When Kaikeyī spoke her words, Rāma, deeply distressed, addressed her in the presence of his father, the king. He exclaimed, “Ah, shame! Lady, you should not speak to me in this way. At the king’s command, 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.” Rāma, ever straightforward and truthful, listened as Kaikeyī, though unworthy, spoke exceedingly harsh words. She reminded him, “Long ago, during the great war between the gods and the demons, your father was wounded and protected, and he was granted two boons. 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 was arranged by the king entirely for your sake. Having renounced your own 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. Because of this, the king, overwhelmed with compassion and distressed with grief, is unable 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, was not shaken. He spoke to Kaikeyī: “So be it; I will go to the forest and dwell there, wearing matted hair and bark, upholding the king’s promise. But I wish to know: for what reason 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, upholds 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 these words, Kaikeyī became glad. Believing in Rāma’s departure, she urged him 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, your father will neither bathe nor eat, so hurry.” Overwhelmed by grief, the king sighed, “Alas, how terrible,” and fainted, falling upon his golden-adorned couch. Rāma, urged on by Kaikeyī, lifted up his father and, like a horse struck by a whip, made haste to go to the forest. Rāma then spoke to Kaikeyī: “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, 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 for fourteen years. Surely, Kaikeyī, you expect no virtues in me, since, though you are my superior, you spoke to the king about me. As soon as I have taken leave of my mother and comforted Sītā, I will go today itself to the great forest of the Daṇḍakas.