Kaikeyī, her voice steady and resolute, addressed Rāma: “Let Bharata be consecrated, Rāghava. This consecration was arranged by the king entirely for your sake.” Then, without softening her words, she declared, “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 many jewels and crowded with horses and chariots.” She continued, “Because of this, the king—overwhelmed with compassion, his face distressed by grief—is unable to look upon you. Do the king’s bidding, O delight of the Raghus. By your great truthfulness, Rāma, deliver the lord of men.” Even as she spoke these harsh and heavy words, Rāma did not fall into sorrow. Yet, though his spirit was steadfast, the great-souled one was troubled, and the king, tormented by grief for his son, suffered deeply. Now begins the nineteenth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing that unpleasant, death-like command, Rāma—the destroyer of foes—remained unshaken 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: 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 in your presence: 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 pleases them?” He added, “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?” Rāma continued, “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 Rāma’s words, Kaikeyī became glad. Confident 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.” At these words, 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 stricken king and, like a horse struck by a whip, made haste to depart for the forest. Rāma spoke again 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 here for fourteen years.” He added with gentle reproach, “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 Dandakas. Let Bharata rule the kingdom and serve his father as he should; so too must you act, for that is the eternal law.” But when Rāma finished speaking, his father, overwhelmed by grief and unable to speak, broke into loud weeping. The radiant Rāma, bowing at the feet of his senseless father and also at those of the unworthy Kaikeyī, fell to the ground. Then, having circumambulated his father and Kaikeyī, Rāma departed from the inner chambers and saw his own friends. Lakṣmaṇa, the joy of Sumitrā, his eyes filled with tears and burning with anger, followed closely behind his brother. Rāma, having circumambulated the vessels prepared for his consecration, walked away slowly, his gaze lingering on them. Yet the loss of the kingdom did not diminish his great splendor, for he was beloved by all, just as the waning of the cool-rayed moon does not lessen its beauty. Even as he prepared to go to the forest and abandon the earth, no disturbance of mind could be seen in him; he seemed beyond all the world. With calm resolve, he dismissed the auspicious white parasol and the finely adorned fans, sent away his own people, the chariot, the citizens, and the townsfolk, setting forth on his path of exile.