Nothing was dearer to the people of Ayodhya than the consecration of Rama as king. His boundless splendor filled their hearts with joy and hope. As Rama proceeded along the grand highway, honored by auspicious words from friends and well-wishers, he was the focus of all eyes and minds—none could turn away from him, the foremost among men. Wherever Rama walked, whoever did not see him, or whom Rama did not notice, became the subject of scorn among the people, and even felt ashamed before themselves. Rama’s compassion extended to all classes and all ages, and so everyone followed him, drawn by his virtue. The city shone with mansions pale as clouds, adorned with jeweled lattices, rising as if to touch the sky. Amidst these splendid homes, Rama entered his father’s palace, a residence rivaling Indra’s own, radiant with glory. Passing through three courtyards guarded by archers and horses, Rama, the best of men, crossed two more courtyards on foot. After traversing all the courtyards, he dismissed the people and entered the pure inner chambers. As he went to meet his father, the people, delighted with their prince, waited for his return with anticipation, like the ocean waiting for the moon to rise. Let the eighteenth sarga be heard in the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Ayodhya Kanda. There, Rama saw his father, King Dasharatha, seated with Kaikeyi. The king’s face was dried and sorrowful, his demeanor dejected. Rama, observing proper conduct, first bowed to his father’s feet, then composed himself and bowed to Kaikeyi’s feet. The king, his eyes filled with tears, uttered "Rama," but was too distressed to look at him or speak. Witnessing this unprecedented and fearsome sight, Rama was seized by fear, as if he had stepped on a serpent. He saw the great king tormented by grief and sorrow, sighing deeply, his mind disturbed and troubled, his senses joyless. Like the ocean, usually unshaken but now agitated; like the sun eclipsed; like a sage who has spoken falsehood—such was Dasharatha’s state. Perceiving the king’s grief, unfathomable as it was, Rama became even more anxious, like the ocean at the time of the full moon. Devoted to his father’s welfare, Rama pondered four possibilities: 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? Appearing sorrowful and afflicted by grief, his face downcast, Rama bowed to Kaikeyi and spoke: “I hope I have not unknowingly done wrong, on account of 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 that neither physical nor mental distress troubles him; for happiness is always hard to obtain, and sorrow or anxiety may arise. I trust that nothing inauspicious has happened to Prince Bharata, who is pleasing to behold, or to mighty Shatrughna, or to any of my mothers. If I were to displease the great king, or fail to carry out my father’s command, I would not wish to live even for a moment while the king 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?” Thus addressed by the high-souled Raghava, Kaikeyi, without shame and with boldness, spoke these words 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 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 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.” Hearing these words spoken by Kaikeyi, Rama, distressed, addressed the queen in the presence of the king: “Ah, shame! Lady, you should not speak to me in this way; for I would even throw myself into fire at the king’s command. I would drink deadly poison or leap into the ocean if ordered by my teacher, my father, the king, or one who wishes me well. Therefore, tell me, Lady, whatever the king desires; I will do it, I promise you—Rama does not speak twice.