Rāma, radiant and beloved, mounted his chariot, surrounded by joyful friends. The chariot was adorned with fluttering banners and flags, and the air was sweet with costly incense. As he set out, Rāma gazed upon the city, which was alive with throngs of people. The houses, gleaming pale like clouds, lined the streets in stately rows. He proceeded along the royal road, its very center perfumed with incense, and flanked by heaps of sandalwood and aloe. The road was a vision of abundance, scattered with the finest fragrances, silks of linen and cotton, unpierced pearls, and exquisite crystals. Everywhere he looked, the royal path was splendid, unobstructed, and lavishly covered with a profusion of flowers and all varieties of food, both humble and rich. To Rāma’s eyes, the royal road shone like the heavens themselves, adorned with offerings of curd, rice, and barley, and scented with the smoke of aloe and sandalwood. At every crossroads, garlands of many kinds hung, and fragrant scents filled the air. From all sides, Rāma heard words of blessing and praise spoken by his friends and well-wishers. Honoring all the people as was proper and in the way of his noble ancestors, Rāma moved forward. The people called out to him, “Today, once you are consecrated, protect this path, as we were nurtured by your father and all the forefathers. With you as king, Rāma, we will live most happily. We have no need now for food or wealth; to see you established in the kingdom is enough for us. Nothing will ever be dearer to us than your consecration as king, for your splendor is boundless.” Hearing these and many other auspicious words, Rāma continued along the great highway, his heart warmed by the love of his people. No one could turn away their eyes or minds from him as he passed; such was his presence. It was said that whoever did not see Rāma, or whom Rāma did not see, was scorned by all, even by himself. Rāma’s compassion extended to all classes and ages, and so all the people followed him, drawn by his goodness. He passed mansions pale as clouds, adorned with jeweled lattices, rising as if to touch the very sky. At last, Rāma entered his father’s residence, that foremost house on earth, rivaling even the palace of Indra, shining with splendor. Passing through three courtyards guarded by archers and horses, he crossed two more on foot, for such was the custom. Having passed through all the courtyards, Rāma dismissed the people and entered the pure inner chambers. As he entered his father’s presence, the people, delighted with their prince, waited eagerly for his return, as the ocean waits for the moon to rise. Let the eighteenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, now be heard. There, Rāma saw his father, King Dasharatha, seated with Kaikeyī. The king’s face was dried and sorrowful, his whole demeanor dejected. With proper conduct, Rāma first bowed at his father’s feet, and then, composed, at Kaikeyī’s feet. The king, his eyes brimming with tears, managed only to say “Rāma,” yet was too distressed to look at him or speak further. Seeing this unprecedented and fearsome change in his father, Rāma was seized by fear, as if he had stepped on a serpent. He beheld the great king, tormented by grief, sighing deeply, his mind disturbed and joyless, his senses dulled. Dasharatha was like the ocean, usually steadfast, now agitated by waves; like the sun eclipsed; like a sage who has spoken falsehood. Sensing the king’s grief, deep and unfathomable, Rāma’s anxiety grew, like the ocean swelling at the full moon. Devoted to his father’s welfare, Rāma pondered in his heart: “Why does the king not greet me today? At other times, even if angry, my father is pleased to see me. What distress has now arisen in him when he looks upon me?” Looking sorrowful, afflicted by grief, his face downcast, Rāma bowed to Kaikeyī and spoke: “I hope I have not unknowingly done wrong, for which my father is angry with me. Tell me, and please appease him. Why is my father, who is always affectionate toward me, now displeased, his face sorrowful, and does not speak to me? I hope neither physical nor mental distress troubles him, for happiness is hard to attain, and sorrow may arise. I trust that nothing inauspicious has happened to Prince Bharata, or to Shatrughna, or to any of my mothers. If I were to displease the great king, or fail to carry out his command, I would not wish to live even for a moment while he is angered. Since a person beholds in his father the very source of his own existence, how could he not act according to the wishes of that visible divinity? Has my father, out of pride or anger, ever spoken harshly to you, by which his mind has been disturbed?” Thus addressed by the high-souled Rāghava, Kaikeyī, without shame and with boldness, spoke these words for her own benefit: “Rāma, the king is not angry, nor has any misfortune befallen him; but because of fear of you, he does not express what is on his mind.