The night grew deep, and Ayodhya glowed like a thousand stars, unaware that within the palace walls, darkness was weaving its cruel spell.
King Dasharatha, his heart light with joy, went to Kaikeyi’s chamber — his most beloved queen — eager to share his happiness. “O my dearest Kaikeyi,” he smiled, “why do you sit so silent, draped not in silk but sorrow?”
He stopped short, for Kaikeyi lay upon the cold marble floor, her ornaments cast aside, her face stained with tears. The king’s heart trembled. “What grief has befallen you, my queen? Speak, and I shall mend it — even if it costs me my life.”
Kaikeyi lifted her tearful eyes and whispered, “O King, once upon a time, you promised me two boons — a gift for saving your life in the great war. Do you remember?”
Dasharatha smiled, “Yes, my love. Those words are carved upon my soul. Ask, and they are yours.”
Kaikeyi’s lips trembled, but Manthara’s shadow darkened her heart. “Then hear me, my lord. My first wish — crown my son Bharata as the heir to Ayodhya’s throne. My second — send Rama to the forest, dressed as a hermit, for fourteen long years. Only then will I be content.”
For a moment, the earth itself seemed to stop. The lamps flickered, the winds stilled, and silence roared louder than thunder.
Dasharatha gasped, his heart breaking into a thousand pieces. “What… what cruel jest is this, Kaikeyi? Rama — my Rama — the breath of my life, the jewel of Ayodhya? How can you utter such words?”
But Kaikeyi’s face remained hard as stone. “Promise me, or I shall not rise from this floor. Keep your word, O King, or witness my death.”
Dasharatha wept, his mighty shoulders trembling like a withered leaf in the storm. “O Kaikeyi,” he begged, “ask for my life, my kingdom, my soul — but not this. Spare me this torment. Spare Rama.”
Yet Kaikeyi turned away, her heart cold as the winter moon. “A king must keep his promise.”
All through the night, Dasharatha pleaded, cursed, and cried, but Kaikeyi’s resolve stood firm. At last, broken and defeated, the mighty king slumped to the floor, his soul heavy with grief.
The first light of dawn touched Ayodhya, but within the palace, darkness reigned — for a father’s heart had shattered, and the fate of a prince was sealed.