Rāma, the noble son of King Dasharatha, made his way through the royal palace, passing first through three courtyards, each guarded by vigilant archers and noble horses. Thereafter, he crossed two more courtyards on foot, his bearing steady and composed. Having traversed all these outer precincts, Rāma dismissed his attendants and the assembled people, and entered alone into the pure and private inner chambers of the palace. As he approached his father's presence, all those who had accompanied him waited outside, their hearts filled with delight and anticipation for the prince’s return, much as the ocean eagerly awaits the rising of the moon. Within, Rāma beheld a sorrowful sight. His father, King Dasharatha, sat beside Queen Kaikeyī, his face drawn and spirit heavy, overcome with grief. Rāma, ever mindful of propriety, bowed first at his father’s feet, then, with calm composure, at the feet of Kaikeyī. The king, his eyes brimming with tears, could only utter Rāma’s name—“Rāma”—but was so distressed that he could neither look at his beloved son nor speak further. Witnessing this unprecedented and fearsome sorrow upon his father’s face, Rāma was seized with sudden fear, as though he had inadvertently stepped upon a serpent. He gazed upon the great king, now tormented by grief, sighing deeply, his mind agitated and troubled, his senses bereft of joy. Dasharatha, once as steady as the ocean, now seemed shaken; like the sun eclipsed, or a sage who has spoken a falsehood. Confronted by the depth of his father’s grief, which seemed as unfathomable as the ocean at the time of the full moon, Rāma’s own heart grew anxious. Devoted as ever to his father’s well-being, Rāma pondered anxiously: “Why does my father not greet me today? At other times, even if he is angry, he is pleased to see me. What sorrow troubles him now when he looks upon me?” With a sorrowful face, weighed down by grief, Rāma bowed again to Kaikeyī and addressed her with gentle words: “I hope I have not unknowingly done some wrong to anger my father. Tell me, I pray, and help to appease him. Why is my father, ever affectionate toward me, now displeased and silent, his face so sorrowful? I hope he is not afflicted by any physical or mental distress, for happiness is hard to obtain and sorrow may arise at any time. I trust nothing inauspicious has happened to Prince Bharata, pleasing to behold, or to the mighty Shatrughna, or to any of my mothers. If I were to displease the great king, or fail in my duty 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—how could I not act according to the wishes of that visible divinity? Has my father, out of pride or anger, ever spoken a harsh word to you, by which his mind has been disturbed?” Thus Rāma spoke, his heart full of concern. Addressed in this way by the high-souled Rāghava, Kaikeyī, without shame and with boldness, spoke words meant for her own purpose: “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 to you, whether it be pleasant or unpleasant. Therefore, you must certainly do what he has not yet told you. 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 to the virtuous; therefore, the king, even if angry, 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 from Kaikeyī, Rāma, distressed, addressed her in the presence of his father: “Ah, shame! Lady, you should not speak to me in this way. 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, who was ever straightforward and truthful, Kaikeyī, though unworthy, spoke exceedingly harsh words: “Long ago, during the war between the gods and demons, your father, having been protected, was granted two boons in that 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. And let Bharata be consecrated; this consecration, O Rāghava, was arranged by the king entirely for your sake. Having renounced this consecration, dwell in the Daṇḍaka forest for two periods of seven years, wearing matted hair and bark garments.” Thus, with unwavering composure and devotion to righteousness, Rāma heard the words that would change the course of his life.