Let the eighteenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, now be heard. Rāma entered the royal chamber and beheld a sorrowful sight: his father, King Daśaratha, was seated with Queen Kaikeyī, his face withered and full of grief. Approaching with reverence, Rāma first bowed at his father’s feet, then, composed and respectful, bowed at Kaikeyī’s feet as well. The king, eyes brimming with tears, managed to utter only, “Rāma,” but was so stricken with anguish that he could neither look at his son nor speak further. Witnessing this unprecedented and fearsome state in his father, Rāma felt a surge of fear, as though he had unwittingly stepped upon a serpent. He saw the great king, tormented by sorrow, sighing deeply, his mind disturbed, his senses bereft of joy. Once steady as the ocean, Daśaratha now seemed agitated—like the sun shrouded in eclipse, or a sage who has spoken untruth. Observing the king’s unfathomable grief, Rāma’s own anxiety grew, swelling like the ocean at the time of the full moon. Devoted to his father’s welfare, Rāma pondered anxiously: “Why does the king not greet me today? At other times, even if angered, my father is pleased to see me; what distress now weighs upon him as he looks at me?” Distraught, Rāma, his face downcast, bowed once more to Kaikeyī and spoke: “I hope I have not unknowingly done wrong, causing my father’s anger. Please, tell me, and help pacify him. Why is my father, always so affectionate, now displeased, his face so sorrowful, and silent toward me? I trust he suffers neither bodily nor mental distress, for happiness is so rare and sorrow may easily arise. I hope nothing inauspicious has happened to Prince Bharata, who is ever pleasing, or to the mighty Shatrughna, or to any of my mothers. If I have in any way failed to please the great king or neglected his commands, I would not wish to live a moment while my father is angered. After all, a person beholds in his father the very source of his existence—how could he not act according to the wishes of that visible divinity? Has my father, out of pride or anger, ever spoken harshly to you, Queen, that his mind is now disturbed?” Thus addressed with such humility by Rāma, Kaikeyī, unashamed and emboldened, spoke words meant for her own advantage. “Rāma, the king is not angry, nor has misfortune befallen him. But out of fear of you, he cannot express what is on his mind. He is unable to speak to you, whether pleasant or unpleasant words. Therefore, you must carry out what he cannot say to you himself. 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 withdraw his promise, as futile as building a bridge over water that has already flowed away. This matter is rooted in righteousness, Rāma, and is well known to the virtuous. Therefore, even if angry for your sake, the king should not abandon truth. If the king commands you—whether for good or ill—will you carry out his wishes? 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 cannot bring himself to say it to you.” Hearing these words, Rāma, distressed, addressed the queen in the presence of his father: “Alas! Lady, you should not speak to me in this way. At my father’s command, I would even throw myself into fire. I would drink deadly poison or leap into the ocean if so 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, steadfast in truth and simplicity, Kaikeyī then spoke exceedingly harsh words, though she was unworthy to do so. “Long ago, during the war between the gods and demons, your father, having been protected, was granted two boons in the great battle, even while wounded. At that time, 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 and honor yourself, then heed my words. Abide by your father’s command as he has promised: you must enter the forest for fourteen years. 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. Let Bharata, lord of the Kosalas, rule this earth, filled with jewels and crowded with horses and chariots. Because of this, the king, overwhelmed with compassion and his face distressed with grief, is unable to look upon you. Do this bidding of the king, O delight of the Raghus; by your great truthfulness, O Rāma, deliver the lord of men.