Rāghava, swift and resolute, journeyed toward the sacred Bhāgīrathī—known to all as the Gaṅgā—whose mighty currents were difficult to cross. He approached the famed city that graced her eastern bank. Upon reaching the shore, Rāghava and his company crossed the river and arrived at Kuṭikoṣṭhikā. Pressing onward with his forces, he traversed yet another crossing and soon reached Dharmavardhana. Continuing his journey, he came upon Jambūprastha, which lay on the southern side of the city gate. From there, the noble son of Daśaratha pressed on to the delightful village of Varūtha. After resting in its pleasant forests, he advanced toward the garden of Ujjihāna, a place beloved for its flourishing trees. When Bharata reached the grove of cherished sāla trees, he quickly mounted his horses, gave his army leave to proceed, and hastened forward. At every ford, he paused briefly, then crossed the Uttānakā river, making his way through many other mountain streams with his swift vehicles. At last, he reached a hermitage near the back of the elephant-shaped hill, and there, the mighty Bharata crossed the Lauhitya river at Kapivata. He continued on, crossing the Eka-sala, the Vinata, and the Gomati rivers. Arriving at the city of Kalinga, he entered the dense Śāla forest. By now, his vehicle and horses were thoroughly exhausted, but Bharata pressed on with urgency. After passing through the forest, he reached his destination at dawn. There, after seven nights on the road, Bharata—tiger among men—beheld Ayodhya, the city built by the ancient King Manu. Gazing ahead, he spoke with concern to his charioteer: “This city, renowned for its sacred gardens, appears strange and unfamiliar to me. Though I see Ayodhya from afar, with its pale earth and its Brahmins accomplished in virtue and Vedic wisdom, something is amiss.” He continued, his voice tinged with sorrow: “Once, Ayodhya bustled with sages and was protected by the greatest royal seers. The city always resounded with joyful tumult. But today, I do not hear the voices of men and women; the gardens, once alive with laughter and play, now stand deserted.” His eyes scanned the empty grounds. “These gardens once gleamed with people running about, but now they seem to mourn, abandoned by those who once delighted in them. The city appears to me like a wilderness—no vehicles, no elephants, no horses are to be seen.” He lamented further: “No longer do the leading men come and go as before. The gardens, once vibrant and exuberant, are now utterly devoid of joy. Fallen leaves line the paths, and the trees themselves seem to cry out. No longer do we hear the calls of intoxicated beasts or birds.” He remembered the past: “The sweet, gentle voices that once mingled with sandalwood and agaru, the air thick with incomparable incense, are now silent. Why does the auspicious wind not blow as it once did, carrying the music of drums, mridangas, and veenas struck in every corner?” Bharata’s heart grew heavier. “Why has the city’s constant music ceased? Why does it move so sluggishly? I see many unfavorable and evil omens. These inauspicious signs trouble my mind, O charioteer; surely, well-being among my kin is hard to find.” He confessed his distress: “Even when confusion is gone, my heart feels heavy and despondent. My senses are agitated, and I am overcome with fear.” With these worries weighing on him, Bharata entered the city protected by the Ikṣvāku dynasty, passing through the Vaijayanta gate, his vehicle weary from the long journey. The doorkeepers rose to greet him, asking after his victory. Accompanied by them, he moved forward, anxieties filling his heart as he greeted those stationed at the gate. Turning to his exhausted charioteer, Bharata asked, “O faultless one, for what reason have I been brought here in such haste? My heart is seized by ominous foreboding; I have heard such signs before, when kings met their end.” He looked around, deeply troubled. “O charioteer, I see all those signs here: the streets are unswept, and everywhere there is harshness. The gates stand improperly closed, all splendor is gone, rituals are neglected, and the air is thick with smoke from burnt incense.” He observed the city with sorrowful eyes. “I see households where families have not eaten, people lacking vitality, and homes bereft of fortune. The shrines have lost their garlanded beauty, their courtyards are unclean, and the temples—once radiant—are now empty and dull.” He continued, “Offerings to the gods are scattered, sacrificial enclosures are neglected, and in the flower markets, no garlands or other wares can be found. Even the merchants are absent, their hearts troubled, their businesses halted. In the temples and shrines, even the flocks of birds appear dejected.” He saw the suffering of the people. “Men and women in the city are unkempt, their eyes brimming with tears. They are thin, lost in thought, and overcome with longing.” Having spoken thus, Bharata, his mind deeply distressed by these inauspicious signs, made his way to the royal palace. He saw the city—once as radiant as the abode of Indra—now with empty towers, deserted mansions, and dusty red gates and doors. Overwhelmed with sorrow, he entered his father’s house, his head bowed, his mind heavy and joyless, having witnessed so many misfortunes that had never before befallen his beloved city. Thus concludes this portion of the sacred narrative, as told in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa.