She said, ‘You may try any number of devices, but your subterfuges shall not avail with me! Either grant my boon or refuse it and be disgraced; I am not fond of much deceitful persuation.

Rama is a marvel of goodness, you too are good and wise, and Rama’s mother is also good – oh yes, I know you all well enough! The reward I will give Kausalya shall be a memento to match the benefit that she devised for me, and one she won’t forget!

If Rama retires not to the forest at daybreak, clad in hermit’s garb, it will mean my death and your disgrace, O king, and be well assured of this!/

So saying, the wicked woman rose and stood erect, like swollen river of wrath that had issued from the hills of sin and, overflowing with fury’s waters, was too terrible to behold.

The two boons represented its banks, her inexorable obstinacy its (swift) current and the impelling force of Manthara’s words its whirling eddies; overthrowing the king like a tree uprooted, the river headed towards the ocean of disaster.

And now the king perceived that the demand of the queen was really true and that it was death itself, disguised as his own consort, which was dancing in triumph on his head. He clasped her feet and persuaded her to be seated, crying, ‘Be not an axe to fell the Solar race!

Demand of me my head and I will give it to you forthwith, but kill me not by tearing me from Rama! Keep Rama here by whatever means you can or your heart will burn with anguish all your life long!’