At the appointed hour, the messengers set out and soon arrived at the sacred river Ikṣumatī, revered by their ancestors and flowing from the Bodhibhavana. Along their journey, they observed Brāhmaṇas, learned in the Vedas, drinking water with cupped hands. Passing through the land of Bāhlīka and the mountain called Sudāmāna, they beheld the abode of Vishnu and came upon the Vipāśā and Śālmālī rivers. The landscape was dotted with rivers, ponds, lakes, marshes, and pools. As they traveled the great road, eager to fulfill their master's command, they witnessed lions, tigers, deer, and elephants in their natural habitats. Their vehicles, weary from the long journey, carried them swiftly to the best city—a mountain settlement—without delay. Driven by the desire to please their master, protect the family, and preserve the lineage, the messengers pressed on, undeterred, arriving at the city during the night. Now begins the sixty-ninth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. On the very night the messengers entered the city, Bharata experienced a deeply unsettling dream. When dawn broke and he recalled the troubling vision, the son of the great king was filled with distress. His dear friends, noticing his sorrow, gathered in the assembly to comfort him. Some told stories, others played music, danced, or performed comedies to lift his spirits. Yet, despite their efforts and gentle words, Bharata found no joy. One friend, seated among the companions, asked him, “My friend, why do you not take pleasure?” Bharata replied, “Listen to the reason for my sadness. In a dream, I saw my father, unkempt and with loosened hair, falling from a mountain peak into a muddy, filthy pool. He floated in that pool, repeatedly drinking oil with his hands, laughing again and again. After eating rice balls made of sesame, his head hanging low and his body smeared with oil, he immersed himself in oil over and over. I saw the ocean dried up, the moon fallen to earth, and blazing fire suddenly extinguished. The tusk of the royal elephant was shattered, and again the fire was snuffed out. The earth split open, many trees dried up, and mountains were scattered and smoking. Seated on an iron throne, dressed in black garments, the king was mocked by women with dark and tawny complexions. Hastening, righteous in nature, adorned with red garlands and ointments, he departed facing south in a chariot drawn by donkeys. It seemed a woman in red attire, a demoness with distorted posture, was dragging the king away. Thus I saw this terrifying night; either I, Rama, the king, or Lakshmana will die. A man who in a dream travels in a vehicle drawn by donkeys soon sees smoke rising from the funeral pyre. Because of this omen, I am distressed and do not honor you; my throat is parched and my mind uneasy. I see no cause for fear, yet I feel it; my voice has lost its resonance and my shadow is diminished. I feel disgust toward myself, though I know not why. Hearing this ill-omened dream, with its strange forms and unforeseen course, great fear does not leave my heart, as I ponder the king’s incomprehensible appearance.” Now begins the seventieth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. As Bharata described his dream, the messengers, their horses exhausted, entered the splendid royal palace and city, crossing the impassable moat. After meeting the king and his son and being honored, they took hold of the king’s feet and spoke to Bharata: “The priest sends his well-wishes, as do all the ministers. Depart quickly, for urgent duty awaits you. Receive these precious garments and ornaments, O wide-eyed one, and give them to your maternal uncle. Here are twenty crores from the king for your maternal uncle and ten crores for you, the king’s son.” Accepting these gifts, Bharata, affectionate toward his friends, addressed the messengers and honored them with his wishes: “Is my father, King Dasharatha, well? Has any harm befallen Rama or the great-souled Lakshmana? Is noble Kausalya—devoted to righteousness, wise in dharma, and perceiver of dharma—free from illness, the mother of wise Rama? Is Sumitra, knowledgeable in dharma and mother of Lakshmana and heroic Shatrughna, the middle one, also free from illness? My mother Kaikeyi, ever self-willed, fierce, quick to anger, wise, and proud—even if in good health—what did she say to me?” Thus addressed by the noble Bharata, the messengers spoke respectfully to him at that time.