Seeing Rāma’s eagerness to fulfill his duty, Kaikeyī spoke to him, saying, “Rāma, I believe it is not proper to delay when your heart is set. You should go to the forest at once.” She explained that the king, out of shame and sorrow, could not speak to him directly, and urged Rāma not to take offense or harbor anger. She told him that until he departed for the forest, his father would neither bathe nor eat, and urged him to hasten his departure. Overwhelmed by grief, King Daśaratha sighed, “Alas, how terrible!” and fainted, collapsing onto his golden-adorned couch. Rāma, urged by Kaikeyī, gently lifted the king, and, like a swift horse struck by a whip, made ready to leave for the forest. Turning to Kaikeyī, Rāma said, “O Lady, I do not seek gain; I cannot bear to live in this world. Know me to be like the sages, established in pure righteousness. Whatever I could do to please you, I have done completely—even at the cost of my life. Truly, there is no greater practice of righteousness than service to one’s father and obedience to his command. Even though my father has not spoken directly to me, at your word I will dwell in the lonely forest 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.” Hearing Rāma’s words, King Daśaratha was overcome with grief and unable to speak, breaking into loud weeping. Rāma, radiant and steadfast, bowed at the feet of his senseless father and also at those of Kaikeyī, then fell to the ground in reverence. Circumambulating both 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 Rāma. Rāma then circumambulated the vessels prepared for his consecration, walking away slowly and not turning his gaze from them. Despite losing the kingdom, Rāma’s great splendor remained undiminished, beloved by all, just as the waning moon does not lose its beauty. Even as he resolved to go to the forest and abandon his claim to the earth, Rāma’s mind showed no disturbance, as if he were beyond worldly attachments. He dismissed the auspicious white parasol, the finely adorned fans, his own people, the chariot, the citizens, and the townsfolk. Bearing 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. 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 virtues, followed, bearing his own sorrow. Entering the house, which was once filled with great joy but now struck by misfortune, Rāma did not show any agitation, mindful of 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 within the palace, Rāma had always been their guide and refuge, but now he was leaving. Just as he always behaved toward his mother Kausalyā, so too had Rāghava conducted himself toward all since birth. He never became angry even when insulted, avoided all causes for wrath, and appeased those who were angry. Today, however, he would 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.” They cried out like cows bereft of their calves and wailed aloud for their husband. King Daśaratha, tormented by grief for his son, heard the dreadful sounds of anguish within the palace and collapsed upon his seat. Rāma, deeply troubled, breathed heavily like an elephant, and, accompanied by his brother, entered his mother’s inner chambers, self-controlled. There, he saw an elderly man, greatly honored, seated at the doorway, and many others standing nearby. Upon seeing Rāma, all those present greeted him, praising Rāghava, the best among victors, with acclamations of victory. Entering the first chamber, Rāma saw in the second chamber Brahmins, learned in the Vedas, elderly and honored by the king. After bowing to those elders, Rāma saw in the third chamber women, children, and elderly, all devoted to guarding the doorway. Those joyful women, having offered their blessings, entered the house and quickly informed Rāma’s mother of her beloved son’s arrival.