Rāma entered his father’s chamber and beheld the great king Daśaratha, tormented by grief and sorrow. The king sighed deeply, his mind disturbed and troubled, his senses bereft of joy. Once as steady as the ocean—wreathed in waves but never shaken—now he seemed agitated, like the sun eclipsed, or like a sage who has uttered falsehood and lost his peace. Seeing his father’s unfathomable grief, Rāma’s own heart grew more anxious, his concern swelling like the ocean at the time of the full moon. Ever devoted to his father’s welfare, Rāma pondered anxiously: “Why does the king not greet me today? At other times, even when angry, my father is pleased to see me. What distress afflicts him now, when he looks upon me?” Afflicted by sorrow, his face downcast, Rāma bowed respectfully to Queen Kaikeyī and spoke to her with humility: “I hope I have not unknowingly done some wrong that has angered my father. Please, tell me what troubles him, and help to appease his mind. Why is my father, who is always affectionate toward me, now displeased and silent, his face clouded with sorrow?” Rāma’s concern deepened: “I hope no physical or mental distress afflicts him, for happiness is elusive, and sorrow or anxiety may arise unexpectedly. I trust that nothing inauspicious has happened to Prince Bharata, who is pleasing to behold, or to the mighty Shatrughna, or to any of my mothers.” He declared with sincerity, “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 he is angered. Since a person sees the very source of his own existence in his father, how could he not act according to the wishes of that visible divinity? Tell me, has my father, out of pride or anger, ever spoken a harsh word to you, by which his mind has been disturbed?” Thus Rāma, high-souled and full of concern, addressed Kaikeyī. Without shame and with boldness, Kaikeyī spoke these words, seeking 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 to you, whether pleasant or unpleasant words. Therefore, you must certainly do what he has not told me.” She continued, “Long ago, after honoring me, your father 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 someone trying 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.” Kaikeyī pressed further, “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 will not be undone, then I will speak, for he will not say it to you himself.” Hearing these words, Rāma, distressed, addressed the queen in the presence of the king: “Ah, 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, endowed with straightforwardness and truthfulness, Kaikeyī—though unworthy—spoke exceedingly harsh words: “Long ago, during the war between the gods and demons, your father was protected and 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.” She declared, “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. Let Bharata, lord of the Kosalas, rule this earth, filled with various 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.” Even as Kaikeyī spoke these harsh words, Rāma did not fall into sorrow. The great-souled one was troubled, but he remained steadfast, while the king was tormented by grief for his son. Now begins the nineteenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing that unpleasant, death-like command, Rāma—the destroyer of foes—remained unshaken and spoke thus to Kaikeyī: “So be it; I will go to the forest from here and dwell there, wearing matted hair and bark, upholding the king’s promise. But this I wish to know: for what reason does the mighty king, the subduer of enemies, not greet me as before?