Rāma stood before Kaikeyī, his heart unwavering in its devotion to dharma and respect for his father. He spoke with humility, saying that if he were ever to displease the great king, or fail to carry out his father’s command, he would not wish to live even for a moment while the king remained angry with him. He reflected that one’s father is the very source of one’s existence—the visible divinity in this world—and wondered how anyone could fail to act according to such a being’s wishes. With gentle concern, Rāma asked Kaikeyī whether his father had, in pride or anger, ever spoken a harsh word to her that might have disturbed her mind. He longed to understand the cause of her distress. Thus addressed, Kaikeyī, bold and unashamed, spoke plainly for her own benefit. “Rāma,” she said, “the king is not angry, nor has any misfortune befallen him. But because of fear of you, he cannot express what is in his heart. He cannot bring himself to speak to you, whether the words are pleasant or unpleasant. Therefore, you must certainly carry out what he has not told me.” She continued, “Long ago, after honoring me, the king granted me a boon. Now, he 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 one who tries to build a bridge over water that has already flowed away. This is rooted in righteousness, Rāma, and is known to the virtuous. Therefore, even if angry for your sake, the king should not abandon truth.” Kaikeyī pressed on, “If the king tells you what is good or what is 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 the queen in the presence of his father. “Ah, shame! 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 this Rāma, whose heart was ever straightforward and truthful, Kaikeyī, though unworthy, spoke exceedingly harsh words. She recalled, “Long ago, during the war between gods and demons, your father, having been protected, was granted two boons in the 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. Though troubled, the great-souled prince stood firm, 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 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?” He continued, “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 a baseless thought that burned in his heart: that the king himself did not tell him 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?” He urged, “So comfort this modest one; but why does the lord of the land, his gaze fixed on the earth, slowly shed tears? Let messengers, with swift horses, go at once to bring Bharata from his maternal uncle’s house today, by the king’s command. I will go quickly to the Dandaka forest, without hesitation, to dwell there for fourteen years, just as my father has commanded.” Hearing these words of Rāma, Kaikeyī became glad; believing in his departure, she urged Rāghava to hasten. “So be it—let messengers with swift horses go, to bring Bharata back here from his maternal uncle’s house.