As Rama made his way through the bustling crossroads of Ayodhya, he was greeted by the sights and scents of garlands of many kinds and fragrant offerings, lovingly placed by the people in honor of his passage. Friends and well-wishers surrounded him, speaking words of blessing and encouragement. In return, Rama honored everyone he met, as was proper and as his ancestors had always done, showing respect and kindness to all. The people spoke with heartfelt devotion: “Today, once you are consecrated, protect this path, just as your father and forefathers nurtured us. With Rama as king, our happiness will be complete.” They declared that they had no need for food or great wealth—simply seeing Rama established as king would be enough. Nothing, they said, would ever be dearer to them than the consecration of Rama, whose splendor was boundless. Hearing these and other auspicious words, Rama continued along the great highway. Such was his presence that no one could withdraw their mind or eyes from him as he passed by. It was said that anyone who did not see Rama, or whom Rama did not see, was scorned by all and even by their own self. Rama, righteous and compassionate, showed kindness to all classes and ages, and so the entire city followed him. The streets were lined with mansions pale as clouds, adorned with jeweled lattices, rising up as if to meet the sky. Rama entered his father’s residence, the foremost house on earth, rivaling the palace of Indra, shining with splendor. Passing through three courtyards guarded by archers and horses, Rama then crossed two more on foot. Having traversed all the courtyards, the son of Dasharatha dismissed the people and entered the pure inner chambers. When Rama entered his father’s presence, the people, delighted with their prince, waited outside for his return, as the ocean waits for the moon to rise. Let the eighteenth sarga be heard in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Inside, Rama saw his father seated with Kaikeyī, his face dried and sorrowful, weighed down by dejection. Rama, ever respectful, first bowed to his father’s feet, then, composed, to Kaikeyī’s feet. The king, his eyes filled with tears, called out “Rama,” but was too distressed to look at him or speak. Seeing this unprecedented and fearsome change in the king, Rama was seized by fear, as if he had stepped upon a serpent. He saw the great king tormented by grief and sorrow, sighing deeply, his mind disturbed, his senses joyless. Dasharatha, once steady like the ocean, now seemed agitated; like the sun eclipsed, or a sage who has spoken falsehood. Perceiving the king’s unfathomable grief, Rama grew even more anxious, like the ocean at the time of the full moon. Devoted to his father’s welfare, Rama pondered four possibilities: Why did the king not greet him today? At other times, even if angry, his father was pleased to see him; what distress now troubled him? Appearing sorrowful and afflicted, his face downcast, Rama 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 obtain and sorrow or anxiety may arise. I trust nothing inauspicious has happened to Prince Bharata, who is pleasing to behold, or to the mighty 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 sees the very source of his own existence here, how could he not act according to the wishes of that visible divinity? Has my father, out of pride or anger, ever spoken any harsh word to you, by which his mind has been disturbed?” Addressed thus by the high-souled Rāghava, Kaikeyī, without shame and with boldness, spoke for her own benefit: “Rama, 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. He cannot bring himself to speak to you either pleasant or unpleasant words; therefore, you must certainly do what he has not told me. Long ago, after honoring me, he granted me a boon; now the king regrets it, just as any 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 rooted in righteousness, Rama, and is known even to the virtuous; therefore, the king, even if angry for your sake, should not abandon truth. If the king tells you what is good or what is not, will you carry out everything? If so, I will tell you everything again. If what the king has said to you will not be undone, then I will speak; for he will not say it to you himself.” Thus, the stage was set for Kaikeyī to reveal the fateful request that would change the course of Rama’s life and the destiny of Ayodhya.