Rāma entered the chamber, his face clouded with sorrow and his heart heavy with grief. Bowing respectfully before Queen Kaikeyī, he spoke gently, “Mother, I hope I have not unknowingly done anything wrong to anger my father. If I have, please tell me, and help to appease him.” He continued, his voice tinged with concern, “Why is my father, who has always shown me affection, now displeased? Why does his face show such sadness, and why does he not speak to me as before? I pray that neither physical nor mental suffering has come upon him, for happiness is so difficult to secure, and sorrow or anxiety can arise at any moment.” Rāma’s care extended further. “I trust that nothing inauspicious has befallen Prince Bharata, who is 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 wishes, I would not wish to live even a moment while he is angered with me. For truly, one’s father is the very source of his existence, a visible divinity on earth—how could I not act according to his will?” Rāma looked earnestly at Kaikeyī. “Has my father, out of pride or anger, ever spoken harshly to you and thus disturbed your mind?” Kaikeyī, addressed so by the noble-hearted Rāma, responded without shame and with a boldness that served her own purpose. “Rāma, the king is not angry, nor has any misfortune befallen him. But out of fear of you, he cannot bring himself to speak what is on his mind. He finds himself unable to say either pleasant or unpleasant words to you. Therefore, you must do what he has not told me to say.” She continued, “Long ago, after honoring me, your father granted me a boon. Now he regrets that promise, just as any ordinary man might. Having declared, ‘I will grant you a boon,’ the lord of the people now wishes to take back his word, like one who tries to build a bridge over water that has already flowed away. But this is rooted in righteousness, Rāma, as even the virtuous know. The king, even if angry for your sake, must 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, his heart troubled, addressed the queen in the presence of his father. “Ah, Mother, 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 ordered by my teacher, my father, my king, or anyone who truly wishes me well. Therefore, tell me whatever the king desires. I promise you, I will do it—Rāma does not speak twice.” To this Rāma, so steadfast in truth and simplicity, Kaikeyī spoke harsh and difficult words. “Long ago, in the war between the gods and demons, your father was wounded and protected, and I was granted two boons. There, I asked the king for Bharata’s consecration 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 me: Abide by your father’s word. You must enter the forest for fourteen years. Let Bharata be consecrated; this was arranged by the king entirely for your sake.” She pressed the command upon him, “Renounce your consecration and dwell in the Daṇḍaka forest for two periods of seven years, wearing matted hair and garments of bark. Let Bharata, lord of the Kosalas, rule this earth, filled with treasures and crowded with horses and chariots. Because of this, the king, overwhelmed with compassion and grief, cannot bring himself to look upon you. Do this bidding of the king, O delight of the Raghus; by your truthfulness, deliver the lord of men.” Though Kaikeyī’s words were harsh, Rāma did not succumb to sorrow. Yet, the great-souled one was troubled, and King Daśaratha was tormented by grief for his beloved son. Now begins the nineteenth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing that unpleasant, death-like command, Rāma, destroyer of foes, was not shaken. He spoke calmly 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: why does the mighty king, conqueror of enemies, not greet me as before?” He added gently, “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?” Rāma’s only sorrow was this: “Only one thing, a baseless thought, burns my heart—that the king himself did not tell me of Bharata’s consecration. For I would gladly give Sītā, the kingdom, my life, beloved riches, all to my brother Bharata, even unasked. What then, when the king himself, urged by his father, is upholding his promise for the sake of your dearest wish?