King Daśaratha, his heart shattered by the web of deception cast upon him, looked upon his son Rāma and spoke with anguish, “This misfortune that has befallen me, you seek to overcome, my son, urged on by Kaikeyī—unyielding in her resolve, yet unrighteous in her conduct. Still, it is not surprising, my eldest, that you wish to keep your father free from falsehood.” Hearing his father’s pained words, Rāma turned with sorrow to his brother Lakṣmaṇa. “What virtues will I gain today, and who will bestow them upon me tomorrow? I choose only to depart, renouncing all desires. This earth, with its provinces, its people, its wealth and grain—I relinquish all; let them 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 granted in full—be true to your word, O king; I will carry out your command exactly as spoken. For fourteen years I will dwell in the forest among 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 fulfill 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. Nor is it possible for me, father, to remain even for a moment; bear this grief, for my resolve will not change. “O Rāghava, Kaikeyī has indeed requested me 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, resonant with the calls of many birds. 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? 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. “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, King Daśaratha embraced his son, then, losing consciousness, fell to the ground and did not move at all. All the assembled queens wept, except for Kaikeyī; Sumantra too, weeping, fell into a faint, and everywhere there arose cries of lamentation. Now listen to the next sarga. Suddenly, Sumantra shook his head, sighed deeply and repeatedly, grinding his hand in his palm and gnashing his teeth. His eyes, bloodshot with anger, lost their usual color, and overcome by wrath, he was seized by terrible distress. Observing the king’s state of mind, the charioteer, 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: “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. “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. Just as, upon the king’s death, kingdoms pass according to age, so you wish to deprive the lord of the Ikshvaku 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? I see it as a wonder that the earth does not split open at once for one whose conduct is like yours.