Rāma, the illustrious prince, entered his father’s magnificent residence—a dwelling so splendid it rivaled Indra’s palace. Moving through three courtyards guarded by archers and horses, he continued on foot through two more, traversing all the spaces that led to the inner chambers. After passing through every courtyard, the son of Dasharatha dismissed the attendants and entered the pure sanctum where his father resided. As Rāma entered his father’s presence, those who had accompanied him lingered outside, their hearts filled with delight and anticipation, waiting for his return as the ocean waits for the moon to rise. Now begins the eighteenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Inside, Rāma saw his father, King Dasharatha, sitting with Kaikeyī. The king’s face was dried and sorrowful, his spirit weighed down by grief. With proper conduct, Rāma bowed at his father’s feet, then, with composure, at Kaikeyī’s feet. When Dasharatha, his eyes brimming with tears, managed to utter “Rāma,” he was so distraught that he could neither look at his son nor speak further. Witnessing this unprecedented and fearsome change in his father’s demeanor, Rāma was seized by fear, as though he had stepped upon a serpent. He saw the great king, tormented by sorrow, sighing deeply, his mind disturbed, his senses robbed of joy. Dasharatha, once steadfast like the unshaken ocean, now seemed agitated; like the sun eclipsed, or a sage who had uttered falsehood. Perceiving the king’s unfathomable grief, Rāma’s anxiety deepened, much like the swelling ocean at the full moon. Ever devoted to his father’s welfare, Rāma pondered: Why does the king not greet me today? At other times, even when angry, my father is pleased to see me—what distress now clouds his heart as he looks upon me? Appearing sorrowful, afflicted by grief, 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, now displeased, his face sorrowful, silent? I trust he suffers neither physical nor mental distress—for happiness is elusive, and sorrow may arise. I hope 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 a moment while he is angered. Since a person sees his very source of existence in his father, how could he not act according to that visible divinity’s wishes? Has my father, out of pride or anger, ever spoken harshly to you, disturbing your mind?” Thus addressed by the high-souled Rāghava, Kaikeyī, bold and unashamed, 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 cannot express what is on his mind. He cannot bring himself to speak pleasant or unpleasant words to you; therefore, you must 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 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 from Kaikeyī, Rāma, distressed, addressed her 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, your father, protected by me, was granted two boons in the great battle, even while wounded. There, I asked the king for Bharata’s consecration 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. And let Bharata be consecrated; this consecration, O Rāghava, was arranged by the king entirely for your sake.” Thus, Kaikeyī revealed the king’s promise and her demands, while Rāma, steadfast and devoted, stood ready to fulfill his father’s vow, whatever it might be.