Bound by the unbreakable fetter of truth and urged relentlessly by Kaikeyī, King Daśaratha, weeping and distressed, spoke to his beloved son Rāma. He pleaded, “For your welfare, growth, and safe return, dear child, go without anxiety—may your path be unobstructed and secure.” Yet, he confessed, “O delight of the Raghus, I know your mind is set on truth and righteousness; your resolve cannot be turned back. But, my son, do not depart tonight under any circumstances—allow me at least this one day in your presence.” Daśaratha lamented, “What you are doing, beloved Rāghava, is truly difficult; for my sake, you have taken up this forest life. Yet, it does not please me, my son—by truth I swear, 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, being urged by Kaikeyī, who is steadfast in her resolve but unrighteous in conduct. Nor is it astonishing, my son, that you, my eldest, wish to keep your father free from falsehood.” Hearing his father’s anguished words, Rāma turned sorrowfully to his brother Lakṣmaṇa. He said, “What virtues will I gain today, and who will grant them to me 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 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. 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.” He continued, “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 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. 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.” Rāma assured his father, “For, my father is regarded as a deity, even among the gods themselves, O dear one. 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. 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.” He declared, “O King, 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. 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, fell to the ground, and lay motionless. All the assembled queens wept, except for Kaikeyī; Sumantra too, weeping, fell into a faint, and everywhere cries of lamentation arose. Now, listen to the thirty-fifth sarga. Suddenly, shaking his head and sighing repeatedly, Daśaratha ground his hand in his palm and gnashed his teeth. His eyes, bloodshot with anger, lost their usual color; overcome by wrath, he was seized by terrible distress. Observing the king’s turmoil, the charioteer Sumantra, with words sharp as arrows, seemed to shake Kaikeyī’s heart. With words like thunderbolts, unmatched and harsh, Sumantra spoke as if piercing all the vital points of Kaikeyī. He said, “She for whom you, King Daśaratha, have abandoned your own wife—he who is the lord of all the world, both moving and unmoving. There is no act here, O Queen, that is more grievous than yours; I consider you a husband-slayer, and ultimately, a destroyer of your lineage. By your deeds, you torment one who is like Indra, unconquerable; like a mountain, unshakable; like the great ocean, unperturbed. Do not look down upon King Dasharatha, your husband and benefactor; for a husband’s wish is for women more important than even a hundred million sons.” Thus unfolded the scene, filled with sorrow, steadfastness, and the piercing words of truth and grief.