Rāma, standing before Kaikeyī and his father, reflected with deep reverence, “How could anyone not act according to the wishes of the very source of their own existence, that visible divinity before them?” Turning to Kaikeyī, he asked gently, “Has my father, out of pride or anger, ever spoken a harsh word to you that has disturbed his mind?” In response to Rāma’s respectful inquiry, Kaikeyī, unashamed and bold, spoke words meant for her own benefit. “Rāma,” she said, “the king is neither angry nor has any misfortune befallen him. But because of fear of you, he cannot express what is truly on his mind. He cannot bring himself to speak to you—neither pleasant nor unpleasant words. Therefore, you must do what he has not told me.” She continued, “Long ago, after honoring me, your father granted me a boon. Now, like an ordinary man, he regrets it. Having declared, ‘I will grant you a boon,’ the lord of the people now wishes to go back on his word, as if trying to build a bridge over water that has already flowed away. But this is rooted in righteousness, Rāma, and is known even to the virtuous. Even if angry for your sake, the king should not abandon truth.” Kaikeyī pressed the matter further. “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 became distressed and addressed Kaikeyī 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 by one who wishes me well. Therefore, tell me, Lady, whatever the king desires. I promise you I will do it—Rāma does not speak twice.” To this noble and straightforward Rāma, Kaikeyī, though unworthy, spoke harsh words. “Long ago, during the war between the gods and demons, your father was protected and, even while wounded, was granted two boons in the great battle. 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, 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.” She continued, “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. Yet, the great-souled one was troubled, and the king was tormented by grief for his son. Now begins the nineteenth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing that unpleasant, death-like command, the destroyer of foes, Rāma, 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?” He added, “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? 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?” “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 those 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. But I think it is not proper to delay when you are eager, Rāma; therefore, you should go to the forest at once.” Thus, with unwavering resolve and devotion to righteousness, Rāma prepared to fulfill his father’s promise, setting in motion the turning of destiny’s wheel.