Rāma, steadfast in his resolve, spoke with heartfelt clarity: “I do not seek the kingdom, nor happiness, nor the earth, nor any pleasures, nor even heaven or life itself. You alone, O best of men, are my true desire—not falsehood. By your truth and virtue, I swear this before you.” He continued, “Father, it is impossible for me to remain even for a moment; bear this grief, for my resolve will not waver.” Turning to Rāghava, he explained, “Kaikeyī herself requested that I go to the forest, and I replied, ‘I will go.’ Now, I am faithfully upholding that truth.” Rāma sought to comfort his father: “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 reminded his father, “For, you are regarded as a deity even among the gods themselves. Therefore, as if it were a divine command, I shall carry out your word.” Rāma reassured him, “When fourteen years have passed, O best of kings, you will see me returned; let go of this sorrow.” He gently admonished, “You, O tiger among men, who ought to restrain all these tears, why have you yourself succumbed to distress?” Rāma declared, “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 added, “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 affirmed, “Therefore, 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, lost consciousness, and fell to the ground, unmoving. All the assembled queens wept, except Kaikeyī. Sumantra, too, weeping, fell into a faint, and everywhere arose cries of lamentation. Now, listen to the thirty-fifth sarga. Suddenly, Daśaratha 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; overcome by wrath, he was seized by terrible distress. Observing the king’s mind, the charioteer Sumantra, with words sharp as arrows, seemed to shake Kaikeyī’s heart. With thunderbolt-like words, 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, 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.” He continued, “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.” Sumantra pressed further, “Even the terrible, blazing, awe-inspiring rods of the great Brahmarshis, created for cursing, do not harm one who stands firm on sending Rāma to exile. Who, after cutting down a mango tree with an axe, would tend a neem tree? Even if watered with milk, it will not become sweet. I think your lineage is just like your mother's; for it is said in the world that honey does not flow from a neem tree. We know, as heard before, of your mother's evil nature; some benefactor once granted your father an excellent boon.” He recalled, “From that boon, your father, the lord of the earth, gained the ability to understand the speech of all beings, including animals. Then, while lying on the bed of Jṛmbha, the illustrious one, your father heard the sounds of many creatures and laughed repeatedly. There, your mother, angered and desiring the noose of death, said to your father, ‘Tell me, I wish to know the reason for your laughter.’ The king replied, ‘O Queen, if I reveal to you the reason for my laughter, then I will die at once—of this there is no doubt.’ Your mother again spoke to your father, O Queen of Kekaya: ‘Tell me, whether you live or die, you must not deceive me.’ Thus addressed by his beloved, the king of Kekaya spoke to him truthfully about granting that boon.” Thus, the sorrow and tumult of Rāma’s exile, the anguish of Daśaratha, and the bitter reproach of Sumantra toward Kaikeyī unfolded, echoing through the palace and the hearts of all present.