyalty and brotherly love as his highest creed. He will surely reject this undeserved elevation. My mind is aware that, despite your arguments that hold me bound by my word, Bharata’s unwavering integrity will refuse to comply with such dishonour.
How can I, who once vowed to guide and protect, command my noble son, Rama, to embrace the life of an ascetic, abandoning princely comforts for the harsh wilderness? How could I face the full-moon countenance of Rama, now eclipsed by sorrow? When I sought counsel, every prince, noble, and sage gathered in Ayodhya endorsed Rama’s coronation. Will they not ask in astonishment how such a king, now broken and feeble, ruled over them for years? Shall the legacy of the Ikshvaku lineage be tainted by this ignominy?
When questioned by the wise sages and venerable teachers as to why I, in haste, revoked Rama’s rightful coronation, what answer shall I give? How shall I face Kausalya, who, in her boundless grace, has only spoken and acted with kindness and wisdom? Will she now become a servant under your shadow? She, who deserved every honour, has borne my silence out of love for peace, but now that silence has emboldened you to make this unspeakable demand. Your newfound audacity is a bitter fruit of my past indulgences.
When Rama departs, Sumitra, with piercing eyes, will silently condemn me. How will I bear that? And Sita—innocent Sita, waiting for news of a father-in-law’s death and a husband exiled—how will she endure? Will her tears, falling beside you, not pierce your heart? Kaikeyi, listen! The will to live has already abandoned me. The splendour of this palace will turn to dust, and your grasp on power will be remembered only as a stain, not a crown.
Your ill-fated intoxication has consumed my heart, revealing you as the source of this calamity. Where once you corrected missteps with grace, now you sing a hunter’s song to trap the deer. The elders of Ayodhya, men and women alike, will speak of me as a king who sold his son for desire’s sake. Will they not say that I, Daśaratha, a scholar fallen into a stupor, succumbed to the whims of a favoured queen?
I cannot endure your voice, for you have become my doom, my relentless fate. A noose spun from the loyalty I bore you now tightens around my neck. Until now, I toyed with a serpent, not knowing it held my salvation in its deadly coils. How can I claim to be the father of Rama when even the gods shall declare me false?
The decree of the cosmos will brand me with a shame that endures: the king who exchanged his son for a fleeting promise. Since childhood, Rama has walked the path of austerity; now, when he should have reaped the peace he earned, you strip it away. What trials must he yet face, sent unjustly to a life of hardships?
He will obey without hesitation, upholding his principle of dharma, though I secretly wish he would rebel. But no—his loyalty and love, pure as a diamond, will carry him into exile, silent and resolute. His departure will pull the light from this world; Kausalya and others will follow him in spirit or body. You, Kaikeyi, who hold the power to incite or soothe, have unleashed an era of chaos and tarnished the name of Ikshvaku.
If Bharata, whom you cherish, consents to this treachery, I forbid him from honouring me in my death. You, enemy to the bonds of kinship, will see Rama depart, and with him, my life. Rule then, if you wish, over ruins, for your name shall be spoken with dread. Where once you were a queen, you shall become the root of infamy.
Yet, even as I try every course to sway you, Kaikeyi, you sit unmoved, beyond my reach. As I fall, half-conscious, to the ground, fate looks on, unblinking, knowing that this is but the prelude to what must come.”