Bharata, his heart heavy with sorrow, spoke earnestly of the injustice that had befallen them all. “It is solely by relying on Queen Kaikeyi’s command,” he said, “that the king has acted in this way—whether it is right or wrong—oppressing us all. If Rama has been exiled out of greed or simply to fulfill a promise, then a great wrong has been done. This was carried out only to satisfy the king’s will, but I see no justification whatsoever for abandoning Rama.” He continued, “This act was undertaken without proper thought, contrary to reason, and it will only provoke public outcry. As for myself, O great king, I do not recognize any fatherhood; for Rama is my brother, my lord, my kinsman, and my father. Having cast aside one who is beloved by all and devoted to everyone’s welfare, how can you expect the world to remain loyal to you after such a deed? By exiling Rama, who brings joy to all and is righteous, how can you hope to continue as king, having set yourself against the entire world?” As Bharata spoke, Sita—Janaki—stood by, sighing deeply, steadfast in her vows. She was motionless, her mind struck down by sorrow. The illustrious princess, who had never before known such misfortune, wept silently, unable to speak a word to Bharata. With a face parched by grief, she gazed at her husband, and tears fell as she watched Bharata depart. Rama, too, stood there, his face wet with tears, his hands joined in reverence, protected by Lakshmana’s arm. Sita, steadfast and weeping, kept her gaze fixed on the royal chariot and on Bharata as he left. Now, listen to the next part of this sacred tale from the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Ayodhya Kanda. When my horses turned to return, they would not proceed on the path—they shed hot tears as Rama set out for the forest. After offering my respects to both princes, I mounted the chariot and departed, carrying sorrow within me. I remained there with Guha for many days, hoping that perhaps Rama would call for me again. O great king, even the trees in your realm, weighed down by grief for me, have withered, though they are covered with flowers, shoots, and buds. The rivers run with warm waters, the ponds and lakes are parched, and the forests and groves are filled with withered leaves. The creatures do not stir, nor do the wild beasts roam; the forest, overcome by grief for Rama, has become silent. The lotuses have closed their petals, their waters are turbid, the ponds are scorched, and the lilies, along with their fish and birds, have disappeared. The flowers and garlands that float on water or grow on land no longer shine as before; their fragrance is faint, and the fruits are not as they once were. The gardens here are empty, the birds have vanished, and, O best of men, I no longer see the delightful parks as I once did. No one greets me as I enter Ayodhya; the people, deprived of seeing Rama, sigh again and again. Seeing the royal chariot return without Rama, all the people along the royal road are filled with tears and grief. From their mansions, palaces, and towers, the women, tormented by Rama’s absence, cry out in lamentation. With wide, clear eyes brimming with tears, they look at one another, overwhelmed by pain. In my distress, I cannot tell friend from foe or stranger; all are the same to me. The people are joyless, the elephants and horses are dejected, their voices faint and withered, sighing deeply. O great king, Ayodhya, stricken by Rama’s exile, seems to me like Kausalya bereft of her son—utterly devoid of joy. Hearing these words from his charioteer, the king, his voice choked with tears and heavy with sorrow, spoke in reply: “This was not approved by me, nor by wise elders skilled in counsel. It was imposed upon me by Kaikeyi, whose mind was set on evil. I did not consult with friends, ministers, or citizens; in confusion and because of a woman, I made this decision suddenly. Surely, by fate or some great calamity, this disaster has come upon our family, O charioteer, leading to its ruin. Charioteer, if I have ever done you any good, quickly take me to Rama; my life is slipping away. Let whatever authority I have be used to bring Raghava back; I cannot live even a moment without Rama. Or if the mighty-armed one has already gone far, then place me on the chariot and swiftly take me to him. Where is that elder brother of Lakshmana, with curved tusks and a great bow? If I live, may I see him again, together with Sita. If I do not see Rama, with blood-red eyes, mighty arms, and gem-studded earrings, I will go to the abode of Yama. What could be more painful than this: that I, descended from Ikshvaku, have come to this state and do not see Raghava here? Alas, Rama! Rama’s younger brother! Alas, ascetic Vaidehi! You do not know that I am dying, abandoned by sorrow.” Overwhelmed by intense grief, the king, his mind utterly afflicted, plunged into a sorrow like an ocean impossible to cross, and spoke these words, his heart broken.