Yet still beauteous Ayodhya shall flourish and prosper under the sovereignty of Rama, abode of all virtues. All his brothers shall do him service and his glory shall spread through the three spheres!

Only your disgrace and my remorse, though we die, shall never be effaced or forgotten. Now do whatever pleases you; only keep out of my sight and hide your face.

With folded hands I ask but this, speak not one word to me again so long as I live! You too will repent at the last, O hapless woman, for you are killing a cow just for gut (or to feed a tiger)!’

The king fell to the ground, crying again and again, ‘Why do you bring destruction to all?’ But the perfidious queen uttered not a word, like one who silently calls up the spirits of the dead in a crematorium.

Stricken with grief, the king continued to sob out ‘Rama, Rama!,’ feeling miserable like some luckless bird clipped of its wings. He prayed in his heart, ‘May the day never dawn, nor anyone go and tell Rama!

Rise not, O Sun, great patriarch of the Solar race, for the sight of Ayodhya will consume your heart with anguish.’ No greater affection than was the monarch’s, no greater relentlessness than was Kaikeyi’s, could the Creator brig into being.

While the king was still sobbing, the day broke and the music of the lute, flute and conch resounded at his gate. Bards began to recite his glories and minstrels to sing his praises; but like shafts they pierce the king’s ears as he hears them.