As Rāma stood before Kaikeyī, she gently urged him not to take offense at the king’s silence. Out of shame, she explained, the king could not speak to him directly, and she asked Rāma to set aside any anger he might feel. She pressed him to hurry, for until Rāma departed for the forest, his father would neither bathe nor eat. The urgency of the moment weighed heavily upon them. The king, overwhelmed by grief, sighed, “Alas, how terrible,” before fainting and collapsing onto his golden-adorned couch. Seeing his father in such distress, Rāma, prompted by Kaikeyī, lifted him up and, like a horse struck by a whip, resolved to make haste to the forest. Turning to Kaikeyī, Rāma spoke with calm dignity: “O lady, I am not one who seeks gain. I cannot bear to live in the world for its own sake. 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. There is truly no greater practice of righteousness than to serve one’s father and obey his command. Even though my father has not spoken the command himself, at your word I will dwell in the lonely forest for fourteen years. Surely, Kaikeyī, you expect no virtues in me, since you, my superior, 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.” But when the king heard Rāma’s words, he was so overwhelmed by grief that he could not speak, and broke into loud weeping. Rāma, radiant and resolute, bowed at the feet of his senseless father and at those of Kaikeyī, who had shown herself unworthy of his devotion, then fell to the ground in reverence. Circumambulating both his father and Kaikeyī, Rāma departed from the inner chambers and went to meet his friends. Lakṣmaṇa, Sumitrā’s son and the joy of his mother, followed behind Rāma, his eyes filled with tears and burning with anger. Rāma, having circumambulated the vessels prepared for his consecration, walked away slowly, unable to turn 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 retains its beauty. Even as he prepared to go to the forest and abandon the earth, there was no disturbance in his mind—he seemed beyond all worldly concerns. Rāma dismissed the auspicious white parasol and the finely adorned fans, sent away his own people, the chariot, the citizens, and the townsfolk. Bearing his sorrow within 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 and truthful Rāma could not discern any change in his face. Mighty-armed and self-controlled, Rāma did not abandon his composure, like the autumn moon radiant with its own light. Rāma, renowned for his righteousness, honored everyone with sweet words as he 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 that misfortune had come, yet he showed no agitation, fearing that his distress would trouble his friends. As Rāma departed with joined palms, the twentieth sarga begins. A great cry of anguish rose from the women in the inner chambers. Commanded by his father and by all the palace, Rāma had been their guide and refuge, but now he would leave them. Just as he always behaved toward his mother Kausalyā, Rāghava had conducted himself toward all since birth. He never became angry, even when insulted, avoiding all causes for wrath; appeasing those who were angry, he would depart from there today. 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 these dreadful sounds of anguish and collapsed upon his seat. Rāma, deeply troubled, breathed heavily like an elephant. Accompanied by his brother, he entered his mother’s inner chambers, maintaining self-control. At the doorway, he saw an elderly man, greatly honored, 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 these elders, Rāma entered the third chamber, where women, children, and elderly stood, 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. At that time, Queen Kausalyā, having spent the night in meditation, was performing worship of Viṣṇu at dawn, wishing for her son’s welfare.