Like the vast ocean, which though crowned with waves remains unmoved, King Daśaratha now appeared greatly agitated. He was like the sun at the moment of eclipse, his radiance veiled; like a sage who, having spoken untruth, is tormented by his own conscience. Observing the king’s sorrow, so deep and unfathomable, Rāma’s own heart became even more troubled, churning like the ocean at the fullness of the moon. Ever devoted to his father’s well-being, Rāma pondered anxiously: “Why does my father not greet me today as he always has?” he wondered. “At other times, even if angered, he is pleased to see me. What distress now weighs upon him, that he looks on me with such sorrow?” With his face downcast and sorrowful, Rāma approached Queen Kaikeyī, bowed before her, and spoke with gentle concern, “I hope I have not unknowingly done wrong, causing my father’s anger. If so, please tell me, and help to appease his heart. Why is my father, who has always been affectionate, now displeased and silent, his face clouded with grief? I trust he is not troubled by any physical or mental suffering, for happiness in this world is ever elusive, and sorrow may arise at any time. I pray that nothing inauspicious has befallen Prince Bharata, so dear to us all, nor the mighty Shatrughna, nor any of my mothers. If I have in any way displeased the great king or failed 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 existence, a visible divinity; how could I not act according to his wishes? Has my father, out of pride or anger, ever spoken a harsh word to you, that now disturbs his mind?” Thus Rāma spoke, and Kaikeyī, unmoved and bold, replied without a trace of shame, seeking her own advantage. “Rāma, the king is not angry with you, nor has any misfortune befallen him. But he is afraid, and so cannot speak his mind to you. He cannot bring himself to say to you either pleasing or unpleasant words; therefore, you must carry out what he has not told me. Long ago, after honoring me, he granted me a boon. Now the king regrets this promise, as any ordinary man might. Having said, ‘I will grant you a boon,’ the lord of men now wishes to go back on his word, as futile as building a bridge over water that has already flowed away. But upholding truth is rooted in righteousness, Rāma, and known to the virtuous. Therefore, even for your sake, the king must not abandon truth, even if angry. If the king tells you what is good or not, will you carry out everything? If so, I will speak plainly. If you will truly do what the king has promised, I will tell you, for he cannot bring himself to say it.” Hearing these words, Rāma, distressed at heart, addressed Kaikeyī in the presence of his grieving father. “Ah, Lady, shame on such words! You should not speak so to me. At my father’s command, I would throw myself into fire. If my teacher, my father the king, or one who wishes me well were to order it, I would drink deadly poison or leap into the ocean. Therefore, tell me whatever the king desires; I promise you—I, Rāma, do not speak twice.” To Rāma, who was ever truthful and straightforward, Kaikeyī, though unworthy, spoke exceedingly harsh words: “Long ago, during the war between the gods and demons, your father was protected and, even wounded, was granted two boons. There, I asked him 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 listen to what I say: Abide by your father’s command as he has promised—depart to the forest for fourteen years. Let Bharata be consecrated; this was arranged by the king entirely for your sake. Having renounced your own 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, rich and full. Because of this, the king, overwhelmed with grief and compassion, cannot even look upon you. Do this bidding of the king, O delight of the Raghus; by your truthfulness, deliver the lord of men.” Though these words were harsh, Rāma did not give in to sorrow. Yet his great soul was troubled, and the king was tormented by grief for his son. Now begins the nineteenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing that dreadful command, so bitter and death-like, the destroyer of foes, Rāma, remained unshaken and addressed Kaikeyī: “So be it. I will go to the forest and dwell there, wearing matted hair and bark, upholding the king’s promise. Yet, I wish to know: for what reason does the mighty king, subduer of enemies, not greet me as before? Do not take offense, O queen; I say this before you: I will go, be well pleased, to the forest, wearing bark and matted hair.