In the city of Ayodhyā, majestic mansions stood pale as clouds, adorned with jeweled lattices that gleamed in the sunlight, rising high as if to cover the very sky itself. Among them was the foremost house on earth, rivaling the palace of Indra in splendor—the royal residence of King Dasharatha. Into this radiant abode entered Prince Rāma, his presence shining with dignity and grace. Rāma made his way through three grand courtyards, each guarded by vigilant archers and noble horses. Then, continuing on foot, he crossed two more courtyards, each one echoing with the quiet strength of the royal household. Having passed through all the courtyards, Rāma, the son of Dasharatha, gently dismissed all those who accompanied him and entered the pure inner chambers of the palace. As he stepped into his father’s presence, all the people of the palace, delighted with the prince, waited outside for his return, as the ocean waits for the moon to rise and draw its tides. Thus begins the eighteenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Inside, Rāma saw his father seated beside Queen Kaikeyī. Dasharatha appeared dejected, his face dried and sorrowful. With proper conduct, Rāma first bowed at his father’s feet, then, composed and respectful, at Kaikeyī’s feet. The king, his eyes filled with tears, managed only to utter “Rāma,” so distressed that he could neither look at nor speak to his beloved son. Witnessing this unprecedented and fearsome sight, Rāma 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 and senses joyless. Dasharatha, usually steadfast like the ocean, now appeared agitated; like the sun eclipsed, or a sage who had spoken falsehood. Perceiving his father’s grief—so deep and unfathomable—Rāma’s anxiety grew, like the ocean swelling at the time of the full moon. Ever devoted to his father’s welfare, Rāma pondered four possibilities: Why did the king not greet him as he always had? At other times, even if angry, Dasharatha was pleased to see him; what distress now clouded his mind when he looked upon Rāma? Appearing sorrowful and afflicted by grief, his face downcast, Rāma bowed to Kaikeyī and spoke: “I hope I have not unknowingly done wrong, causing my father’s anger. Tell me, and please appease him. Why is my father—always affectionate toward me—now displeased, his face sorrowful, and silent? I hope neither physical nor mental distress troubles him, for happiness is hard to obtain, and sorrow or anxiety may arise. I trust that nothing inauspicious has happened to Prince Bharata, to 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?” Thus addressed by the high-souled Rāghava, Kaikeyī, without shame and with boldness, spoke 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. 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, Rāma, 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 Kaikeyī, Rāma, 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—Rāma does not speak twice.” To Rāma, endowed with straightforwardness and truthfulness, Kaikeyī spoke exceedingly harsh words: “Long ago, during the war between the gods and demons, O Rāghava, your father, having been protected, was granted two boons in the great battle, even while wounded. There, I asked the king for the consecration of Bharata and for your departure today itself, O Rāghava, to the Daṇḍaka forest. If you wish to fulfill your father’s truthful promise, O best of men, and honor yourself, then listen to these words of mine. Abide by your father’s command, as he has promised: you must enter the forest for fourteen years.