Kaikeyī, her voice edged with urgency, addressed Rāma in the presence of King Daśaratha. She explained that the king, bound by his love for Rāma, could not bring himself to utter either pleasant or unpleasant words to his beloved son. Because of this, she insisted, Rāma must do what the king himself had not been able to say. She reminded Rāma that long ago, Daśaratha had honored her with a boon—a promise now causing the king deep regret, as any ordinary man might feel after making a difficult vow. Having once declared, “I will grant you a boon,” the lord of the people now wished to withdraw his word, as futile as trying to build a bridge over waters that have already flowed away. Kaikeyī insisted that righteousness, known to all the virtuous, demanded that even in anger, the king must not abandon truth. She pressed Rāma: if the king were to command anything—good or ill—would he obey? If so, she would speak fully. If Rāma would not undo what the king had said, she would reveal the king’s wishes, for Daśaratha himself could not bring himself to say them. Hearing these words, Rāma, distressed yet composed, addressed Kaikeyī in the king’s presence. “Ah, shame!” he cried gently. “Lady, you should not speak to me in this way; for at my father’s command, I would even cast myself into fire.” He declared that, if ordered by his teacher, his father, the king, or anyone who wished him well, he would drink deadly poison or leap into the ocean without hesitation. “Therefore, Lady, tell me whatever the king desires,” Rāma promised. “I will do it. Rāma does not speak twice—my word is my bond.” To this straightforward and truthful Rāma, Kaikeyī, though unworthy of the task, spoke harshly. She recounted that, long ago during the great war between the gods and demons, Daśaratha had been protected and, even while wounded, was granted two boons. It was then, Kaikeyī said, that she asked the king for two things: the consecration of Bharata as king, and Rāma’s departure that very day to the Daṇḍaka forest. “If you wish to fulfill your father’s truthful promise and honor yourself, O best of men, listen to my words,” she continued. “Abide by your father’s command as he has promised: you must enter the forest for fourteen years. Let Bharata be consecrated. This consecration, O Rāghava, was arranged by the king entirely for your sake. Renounce 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 jewels and crowded with horses and chariots.” Kaikeyī explained that because of all this, the king, overwhelmed with compassion and grief, could not even look upon Rāma. She urged him, “Do this bidding of the king, O delight of the Raghus; by your great truthfulness, deliver the lord of men.” Though her words were harsh, 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 of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing this dreadful, death-like command, Rāma, destroyer of foes, remained unshaken. He spoke to Kaikeyī with calm resolve: “So be it. I will go to the forest from here and dwell there, wearing matted hair and bark, upholding the king’s promise.” Yet Rāma asked, “But this I wish to know: for what reason does the mighty king, the subduer of enemies, not greet me as before?” He assured Kaikeyī, “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 troubled Rāma’s heart—a baseless thought: that the king himself had not told 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 asked that Kaikeyī comfort the modest king, but wondered aloud why the lord of the land, his gaze fixed on the earth, shed tears so slowly. Rāma then suggested, “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 was gladdened. Believing in his resolve, 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. Until you have left for the forest from this city, Rāma, your father will neither bathe nor eat, so hurry.” At that moment, sighing “Alas, how terrible,” the king, overwhelmed by grief, fainted and fell upon his golden-adorned couch. Rāma, urged on by Kaikeyī, lifted up the king, and, like a horse struck by a whip, made haste to go to the forest.