Bound by the boon he had granted Kaikeyī, King Daśaratha, tormented and helpless, turned to Rāma and spoke with trembling voice, “O Rāghava, deceived by Kaikeyī’s request, I am ensnared. Only you, my son, ought to be king in Ayodhyā today, restraining me from this course.” Thus addressed, Rāma—the very embodiment of righteousness—bowed low with joined palms and replied gently and skillfully to his father, “O King, may you rule this earth for a thousand years. I desire no kingdom. I will dwell in the forest as you have decreed.” He continued, “After fourteen years spent in the wilderness, I shall return and again clasp your feet, O lord of men, when my vow is fulfilled.” But Daśaratha, weeping and distraught, bound by his commitment to truth and pressed by Kaikeyī’s insistence, spoke again to his beloved son, “For your welfare, for your growth, and for your safe return, go, dear child, without anxiety, on a path free from obstacles.” He added with sorrow, “Indeed, O joy of the Raghu line, it is not possible to turn back the resolve of one such as you, whose mind is set on truth and righteousness. Yet, my son, do not depart tonight; let me at least spend this one day in your presence.” The king’s voice broke as he said, “What you are doing, beloved Rāghava, is truly difficult; for my sake, you have accepted this life in the forest. But this does not please me, my son—by truth I swear it, O Rāghava. I have been deceived by a woman as destructive as fire hidden beneath ashes.” With pain he confessed, “The deception that has befallen me you seek to overcome, being urged by Kaikeyī, who is steadfast in her resolve but unrighteous in conduct. Yet, my son, it is not astonishing that you, my eldest, wish to keep your father free from falsehood.” Hearing his father’s anguished words, Rāma turned sadly to Lakṣmaṇa and spoke, “What virtues will I gain today, and who will bestow them tomorrow? Therefore, I choose only to depart, renouncing all desires.” Resolutely, Rāma declared, “This earth, with its provinces, people, wealth, and grain, I relinquish; let it be given to Bharata. My resolve to dwell in the forest will not waver today; the boon you granted to Kaikeyī in battle, O bestower of boons, must be fulfilled. Let it be given in full—be true to your word, O King; I will carry out your command exactly as spoken. I will dwell in the forest for fourteen years with the forest-dwellers. Do not hesitate—let the earth be given to Bharata.” He assured his father, “I do not desire the kingdom, nor happiness, nor anything dear to myself, as much as I wish to carry out your command, O delight of the Raghus. Let your sorrow depart; do not be overwhelmed with tears. The mighty ocean, lord of rivers, is never disturbed. I do not desire the kingdom, nor happiness, nor the earth, nor any of these pleasures, nor heaven, nor even life itself. You alone I desire in truth, O best of men—not falsehood. By your truth and virtue, I swear this before you.” With unwavering firmness, Rāma continued, “Nor is it possible for me, father, to remain even for a moment. Bear this grief, for there will be no change in my resolve. O Rāghava, I have indeed been requested by Kaikeyī to go to the forest, and I replied, ‘I will go.’ I am now faithfully upholding that truth. Do not be anxious, O Lord; we shall enjoy ourselves in the forest, peaceful and filled with gentle deer, resounding with the calls of many birds.” He added reverently, “For, my father is regarded as a deity, even among the gods themselves, O dear one. Therefore, as if it were a divine command, I shall carry out my father’s word. When fourteen years have passed, O best of kings, you will see me returned; let go of this sorrow. You, O tiger among men, who ought to restrain all these tears, why have you yourself succumbed to distress?” Rāma continued, “The city, the kingdom, and the land itself I relinquish; let them be given to Bharata. I, obeying your command, shall go to the forest to dwell for a long time. Let Bharata rule over this land, with its mountains, cities, and groves, which I have relinquished; let him govern well within its auspicious borders. Whatever you have said, O King, so let it be. My mind is not drawn so much to great pleasures or even to what is dear to myself, as it is to carrying out your command, esteemed by the noble. May your sorrow on my account depart, O faultless one.” He concluded, “Therefore, O faultless one, today I do not desire the imperishable kingdom, nor the earth with all its enjoyments, nor even Maithilī. I would not choose anything by binding you to falsehood; let truth be your vow. Living in the forest, eating fruits and roots, seeing the mountains, rivers, and lakes, entering the forest with its wondrous trees, I shall be happy; may you find peace.” Overwhelmed by calamity and pain, the king embraced his son, then lost consciousness, fell to the ground, and did not move. All the assembled queens wept, save for Kaikeyī, and Sumantra too, overcome with grief, fainted. Everywhere, cries of lamentation arose. Now begins the thirty-fifth sarga. Then, suddenly shaking his head and sighing again and again, King Daśaratha ground his hand in his palm and gnashed his teeth in anguish. His eyes, bloodshot with anger, lost their usual color; seized by wrath, he was overtaken by terrible distress. Observing the king’s tormented mind, the charioteer Sumantra, with words as sharp as arrows, sought to strike at the heart of Kaikeyī. His speech, like thunderbolts—unmatched and harsh—seemed to pierce all the vital points of Kaikeyī, as he spoke out in the assembly.