Kaikeyī, firm in her resolve, declared that Bharata, the lord of the Kosalas, should rule the earth—an earth rich with jewels and crowded with horses and chariots. She explained that because of this decision, the king, overcome by compassion and grief, could not bear to look upon Rāma. She urged Rāma, the delight of the Raghus, to obey the king’s bidding, asking him to deliver the lord of men through his truthfulness. Even as Kaikeyī spoke these harsh words, Rāma did not succumb to sorrow. Though troubled, the great-souled Rāma maintained his composure, while the king was tormented by grief for his beloved son. Now begins the nineteenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing Kaikeyī’s unpleasant, death-like command, Rāma, the destroyer of foes, remained unshaken. He addressed Kaikeyī, saying, “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 I wish to know: for what reason does the mighty king, the subduer of enemies, not greet me as he did 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?” Rāma continued, “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 Dandaka forest, without hesitation, to dwell there for fourteen years, just as my father has commanded.” Hearing Rāma’s words, Kaikeyī was pleased, believing in his departure. She urged Rāma to hasten, saying, “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 his golden-adorned couch. Urged by Kaikeyī, Rāma 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. 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.” When the father heard Rāma’s words, overwhelmed by grief and unable to speak because of sorrow, he broke into loud weeping. Rāma, radiant as ever, bowed at the feet of his senseless father and also at those of the unworthy Kaikeyī, then fell to the ground. Circumambulating his father and Kaikeyī, Rāma departed from the inner chambers and met his own friends. Lakṣmaṇa, Sumitrā’s son, his eyes filled with tears and burning with anger, followed behind him. 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, for he was beloved by all, just as the waning moon does not lose its beauty. Even as he prepared to leave for the forest and abandon the earth, no disturbance of mind could be seen in him, as if he were beyond the world. He dismissed the auspicious white parasol and the finely adorned fans, sent away his own people, the chariot, the citizens, and the townsfolk. Bearing his sorrow in his mind and restraining his senses, the self-controlled Rāma entered his mother’s house, though he brought her unwelcome news. All the noble attendants of illustrious, truthful Rāma could not discern any change in his face.