Kaikeyī, seeing that the king’s words to Rāma would not be reversed, spoke to him directly, for the king himself could not bring himself to say what needed to be said. Hearing Kaikeyī’s words, Rāma became distressed and addressed her in the king’s presence. “Ah, shame!” he said, “Lady, you should not speak to me in this way. If the king commanded, I would even throw myself into fire. I would drink deadly poison or leap into the ocean if ordered by my teacher, my father, the king, or anyone 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 Rāma, whose nature was straightforward and truthful, Kaikeyī responded with exceedingly harsh words, unbefitting her station. She recalled, “Long ago, during the great battle between the gods and demons, your father, having been protected, was granted two boons while wounded. 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 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, O Rāghava, was arranged by the king entirely for your sake. Renounce the throne 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 jewels and crowded with horses and chariots. Because of this, the king, overwhelmed with compassion and his face distressed with grief, cannot bear to look upon you. Do the king’s bidding, O delight of the Raghus; by your great truthfulness, 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 of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing that unpleasant, death-like command, Rāma, the destroyer of foes, remained steadfast and spoke 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, the subduer of enemies, not greet me as 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 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 Daṇḍaka forest, without hesitation, to dwell there for fourteen years, just as my father has commanded.” Hearing Rāma’s words, 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. 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.” Sighing “Alas, how terrible,” the king, overwhelmed by grief, fainted and fell upon the 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. Rāma spoke again: “I am not one who seeks gain, O lady; I cannot bear to live in the world. Know me to be like the sages, established in pure righteousness. Whatever I can do to please you there, I have done completely—even at the cost of my life. There is truly no greater practice of righteousness than service to one’s father and obedience to his command. Even though I was not told by him, at your word I will dwell in the lonely forest here for fourteen years. Surely, Kaikeyī, you expect no virtues in me, since, though you are my superior, you spoke to the king about me.” Thus, Rāma, unwavering in his devotion and righteousness, prepared to fulfill the king’s promise, accepting exile to the forest and relinquishing the throne to Bharata, all for the sake of dharma and his father’s word.