Rama entered Kaikeyi’s chamber and found his father, King Dasharatha, seated on a magnificently adorned throne. Yet, the grandeur of the surroundings could not veil the king’s wretched state—he appeared drained, forlorn, and utterly defeated, while Kaikeyi sat beside him in cold composure.
Though taken aback by the king’s unexpected despondency, Rama quickly composed himself. With reverence, he touched Dasharatha’s feet, followed by Kaikeyi’s. The king, barely able to speak, whispered Rama’s name in a feeble tone, his voice choked with tears. Breath heavy and uneven, his sorrowful state sent a shock through Rama’s heart. Never before had he seen his father, always a paragon of strength and kindness, so shattered. It was as though a storm had eclipsed the sun, leaving only darkness.
Rama’s heart churned like restless waves. Unable to endure the silence, he knelt before his father and Kaikeyi, saying, “Father greets me not with his usual joy. Is there some unknown grief weighing on him? Once, his anger would vanish in my presence, but today his sorrowful silence troubles me deeply. Have I, in my ignorance, offended? O revered Kaikeyi, if I have unwittingly done any wrong, I beg your forgiveness. Bless me and restore the king to his former self. Why does he avert his gaze? Is he afflicted by some illness? Has harm befallen Bharata, Shatrughna, or my mothers? My spirit falters, unable to bear his sorrow. Tell me what distresses him, and I shall do whatever it takes to bring back his peace.”
Kaikeyi, calm yet resolute, replied, “Rama, the king is not angry nor physically unwell. Yet, his heart is burdened with a truth he cannot bring himself to share with you. Long ago, he gave me his word, a boon I now claim. He laments not out of anger but regret. To honor his promise, you must fulfill what I ask.”
Hearing these words, Rama, unwavering in his composure, responded, “O Devi, speak plainly. I am ready to endure any trial—fire, poison, or the depths of the ocean—for my father’s sake. Tell me your wish, and it shall be done.”
Kaikeyi’s voice turned stern, her words cold and piercing. “Long ago, in the Devasura Sangram, I saved your father’s life twice. In gratitude, he granted me two boons. Today, I claim them. The first: Bharata shall be crowned king. The second: you, Rama, must leave for the forest and live in exile for fourteen years, clad in bark and linen, with matted hair, dedicating yourself to austerities. These are my demands, and the king is bound by his word. If you are truly your father’s son, uphold his promise.”
Though Kaikeyi’s words cut like a blade, Rama stood unmoved. Power, wealth, and the throne meant nothing to him; his only concern was his father’s anguish. Without hesitation, he said, “O Devi, your wish shall be fulfilled. I shall leave for the forest, as commanded. Yet, I wonder why my father, so strong and virtuous, hesitated to tell me himself. Had he merely asked, I would have surrendered all that I possess to Bharata gladly. Nonetheless, I obey. I will don the garments of an ascetic and depart this very moment. Console the king and ease his heart, for my departure is not a matter of regret but duty.”
Hearing Rama’s unwavering resolve, Dasharatha collapsed, weeping inconsolably. Rama gently lifted him, assuring him of his obedience. With folded hands, he said to Kaikeyi, “Though you doubted my readiness to fulfill your wish, I harbor no resentment. I bid farewell to my mother, Sita, and Bharata. Advise Bharata to care for our father; it is his duty, too.”
With unmatched grace and composure, Rama touched his father’s feet, as well as Kaikeyi’s, before taking his leave. His countenance remained serene, devoid of regret. Like a true yogi, he embraced his destiny, relinquishing worldly splendor for the greater cause of dharma. A transformation had begun—one that would prepare him for the universal welfare to come.
