As Bharata prepared for his journey, the lord of horses swiftly provided him with trusted and virtuous ministers to serve as his attendants, just as he wished. His maternal uncle bestowed upon him elephants of the noble Airavata lineage, their heads reminiscent of Indra’s own, magnificent to behold, and swift, well-harnessed mules as further riches. In addition, he gifted Bharata with powerful dogs, raised within the palace itself, large and strong as tigers, armed with formidable fangs. Having taken leave of his maternal grandfather and his uncle—both victorious warriors—Bharata, accompanied by his brother Shatrughna, mounted his chariot and set forth. Yet, even as he departed, a deep anxiety weighed upon his heart, stirred by the urgency of the royal messengers and the troubling vision he had seen in a dream. Leaving his own residence, Bharata proceeded, surrounded by a retinue of men, elephants, and horses, entering the splendid and unrivaled royal road. As he passed through, the noble-minded prince gazed upon the heart of the city, entering it unhindered and with dignity. Once more, taking leave of his mother and his maternal uncle Yudhājit, Bharata and Shatrughna ascended their chariot and departed. His servants harnessed over a hundred chariots with circular wheels, and, with camels, cattle, horses, and mules in tow, they followed Bharata as he set out. Protected by his army and accompanied by ministers of high standing—equal to Aryaka—Bharata, together with the valiant and enemy-free Shatrughna, departed from the house as if leaving Indra’s own realm. Now, listen to the next chapter in this glorious tale from the Ayodhyā section of Vālmīki’s Rāmāyaṇa. Bharata, his face set with determination, departed from the royal palace. Soon, he beheld the radiant Sudāmā river and crossed its waters. The illustrious son of Ikṣvāku then forded the delightful and distant Śatadrū river, whose waves flowed backward, and pressed onward. He crossed the Ela-dhāna river, traversed the stony paths and the Agneyam, a place marked by arrow-cutting. Truthful, pure, and illustrious, he gazed at the stone-laden hills and passed over the great mountains, making his way toward the Caitra forest. He reached and crossed the sacred Sarasvatī and Gaṅgā rivers with vigor, and entered the northern Bhāruṇḍa forest, famed among the heroic Matsyas. Before long, he arrived at the swift-flowing Yamunā—called Kulinga—its waters resounding, encircled by mountains. After crossing it, he reassured his weary army, allowing them to bathe, cool their limbs, and refresh the tired horses. They drank deeply, filled their vessels with water, and pressed on. Through the vast, seldom-frequented forest, Bharata rode nobly in his fine chariot, moving like the wind through the sky. Swiftly, he approached the mighty Bhāgīrathī, a river difficult to cross, at the renowned city on its eastern bank. After crossing the Gaṅgā, he arrived at Kuṭikoṣṭhikā, and, with his forces, proceeded to Dharmavardhana. On the southern side of the gate, he came to Jambūprastha, then continued on to the charming village of Varūtha. After resting in the pleasant forest, Bharata moved forward to the garden of Ujjihāna, where beloved trees flourished. Upon reaching the grove of sāla trees, he swiftly mounted his horses, gave the signal to his army, and hurried onward. Stopping at every ford, he crossed the Uttānakā river, then traversed many other mountain streams in his swift vehicles. At last, reaching the hut near the back of the elephant, the tiger among men crossed the Lauhitya river at Kapivata. He then forded the Eka-sala, Vinata, and Gomati rivers, and, upon arriving at the city of Kalinga, entered the dense Sāla forest. With his vehicle thoroughly exhausted, Bharata pressed on through the forest and, at dawn, finally reached his destination. After seven nights on the road, Bharata—tiger among men—beheld Ayodhya, the city built by the illustrious Manu. Seeing Ayodhya in the distance, he spoke to his charioteer, his voice tinged with sorrow: “This city, renowned for its sacred gardens, is no longer familiar to me. Ayodhya lies before us, O charioteer, its earth pale, inhabited by Brahmins accomplished in virtue and skilled in the Vedas. Once, this city was crowded with sages and protected by the best of royal seers; a great, joyous tumult always filled the air. “But today, I hear neither the voices of men nor women. The gardens, once alive with the day’s play, now stand deserted. Where once people ran about, filling the gardens with life, now the very trees seem to mourn, abandoned by those who once delighted in them. “O charioteer, the city appears to me like a wilderness; there are no vehicles, no elephants, no horses to be seen. The leading men no longer go out or come in as before; the gardens, once joyful and exuberant, are now utterly devoid of delight. “Leaves lie fallen along the paths, and the trees themselves seem to cry out. There is no sound now of intoxicated beasts or birds. The sweet, gentle voices that once mingled with the fragrance of sandalwood and agaru, enveloped in incomparable incense, have vanished. Why does the auspicious wind not blow today as before, carrying with it the blended sounds of drums, mridangas, and veenas played at every corner?” Thus, Bharata returned to a city shrouded in silence and sorrow, its once vibrant heart now subdued, as he pondered the ominous change that had befallen Ayodhya.