Rāma, standing before Queen Kaikeyī, spoke with gentle resolve: “Do not take offense, O queen. I say this before you: I will gladly go to the forest, wearing bark and matted hair.” He explained his unwavering sense of duty, saying, “When commanded by a beneficent elder, a grateful king and father, why should I not, with confidence, do what is dear to them?” Yet a single thought troubled his heart—he wondered why King Daśaratha himself had not told him about Bharata’s consecration. “Only one thing, a baseless thought, burns my heart: that the king himself did not tell me of Bharata's consecration,” he admitted. Rāma’s love for his brother shone forth as he declared, “I would gladly give Sītā, the kingdom, my life, beloved riches, all to my brother Bharata, even unasked.” How much more, then, would he obey when the king himself was upholding his promise, compelled by Kaikeyī’s wish. Rāma urged Kaikeyī to comfort the modest and grieving king, yet wondered aloud why Daśaratha, the lord of the land, stared at the earth and slowly shed tears. He advised, “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 pressed 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.” Kaikeyī tried to explain Daśaratha’s silence: “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.” Overwhelmed by grief, Daśaratha sighed, “Alas, how terrible,” and fainted, collapsing upon his golden-adorned couch. Rāma, urged by Kaikeyī, tenderly lifted his father, and, like a horse struck by a whip, prepared to depart for the forest. He 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 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.” Rāma gently questioned Kaikeyī’s expectations: “Surely, Kaikeyī, you expect no virtues in me, since, though you are my superior, you spoke to the king about me.” He resolved, “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 Daśaratha heard Rāma’s words, his grief overwhelmed him. Unable to speak, he broke into loud weeping. The radiant Rāma then bowed at the feet of his senseless father and at those of Kaikeyī, though she had proved unworthy of his reverence, and fell to the ground in humility. Circumambulating both his father and Kaikeyī, Rāma departed from the inner chambers and met his own friends. Lakṣmaṇa, Sumitrā’s joyful son, his eyes filled with tears and burning with anger, followed closely behind. Rāma, circumambulating 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; he remained beloved by all, just as the waning moon does not lose its beauty. Even as he prepared to abandon the earth and go to the forest, no disturbance of mind could be seen in him—he seemed beyond all worldly attachments. He dismissed the auspicious white parasol and the ornate fans, sent away his people, the chariot, the citizens, and the townsfolk. Bearing sorrow in his heart and restraining his senses, the self-controlled Rāma entered his mother’s house, though he brought 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, renowned and righteous, honoring everyone with sweet words, entered his mother’s presence. Lakṣmaṇa, his brother of great prowess and equal virtue, followed, bearing his own sorrow. Entering the house, which was filled with great joy, Rāma saw misfortune had come, yet showed no agitation, fearing for the distress of his friends. As Rāma departed with joined palms, a great cry of anguish arose from the women in the inner chambers. Commanded by his father and all the palace, Rāma had always been their guide and refuge, but now he would depart. Just as he always behaved toward his mother Kausalyā, so too had Rāghava conducted himself toward all since birth.