Perceiving the king’s deep and unfathomable grief, Rāma’s heart grew even more anxious, just as the ocean swells at the time of the full moon. Ever devoted to his father’s welfare, 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 distress has now arisen in him when he looks upon me?” Rāma, his face downcast and heavy with sorrow, approached Kaikeyī and bowed respectfully. With a voice gentle yet troubled, he spoke: “I hope I have not unknowingly done something wrong, for which my father is angry with me. If so, please tell me, and help to appease him. Why is my father, who is always affectionate toward me, now displeased, his face clouded with sorrow, and silent? I hope he is not suffering from any physical or mental distress, for happiness is difficult to attain, and sorrow or anxiety may arise at any time. I trust that nothing inauspicious has happened to Prince Bharata, who is always pleasing to behold, or to the mighty Shatrughna, or to any of my mothers.” Rāma’s devotion shone through his words as he continued, “If I were ever 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. For one’s father is the very source of one’s own existence, visible divinity in this world—how could I not act according to his wishes? Tell me, has my father, out of pride or anger, ever spoken any harsh word to you, by which your mind has been disturbed?” Thus did Rāma, noble and high-souled, address Kaikeyī. She, casting aside any shame and speaking boldly for her own purpose, replied, “Rāma, the king is not angry, nor has any misfortune befallen him. But because of fear of you, he cannot bring himself to express what is in his heart. He cannot speak to you, whether pleasant or unpleasant words. Therefore, you must certainly do what he has not told me to say. 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 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.” She 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 to you will not be undone, then I will speak, for he will not say it to you himself.” Hearing these words, Rāma, distressed, addressed Kaikeyī in the presence of his father: “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, though unworthy, spoke exceedingly harsh words: “Long ago, during the war between the gods and demons, your father, wounded in battle, was protected and granted two boons. 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. 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.” Though Kaikeyī’s words were harsh, Rāma did not fall into sorrow. The great-souled one was troubled, but stood steady, 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, was not shaken. He spoke 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? 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. When commanded by a beneficent elder, a grateful king and father, why should I not, with confidence, do what is dear to them?