As Kaikeyī spoke her harsh words, Rāma, steadfast in spirit, did not succumb to sorrow. Yet, the noble prince was deeply troubled, and King Daśaratha, tormented by grief for his beloved son, suffered greatly. Now begins the nineteenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Upon hearing Kaikeyī’s painful, death-like command, Rāma—the destroyer of foes—remained unshaken and addressed her calmly: “So be it. I will leave for the forest and dwell there, wearing matted hair and bark, upholding the king’s promise. Yet, I wish to know: for what reason does the mighty king, the subduer of enemies, not greet me as he once did? Do not be offended, O queen; I say this before you: I will gladly go to the forest, wearing bark and matted hair. “When commanded by a beneficent elder, a grateful king and father, how could I not, with confidence, do what is dear to them? Only one thought, without cause, 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, and dwell there for fourteen years, just as my father has commanded.” Hearing Rāma’s words, Kaikeyī became glad. Trusting in his resolve to depart, she urged Raghava to hasten: “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. The king, out of shame, does not speak to you himself—O best of men, do not take this to heart; 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.” Overwhelmed by grief, King Daśaratha sighed, “Alas, how terrible!” and fainted, falling upon his golden-adorned couch. Rāma, urged by Kaikeyī, lifted up the king and, like a horse struck by a whip, made haste to depart for the forest. Rāma then spoke to Kaikeyī: “O lady, I am not one who seeks gain; 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 Dandakas. Let Bharata rule the kingdom and serve his father as he should; so too must you act, for that is the eternal law.” Upon hearing Rāma’s words, Daśaratha, overwhelmed by grief and unable to speak, broke into loud weeping. Rāma, radiant, bowed at the feet of his senseless father and at the feet of the unworthy Kaikeyī, then fell to the ground. Circumambulating both his father and Kaikeyī, he departed from the inner chambers and saw his friends. Lakṣmaṇa, the joy of Sumitrā, his eyes filled with tears and burning with anger, followed behind Rāma. Rāma, having circumambulated the vessels prepared for his consecration, walked 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 resolved to go to the forest and abandon the earth, no disturbance of mind could be seen in him, as if he were beyond all 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 sorrow in his mind and restraining his senses, the self-controlled one entered his mother’s house, though he brought her unwelcome news. All the noble attendants of the illustrious, truthful Rāma could not discern any change in his face. The mighty-armed, self-controlled one did not abandon his usual composure, like the autumn moon, radiant with its own light. Rāma, of great fame and righteous soul, honoring everyone with sweet words, entered his mother’s presence. Lakṣmaṇa, his brother of great prowess and equal in virtues, followed, bearing his own sorrow.