Rāma, troubled by the strange and sorrowful silence of his father, turned to Queen Kaikeyī and gently asked, “Mother, has my father ever, in pride or anger, spoken any harsh word to you that has disturbed your mind?” He sought to understand the cause of the king’s distress, hoping it was not due to some offense. Kaikeyī, emboldened and unashamed, replied to Rāma with words meant for her own advantage. “Rāma, the king is neither angry nor afflicted by misfortune. But because of his fear of you, he cannot express what is truly in his heart. He finds himself unable to speak to you, whether to say something pleasant or unpleasant. Therefore, you must do what he has not managed to tell me himself. Long ago, after honoring me, your father granted me a boon. Now, like any ordinary man, he regrets his promise. Having once declared, ‘I will grant you a boon,’ the lord of the people now wishes to withdraw his word, as futile as trying to build a bridge over water that has already flowed away. Yet you know, Rāma, that this is rooted in righteousness and is well understood by the virtuous. Even if the king is angry for your sake, he should not forsake the truth. If the king were to command you, whether for good or ill, would you obey him in everything? If so, I will repeat to you all that he wishes, for he cannot bring himself to say it to you. If you will not undo what the king has said, then I will speak, since he will not say it himself.” Hearing these words from Kaikeyī, Rāma, distressed, addressed her in the presence of the king. “Alas, mother! You should not speak to me in this way, for at my father’s command, I would even throw myself into fire. If ordered by my teacher, my father the king, or anyone who wishes me well, I would drink deadly poison or leap into the ocean. Therefore, tell me whatever the king desires, and I promise you—I will do it. Rāma does not speak twice.” To the ever-truthful and straightforward Rāma, Kaikeyī, though unworthy of such a role, spoke harsh and piercing words: “Long ago, during the war between gods and demons, your father, wounded in battle but protected, was granted two boons. There and then, I asked the king for two things: for Bharata to be consecrated as prince, and for you, Rāghava, to depart today itself to the Daṇḍaka forest. If you wish to fulfill your father’s truthful promise and honor yourself as the noblest of men, then listen to my words. Abide by your father’s command, as he has promised: you must enter the forest for fourteen years. Let Bharata be consecrated; this consecration, Rāghava, was arranged by the king entirely for your sake. Renounce this consecration and 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 treasures and teeming with horses and chariots. Because of all this, the king, overwhelmed with compassion and his face distorted by grief, cannot bear to look upon you. Do the bidding of the king, O delight of the Raghus; by your great truthfulness, Rāma, deliver the lord of men.” Even as Kaikeyī spoke these harsh words, Rāma did not give in to sorrow. Yet his great soul was troubled, and the king was tormented by grief for his beloved son. Now begins the nineteenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing that unpleasant, death-like command, Rāma, the destroyer of foes, remained unshaken and addressed Kaikeyī: “So be it. I will go to the forest from here and dwell there, wearing matted hair and bark, upholding my father’s promise. But I wish to know: for what reason does the mighty king, the subduer of enemies, not greet me as he always did 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? Only one thing, a baseless thought, burns in 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—everything—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 Daṇḍaka forest, without hesitation, to dwell there for fourteen years, just as my father has commanded.” Hearing Rāma’s words, Kaikeyī became glad. Trusting that he would indeed depart, 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. That the king, out of shame, does not speak to you himself—O best of men, do not take this as anything; let any anger be set aside.” Thus, in this moment of trial, Rāma’s noble spirit shone ever brighter, as he prepared to fulfill his father’s promise and Kaikeyī’s demand, undaunted by grief or hardship.