Seeing the sorrow weighing upon Bharata, his close friends gathered around him in the assembly, eager to lift his spirits. They began to share stories, hoping to distract him from his grief. Some played soothing music, others danced with grace, and yet others performed lively plays and comedies, all in the hope that joy might return to his heart. Yet, despite the warmth and efforts of his friends—despite their gentle words and playful jokes—Bharata, noble and steadfast, found no happiness. His mind remained troubled, untouched by their merriment. Noticing this, one dear companion, seated among the group, gently asked, “My friend, why do you not take pleasure in our company and festivities?” Bharata turned to his friend and replied, “Listen, and I will tell you the cause of this sorrow that has overtaken me. Last night, I had a dream—one that fills my heart with dread. I saw my father, King Dasharatha, his hair unkempt and loose, falling from a mountain peak into a muddy, filthy pool. There he floated, repeatedly scooping up oil with his hands and drinking it, laughing again and again in a way that chilled me. Then, I saw him eating rice balls made of sesame, his head hanging low, his whole body smeared with oil. Again and again, he immersed himself in the oil. In that same dream, I saw the ocean dried up, the moon fallen to the earth, and a blazing fire suddenly extinguished. The tusk of the royal elephant was shattered, and the fire vanished as if snuffed out in an instant. I saw the earth split open, many trees dried and withered, and mountains scattered and smoking. My father, the king, was seated on an iron throne, dressed in black garments, mocked by women with dark and tawny complexions. He departed swiftly, righteous in nature, adorned with red garlands and ointments, facing south in a chariot yoked with donkeys. It seemed as if a woman in red attire—a demoness, her posture twisted—was dragging the king away before my very eyes. Such was the terrifying night I witnessed. I fear that either I, Rama, the king, or Lakshmana will die. For it is said that a man who, in a dream, rides in a vehicle drawn by donkeys soon sees the smoke rising from a funeral pyre. Because of this dreadful omen, I am distressed and cannot honor your kindness; my throat is parched and my mind finds no peace. Though I see no outward cause for fear, I am gripped by it—my voice has lost its resonance and my shadow seems diminished. I feel a strange disgust toward myself, though I know not why. This ill-omened dream, with its many fearful forms and uncertain course, has filled my heart with great dread as I ponder the king’s incomprehensible appearance.” As Bharata spoke of his disturbing vision, messengers arrived at the splendid royal palace, their horses weary from the journey. They crossed the impassable moat and entered the city, seeking out Bharata. Having been received and honored by the king and his son, the messengers touched the king’s feet and spoke to Bharata, “The priest sends his well-wishes, as do all the ministers. You must depart quickly, for urgent matters await you.” They presented Bharata with precious garments and ornaments, requesting that he give them to his maternal uncle. “Here are twenty crores from the king for your maternal uncle, and ten crores for you, O prince,” they said. Bharata, affectionate toward his friends, received these gifts and honored the messengers with his wishes. He asked them anxiously, “Is my father, King Dasharatha, well? Has any harm befallen Rama or the great-souled Lakshmana? Is noble Kausalya, ever devoted to righteousness and wise in dharma, free from illness? What of Sumitra, mother of Lakshmana and the heroic Shatrughna, the middle brother—is she well? And my own mother, Kaikeyi—self-willed, proud, quick to anger and wise—even in good health, what message does she send me?” The messengers replied respectfully, “O tiger among men, those for whom you wish well are well. Fortune and the lotus goddess favor you; may your protection be assured.” Hearing this, Bharata said, “I will take leave of the great king; the messengers urge me to hurry.” Thus, prompted by their words, he addressed his maternal grandfather, the Kekaya king, “O King, urged by the messengers, I must go to my father’s presence. I will return again whenever you remember me.” His grandfather embraced him, blessing him with auspicious words, “Go, dear child, I give you permission. Kaikeyi is truly blessed to have a son like you. Convey my well-wishes to your mother and to your father, the supreme ascetic. Also greet the priest and all the excellent twice-born men, and, dear child, your brothers Rama and Lakshmana, those mighty archers.” The Kekaya king, after honoring Bharata, presented him with the best elephant, fine blankets, and skins as tokens of wealth. He also ordered two thousand gold coins and sixteen hundred horses to be given as gifts to Kaikeyi’s son, ensuring that Bharata departed with honor and abundance.