After showing due honor to Bharata, the son of Kaikeyi, the king of the Kekayas, Bharata’s maternal grandfather, bestowed upon him generous gifts: two thousand gold coins and sixteen hundred fine horses. In the same spirit, the lord of horses, eager to please, quickly provided Bharata with trusted and virtuous ministers to serve as his attendants. Bharata’s maternal uncle, Yudhājit, also gave him splendid gifts—elephants of the noble Airavata line, with heads as majestic as Indra’s, pleasing to the eye, along with swift, well-harnessed mules. He further presented Bharata with palace-raised dogs, mighty as tigers, powerful and large, armed with formidable fangs. Having received these tokens of affection and honor, Bharata—victorious in battle—took leave of his maternal grandfather and uncle. With Shatrughna beside him, he mounted his chariot and departed. Yet, as he set out, a great anxiety gripped his heart, stirred by the urgency of the royal messengers and troubling dreams that had visited him. Surrounded by a host of men, elephants, and horses, Bharata left his residence and entered the grand, unrivaled royal road. As he passed through, Bharata, noble of mind, gazed upon the inner city before entering it unhindered. After taking leave once more of his mother and his maternal uncle Yudhājit, Bharata and Shatrughna climbed into their chariot and set forth. More than a hundred chariots, their wheels perfectly rounded, were harnessed and followed by servants riding camels, cattle, horses, and mules, all in Bharata’s train. Protected by his army and accompanied by ministers of high rank, Bharata, with Shatrughna—free from enemies—departed from his house as if leaving the celestial world of Indra. Thus begins the seventy-first chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section. Bharata, valiant and resolute, left the royal palace and soon came upon the radiant Sudāmā river, which he crossed. The illustrious son of Ikṣvāku then traversed the delightful, distant, backward-flowing, and wave-laden Śatadrū river. Onward he went, crossing the Ela-dhāna river, traversing the stony path and the Agneyam—a place marked by arrow-cutting. Upright, pure, and illustrious, Bharata gazed at the stony hills, passed over the great mountains, and journeyed toward the Caitra forest. He reached the sacred rivers Sarasvatī and Gaṅgā, and, crossing them with vigor, entered the northern Bhāruṇḍa forest, realm of the heroic Matsyas. Soon, he arrived at the swift-flowing Yamunā, known as Kulinga, its waters echoing amidst the mountains. After crossing, he comforted his weary army, allowing men and horses to bathe and drink, refreshing themselves before moving on, taking water for the journey ahead. Through vast, seldom-trodden forests, Bharata advanced nobly in his fine vehicle, moving like the wind across the sky. Swiftly, he approached the mighty Bhāgīrathī river near the renowned city on its eastern bank. Crossing the Gaṅgā, he reached Kuṭikoṣṭhikā, and from there, with his forces, continued on to Dharmavardhana. South of the city gate, he came to Jambūprastha, and from there proceeded to the charming village of Varūtha. After resting in the pleasant forest, Bharata pressed onward to the garden of Ujjihāna, where beloved trees grew in abundance. Among the sāla trees, he quickly mounted his horses, gave the signal to his army, and hurried forward. At every ford, he paused, crossing the Uttānakā river and many other mountain streams in swift vehicles. Reaching a hut near the back of an elephant, the tiger among men crossed the Lauhitya river at Kapivata. He continued over the Eka-sala, Vinata, and Gomati rivers, and, arriving at the city of Kalinga, entered the Sala forest. Exhausted from the journey, Bharata pressed on, passing through the forest and arriving at dawn. At last, after seven nights on the road, he beheld Ayodhya, the city built by King Manu. Seeing the city ahead, Bharata spoke to his charioteer, his heart heavy with foreboding: “This city, famed for its sacred gardens, does not appear familiar to me. Ayodhya is seen from afar, O charioteer, with its pale earth, once filled with Brahmins accomplished in virtue and skilled in the Vedas. Once, Ayodhya was crowded with sages, protected by the best of royal seers, and the city resounded with a great tumultuous sound.” “But now, I do not hear, all around, the voices of men and women. The gardens, after the day’s play, are deserted by the people. Once, the gardens shone with people running about, but today they seem to lament, abandoned by those who once delighted in them. O charioteer, the city appears to me like a wilderness; for here, no vehicles, no elephants, and no horses are to be seen.” “Nor do the leading men go out or come in as before; once, the gardens appeared joyful and exuberant. In the past, these gardens were filled with people enjoying themselves, full of the highest delights; but now I see them utterly devoid of joy. With fallen leaves along the paths and trees seeming to cry out, even now no sound is heard of intoxicated beasts or birds. The sweet, gentle voices that once spoke many words, mingled with sandalwood and agaru, and enveloped in incomparable incense, are no longer heard.” Thus, with a troubled heart, Bharata entered the silent, somber city of Ayodhya, sensing the sorrow that had fallen upon his ancestral home.