With a heavy heart, King Daśaratha spoke to Rāma, his words laden with grief and truth. “This does not please me, my son,” he said, his voice trembling. “By truth I swear, O Rāghava—I have been deceived by a woman as destructive as a fire hidden beneath ashes.” His anguish was clear as he continued, “The deception that has befallen me, you now seek to overcome, urged on by Kaikeyī—resolute in her demands, yet unrighteous in her conduct.” He looked upon Rāma, his eldest and most beloved son, and added, “It is not even surprising, my son, that you, my firstborn, wish to keep your father free from falsehood.” Hearing his father’s sorrowful words, Rāma turned to his brother Lakṣmaṇa, his own voice weighed down with sadness. “What virtues will I gain today, and who will grant them to me tomorrow?” he wondered aloud. “Therefore, I choose only to depart, renouncing all desires.” Resolute, Rāma declared, “This earth, with its provinces, its people, its wealth, and its grain—I relinquish it all. Let it be given to Bharata. My resolve to dwell in the forest shall 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.” He continued, “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. Let your sorrow depart, do not be overwhelmed with tears; the mighty ocean, lord of rivers, is never disturbed.” Rāma’s resolve was unwavering. “I do not desire the kingdom, nor happiness, nor the earth, nor any of these pleasures, nor even heaven, nor 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.” He spoke of his answer to Kaikeyī: “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.” With reverence, Rāma added, “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?” Again, he reaffirmed his renunciation: “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.” Rāma’s devotion shone through: “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.” He tried to comfort Daśaratha, saying, “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.” But the king, overwhelmed by calamity and pain, embraced his son, lost consciousness, fell to the ground, and did not move at all. All the assembled queens wept, except for Kaikeyī, and Sumantra, too, weeping, fell into a faint. Everywhere, cries of lamentation arose. Now listen to the next chapter of the tale. Suddenly, Sumantra, the charioteer, shook his head, sighing again and again. In his anguish, he ground his hand in his palm and gnashed his teeth. His eyes, usually calm, were now bloodshot with anger, their color lost; wrath overcame him, and he was seized by terrible distress. Seeing the king’s suffering, Sumantra addressed Kaikeyī with words sharp as arrows, words that seemed to pierce her very heart. His voice thundered, harsh and unmatched: “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, more grievous than yours; I consider you a husband-slayer, and ultimately, a destroyer of your lineage.” He did not hold back: “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 Daśaratha, your husband and benefactor; for a husband’s wish is for women more important than even a hundred million sons.” Sumantra’s words struck at the heart of the matter: “Just as, upon the king’s death, kingdoms pass according to age, so you wish to deprive the lord of the Ikṣvāku line of his due. Let your son Bharata become king and rule the earth; we will go wherever Rāma goes. No Brahmin should dwell in your realm; today you are about to commit such an unrighteous act. Surely, we will all follow the path that Rāma takes, abandoned by all relatives, Brahmins, and the virtuous. What joy will you, O Queen, find in gaining the kingdom, when you are intent on committing such a disgraceful deed?” Thus, in the palace filled with grief and lamentation, truth and duty stood firm in the heart of Rāma, while the pain of separation and the sting of harsh words echoed through the halls.