As the events unfolded in Ayodhyā’s palace, Rāma’s gentle and modest wife stood in distress, seeking comfort. But all eyes turned to the king, the lord of the land, who sat with his gaze fixed upon the earth, slow tears tracing silent paths down his cheeks. The air was thick with sorrow and uncertainty. Kaikeyī, determined and resolute, spoke: messengers should be dispatched at once, riding swift horses, to bring Bharata back from his maternal uncle’s house, as the king commanded. Rāma, ever obedient and unwavering, declared his own resolve: he would leave promptly for the Dandaka forest, without hesitation, to dwell there for fourteen years, just as his father had decreed. Hearing these words, Kaikeyī’s heart swelled with satisfaction; convinced that Rāma would indeed depart, she pressed him to hasten his preparations. She agreed with the plan to send messengers for Bharata, but insisted that there should be no delay—Rāma, eager as he was, should set out for the forest at once. She explained that the king, overcome by shame, could not bring himself to speak directly; Rāma, the best of men, should not take offense or let anger arise in his heart. Until Rāma left the city for the forest, his father would neither bathe nor eat, so Kaikeyī urged him to hurry. Meanwhile, the king, sighing, “Alas, how terrible,” was utterly overcome by grief. He fainted, collapsing onto his golden-adorned couch. Urged by Kaikeyī, Rāma lifted his father, and, like a horse driven by the whip, prepared himself to depart for the forest. Turning to Kaikeyī, Rāma spoke with calm dignity, “O lady, I do not seek gain; I cannot bear to live in the world for its pleasures. Know me to be like the sages, established in pure righteousness. Whatever I could do to please you, I have done fully—even at the cost of my life. There is no greater righteousness than serving one’s father and obeying his command. Even though my father has not spoken the words himself, at your request I will dwell in the lonely forest for fourteen years. Surely, Kaikeyī, you expect no virtues from me, since you spoke to the king about me, though you are my superior. As soon as I have taken leave of my mother and comforted Sītā, I will go today itself to the great Dandaka forest. Let Bharata rule the kingdom and serve his father as is right; you too must fulfill your duty, for this is the eternal law.” The king, hearing his son’s steadfast words, was overwhelmed by grief and unable to speak; he broke into loud weeping. Rāma, radiant and humble, bowed at the feet of his senseless father and even at those of the unworthy Kaikeyī, then fell to the ground in reverence. Circumambulating both his father and Kaikeyī, Rāma departed from the inner chambers and was met by his friends. Lakṣmaṇa, Sumitrā’s joy, his eyes brimming with tears and burning with anger, followed behind his beloved brother. Rāma, approaching the vessels prepared for his consecration as king, circumambulated them as well, walking away slowly, his gaze lingering on them. The loss of the kingdom did not diminish his great splendor; beloved by all, he was like the moon, whose beauty is undiminished even as it wanes. Though he was about to abandon the world and go to the forest, Rāma’s mind showed no disturbance—he seemed beyond the reach of worldly sorrow. He dismissed the auspicious white parasol, the finely adorned fans, his attendants, his chariot, and the citizens and townsfolk who had gathered. Bearing his sorrow within and restraining his senses, the self-controlled Rāma entered his mother’s house, though he brought her unwelcome news. Yet, all his noble attendants could not discern any change in his face. The mighty-armed, self-controlled Rāma did not abandon his usual composure, radiant like the autumn moon. Honoring everyone with sweet words, Rāma, famed for his righteousness, entered his mother’s presence. Lakṣmaṇa, equal to him in virtue and prowess, followed, carrying his own sorrow. Though entering the house, which had always greeted him with joy, and now faced with misfortune, Rāma showed no agitation, mindful of the distress it might cause his friends. Thus ends the nineteenth sarga. Let the twentieth be heard. As that tiger among men, Rāma, departed with joined palms, a great cry of anguish rose from the women in the inner chambers. Rāma, commanded by his father and the palace, had always been their guide and refuge, but today he would leave them. Since his birth, Rāghava had always conducted himself toward all the royal wives with the same devotion and respect he showed his mother Kausalyā. He never became angry, even when insulted, and always avoided causes for wrath; he would appease those who were angry and now, he was to depart. The royal wives lamented, “Alas, our king acts without wisdom among the living, for he abandons Rāghava, who is the path for all beings.” Their cries echoed through the palace like cows bereft of their calves, and they wailed aloud for their husband. The king, tormented by grief for his son, heard their dreadful sounds and collapsed upon his seat, overcome. Rāma, deeply troubled and breathing heavily like an elephant, entered his mother’s inner chambers with his brother, self-controlled even amidst this sorrow.