Rāma stood before his stepmother Kaikeyī, his heart burning with only one unresolved thought: Why had the king himself not told him of Bharata’s consecration? He spoke with gentle sincerity, assuring her that he would have gladly given Sītā, the kingdom, his very life and all his cherished riches to his brother Bharata, even without being asked. What, then, could be difficult for him now, when his own father, upholding his promise for the sake of her dearest wish, had declared it? He urged Kaikeyī to comfort the modest and suffering king, and wondered aloud why the lord of the land, his gaze cast down, was shedding tears so slowly. Rāma suggested that swift messengers be sent with horses to bring Bharata back from his maternal uncle’s house as the king desired. As for himself, he declared he would depart at once for the Dandaka forest, ready to dwell there for fourteen years as his father had commanded. Hearing these steadfast words, Kaikeyī was glad, confident in his resolve to depart, and urged Rāma to hasten. She agreed that messengers should be sent to bring Bharata home, but insisted that Rāma himself should not delay, for it was not proper to wait when he was so eager. She explained that the king, out of shame, could not speak to him directly, and asked Rāma not to take offense or harbor any anger. Until Rāma left for the forest, she said, the king would neither bathe nor eat, so he should hurry. Overwhelmed by grief, the king sighed, “Alas, how terrible,” and fainted, collapsing upon his golden-adorned couch. Urged on by Kaikeyī, Rāma lifted his father gently, and, like a horse struck by a whip, prepared himself to leave for the forest. He spoke again to Kaikeyī, affirming that he was not one who sought gain, nor could he bear to live in the world for selfish reasons. He was like the sages, established in pure righteousness. Whatever he could do to please her, he had done completely, even at the cost of his own life. He declared that there was no greater righteousness than service to one’s father and obedience to his command. Even though his father had not told him directly, he would, at Kaikeyī’s word, dwell in the lonely forest for fourteen years. Rāma gently reproached her, saying that she must expect no virtue in him, since, though she was his superior, she had spoken to the king about him. As soon as he had taken leave of his mother and comforted Sītā, he vowed to depart that very day for the great forest of the Dandakas. He asked that Bharata should rule the kingdom and serve their father as he ought, and that Kaikeyī should do likewise, for this was the eternal law. When Rāma finished speaking, his father, overwhelmed by sorrow, could not utter a word and broke into loud weeping. Rāma, radiant and steadfast, bowed at the feet of his senseless father and also at those of Kaikeyī, though she had proved unworthy of his devotion, and then fell to the ground. Having circumambulated his father and Kaikeyī, Rāma departed from the inner chambers and saw his own friends. Lakṣmaṇa, Sumitrā’s son and the joy of his mother, followed behind, his eyes brimming with tears and burning with anger. Rāma then circumambulated the vessels prepared for his consecration, walking away slowly, his gaze lingering on 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 go to the forest and abandon the earth, his mind showed no disturbance, as if he were beyond all worldly ties. He dismissed the auspicious white parasol, the finely adorned fans, and sent away his attendants, chariot, citizens, and townsfolk. Bearing his sorrow within and restraining his senses, the self-controlled Rāma entered his mother’s house, though he brought her unwelcome news. All his noble attendants, devoted to the illustrious and truthful Rāma, could not discern any change in his face. The mighty-armed, self-controlled one maintained his composure, radiant like the autumn moon shining with its own light. Rāma, famous and righteous, honored everyone with sweet words as he entered his mother’s presence. Lakṣmaṇa, his virtuous brother of great prowess, followed, bearing his own sorrow. Entering the house, filled with joy, Rāma saw that misfortune had come, yet he showed no agitation, mindful of his friends’ distress. As Rāma departed with joined palms, a great cry of anguish arose from the women in the inner chambers. He, who had always been their guide and refuge, was now leaving at the command of his father and the inner palace. Since his birth, Rāghava had conducted himself toward them as he did toward his own mother Kausalyā. He never grew angry, even when insulted, and always pacified those who were angry. Today, this noble soul would depart. Alas, the women lamented, our king acts without wisdom, for he abandons Rāghava, who is the very path for all beings.