The Ramayana/Book II/Canto XXXV: Kaikeyí Reproached

Wild with the rage he could not calm, Sumantra, grinding palm on palm, His head in quick impatience shook, And sighed with woe he could not brook. He gnashed his teeth, his eyes were red, From his changed face the colour fled. In rage and grief that knew no law, The temper of the king he saw. With his word-arrows swift and keen He shook the bosom of the queen. With scorn, as though its lightning stroke Would blast her body, thus he spoke: 'Thou, who, of no dread sin afraid, Hast Das'aratha's self betrayed, Lord of the world, whose might sustains Each thing that moves or fixed remains, What direr crime is left thee now? Death to thy lord and house art thou, Whose cruel deeds the king distress, Mahendra's peer in mightiness, Firm as the mountain's rooted steep, Enduring as the Ocean's deep. Despise not Das'aratha, he Is a kind lord and friend to thee. A loving wife in worth outruns The mother of ten million sons. Kings, when their sires have passed away, Succeed by birthright to the sway. Ikshváku's son still rules the state, Yet thou this rule wouldst violate. Yea, let thy son, Kaikeyí, reign, Let Bharat rule his sire's domain. Thy will, O Queen, shall none oppose: We all will go where Ráma goes. No Bráhman, scorning thee, will rest Within the realm thou governest, But all will fly indignant hence: So great thy trespass and offence. I marvel, when thy crime I see. Earth yawns not quick to swallow thee; And that the Bráhman saints prepare No burning scourge thy soul to scare, With cries of shame to smite thee, bent Upon our Ráma's banishment. The Mango tree with axes fell, And tend instead the Neem tree well, Still watered with all care the tree Will never sweet and pleasant be. Thy mother's faults to thee descend, And with thy borrowed nature blend. True is the ancient saw: the Neem Can ne'er distil a honeyed stream. Taught by the tale of long ago Thy mother's hateful sin we know. A bounteous saint, as all have heard, A boon upon thy sire conferred, And all the eloquence revealed That fills the wood, the flood, the field. No creature walked, or swam, or flew, But he its varied language knew. One morn upon his couch he heard The chattering of a gorgeous bird. And as he marked its close intent He laughed aloud in merriment. Thy mother furious with her lord, And fain to perish by the cord, Said to her husband: 'I would know, O Monarch, why thou laughest so.'

The king in answer spake again: 'If I this laughter should explain, This very hour would be my last, For death, be sure would follow fast.' Again thy mother, flushed with ire, To Kekaya spake, thy royal sire: 'Tell me the cause; then live or die: I will not brook thy laugh, not I.' Thus by his darling wife addressed, The king whose might all earth confessed To that kind saint his story told Who gave the wondrous gift of old. He listened to the king's complaint, And thus in answer spoke the saint: 'King, let her quit thy home or die, But never with her prayer comply.' The saint's reply his trouble stilled, And all his heart with pleasure filled. Thy mother from his home he sent, And days like Lord Kuvera's spent. So thou wouldst force the king, misled By thee, in evil paths to tread, And bent on evil wouldst begin, Through folly, this career of sin. Most true, methinks, in thee is shown The ancient saw so widely known: The foils their fathers' worth declare Aud girls their mothers' nature share. So be not thou. For pity's sake Accept the word the monarch spake. Thy husband's will, O Queen, obey, And be the people's hope and stay. O, do not, urged by follv, draw The king to tread on duty's law, The lord who all the world sustains, Bright as the God o'er Gods who reigns. Our glorious king, by sin unstained, Will never grant what fraud obtained; No shade of fault in him is seen: Let Ráma be anointed, Queen. Remember, Queen, undying shame Will through the world pursue thy name, If Ráma leave the king his sire, And, banished, to the wood retire. Come, from thy breast this fever fling: Of his own realm be Ráma king. None in this city e'er can dwell To tend and love thee half so well. When Ráma sits in royal place, True to the custom of his race Our monarch of the mighty bow A hermit to the woods will go.'

Sumantra thus, palm joined to palm, Poured forth his words of bane and balm, With keen reproach, with pleading kind, Striving to move Kaikeyí's mind. In vain he prayed, in vain reproved, She heard unsoftened and unmoved. Nor could the eyes that watched her view One yielding look, one change of hue.