Kaikeyī addressed Rāma with unwavering resolve, instructing him to relinquish the royal consecration and instead dwell in the Daṇḍaka forest for two periods of seven years, living as an ascetic with matted hair and bark garments. She declared that Bharata, the lord of the Kosalas, should rule the earth—a land abundant with treasures and teeming with horses and chariots. She explained that King Daśaratha, overwhelmed by compassion and stricken with grief, could not bear to look upon Rāma. Therefore, she urged Rāma, the joy of the Raghu dynasty, to fulfill the king’s command and, by his steadfast truthfulness, deliver the king from the agony of his promise. Though these words were harsh, Rāma did not fall into despair. Yet, the noble prince was troubled, and the king, tormented by grief for his son, suffered deeply. Now begins the nineteenth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki. Hearing Kaikeyī’s bitter and death-like command, Rāma, destroyer of foes, remained unshaken and spoke gently to her: “So be it. I will go to the forest from here, wearing matted hair and bark, upholding the king’s promise.” Yet, he wondered aloud, “But I wish to know: for what reason does the mighty king, subduer of enemies, not greet me as he once did?” With humility, Rāma continued, “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 troubles my heart—that the king himself did not tell me of Bharata’s consecration. For I would gladly give Sītā, the kingdom, my very life, and all my beloved riches to my brother Bharata, even unasked. How much more so when the king, urged by his father, upholds his promise for the sake of your cherished wish?” Rāma looked with concern at the king and said, “So comfort this modest one. But why does the lord of the land, his gaze fixed on the earth, slowly shed tears?” He 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.” Kaikeyī, hearing Rāma’s words and convinced of his resolve, was pleased and urged him to hasten his departure. She agreed, “So be it—let messengers with swift horses go to bring Bharata back 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.” Meanwhile, the king, sighing “Alas, how terrible,” was so overcome by grief that he fainted and collapsed upon his golden-adorned couch. Rāma, prompted by Kaikeyī, gently lifted his father, and, like a horse urged on by a whip, prepared himself to depart for the forest. Rāma then spoke to Kaikeyī with calm dignity: “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. 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. Let Bharata rule the kingdom and serve his father as he should; so too must you act, for that is the eternal law.” Hearing Rāma’s words, the king, 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 in reverence. After circumambulating both his father and Kaikeyī, Rāma departed from the inner chambers and saw his own friends. Lakṣmaṇa, the joy of Sumitrā, followed closely behind, his eyes brimming with tears and burning with anger. Rāma then circumambulated the vessels prepared for his consecration, walking away slowly, not turning his gaze from them. The loss of the kingdom did not diminish his great splendor; he remained beloved by all, just as the waning moon’s beauty is undiminished. Even as he prepared to go to the forest and abandon the earth, there was no sign of disturbance in his mind, as if he were beyond all worldly attachments. He dismissed the auspicious white parasol and the finely adorned fans, sending away his own attendants, the chariot, the citizens, and the townsfolk. Bearing his sorrow within and restraining his senses, the self-controlled Rāma entered his mother’s house, though he came bearing news she would not wish to hear.