As Rama set out upon the royal road, his eyes beheld a sight as splendid as the celestial pathways of the gods. The street was adorned with offerings of curd, rice, and barley, and the air was fragrant with the smoke of aloe and sandalwood incense. At every crossroads, garlands of many kinds and sweet scents had been lovingly placed, and Rama was greeted by the voices of friends and well-wishers, blessing him with auspicious words. With deep respect and humility, Rama honored all the people he met, just as his ancestors and forefathers had always done. The citizens, filled with hope and devotion, spoke earnestly to him: “Today, when you are consecrated, protect this path, as your father and his forefathers cared for us. With you as our king, Rama, we shall live in supreme happiness. We desire neither food nor wealth—if only we may see you enthroned, that is all we seek. Nothing could be dearer to us than your consecration, O Rama, whose splendor knows no bounds.” As Rama listened to these and many other auspicious words, his heart was warmed by the honor and love shown to him. He continued along the great highway, and such was his presence that no one could turn their gaze away from him, nor withdraw their thoughts from the sight of this foremost of men. Indeed, it was said that anyone who did not see Rama, or whom Rama did not see, was shunned by the people and even felt shame before himself. Rama’s compassion embraced all—people of every class and age—and so, the multitudes followed after him, drawn by his righteousness. He passed by mansions pale as clouds, their jeweled lattices gleaming, rising up as if to touch the sky itself. At last, Rama entered his father’s splendid residence, a palace that rivaled even the dwelling of Indra, shining with the glory of its prince. Rama made his way through three courtyards, each carefully guarded by archers and horses, and then crossed two more inner courts on foot. Having passed through all the courtyards, Rama, son of Dasharatha, respectfully dismissed the people who had accompanied him and entered the pure inner chambers of the palace. As he went in to meet his father, the citizens, delighted with their prince, waited outside for his return, longing for him as the ocean yearns for the rising moon. Now begins the eighteenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Inside, Rama saw his father seated with Queen Kaikeyī. But the king’s face was drawn and sorrowful, his spirit weighed down. With perfect conduct, Rama first bowed at his father’s feet, then, composed and respectful, at the feet of Kaikeyī. The king, his eyes brimming with tears, could only utter “Rama”—his grief so great that he could neither look upon his son nor speak further. This unprecedented and fearful sight filled Rama with dread, as if he had unwittingly stepped upon a serpent. He saw his father, the great king, tormented by grief and sorrow, sighing deeply, his mind troubled and his senses devoid of joy. He seemed like the ocean, once steady but now agitated by storms, or like the sun eclipsed, or a sage who has spoken falsehood and is consumed by remorse. Rama, perceiving the king’s unfathomable grief, grew even more anxious, his heart churning like the ocean at the full moon. Ever devoted to his father’s welfare, Rama pondered anxiously: “Why does my father not greet me today? In the past, even if angry, he has always been pleased to see me. What sorrow now troubles him when he looks upon me?” With a sorrowful heart and downcast face, Rama bowed to Kaikeyī and spoke with humility: “I hope I have not unknowingly done wrong, causing my father’s anger. Please tell me, and help to appease him. Why is my father, who is always so affectionate, now displeased and silent, his face so sorrowful? I hope he suffers neither physical nor mental distress, for happiness is rare, and sorrow or anxiety may arise at any time. I trust that nothing inauspicious has happened to Prince Bharata, to the mighty Shatrughna, or to any of my mothers. If I have displeased the great king or failed to carry out his command, I would not wish to live even a moment while he is angered. For one’s father is the very source of one’s existence, a visible divinity—how could I not act according to his wishes? Has my father, out of pride or anger, ever spoken a harsh word to you, O Kaikeyī, by which his mind has been disturbed?” Thus Rama spoke, and Kaikeyī, unmoved and bold, replied without shame, seeking her own advantage: “Rama, the king is not angry, nor has any misfortune befallen him. But because of fear of you, he cannot express what is in his heart. He is unable to speak to you, whether pleasant or unpleasant words. Therefore, you must do what he has not yet told me. Long ago, after honoring me, he granted me a boon. Now the king regrets his promise, just as an ordinary man might. Having declared, ‘I will grant you a boon,’ the lord of the people now wishes to go back on his word, like one who tries to build a bridge over water that has already flowed away. This is a matter of righteousness, Rama, known to the virtuous; therefore, even if angry for your sake, the king should not abandon truth. If the king tells you what is good or not, will you carry out everything? If so, I will tell you all that remains.