When King Daśaratha spoke, his words heavy with sorrow, Rāma—the foremost among the righteous—bowed low with joined palms before his father. With skill and gentle firmness, he replied, “O King, may you rule this earth for a thousand years. I desire no kingdom. I will dwell in the forest instead. When fourteen years have passed, I will return and once more clasp your feet, O lord of men, when my vow is fulfilled.” The king, bound by his own truthfulness, wept in distress, compelled by Kaikeyī’s insistence. Through his tears, he spoke to his beloved son, “Go, my child, on a safe and unobstructed path. May you return in welfare and growth. But, O delight of the Raghus, it is not possible to turn back the resolve of one such as you, so steadfast in truth and righteousness. Still, my son, do not go tonight. Let me spend at least this one day in your presence.” He added, “What you are doing, dear Rāghava, is truly difficult. For my sake, you have taken up the life of 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. The deception that has befallen me, you wish to overcome, compelled by Kaikeyī, who is resolute but unrighteous. Yet, it is not astonishing that you, my eldest, wish to keep your father free from falsehood.” Hearing his father’s anguished words, Rāma turned sorrowfully to Lakṣmaṇa and said, “What virtues will I gain today, and who will grant them tomorrow? Therefore, I choose only to depart, renouncing all desires. 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. The boon you granted 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 continued, “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.” Rāma’s voice was steady, though his heart was heavy. “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 peaceful forest, filled with gentle deer and the calls of many birds. For my father is regarded as a deity, even among the gods themselves. Therefore, as if it were 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.” He gently chided, “You, O tiger among men, who ought to restrain all these tears, why have you yourself succumbed to distress? 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.” Rāma’s resolve was unshakable. “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, lost consciousness, and fell to the ground, unmoving. All the assembled queens wept, save for Kaikeyī. Sumantra, the charioteer, too, weeping bitterly, fell into a faint, and everywhere arose cries of lamentation. Now begins the thirty-fifth sarga. Suddenly, the king shook his head and sighed repeatedly, grinding his hand in his palm and gnashing his teeth. His eyes, bloodshot with anger, lost their usual color as he was seized by terrible distress. Observing the king’s agony, Sumantra, the charioteer, spoke with words sharp as arrows, shaking Kaikeyī’s very heart. His words, like thunderbolts—unmatched and harsh—struck at all the vital points of Kaikeyī. For she, for whom King Daśaratha had abandoned his own wife—he who is lord of all the world, both moving and unmoving—had brought such sorrow to the royal house.