After crossing the sacred Gaṅgā and reaching its eastern bank, Bharata pressed onward to Kuṭikoṣṭhikā. With his entire force, he crossed the river and journeyed on to Dharmavardhana. Continuing his way, he arrived at Jambūprastha, situated on the southern side of the city gate, and from there, the son of Daśaratha made his way to the charming village of Varūtha. In that pleasant forested place, Bharata and his company paused for a while before moving ahead to the garden of Ujjihāna, renowned for its beloved trees. Upon reaching the grove of sāla trees, Bharata, eager to continue, swiftly mounted his horses, gave his army leave to follow, and hastened forward. At every ford along the way, Bharata paused, and after crossing the Uttānakā river, he traversed many other swift mountain streams, his vehicles moving quickly. Reaching a hut near the back of the elephant, that tiger among men crossed the Lauhitya river at Kapivata. He continued on, crossing the Eka-sala, Vinata, and Gomati rivers, and finally arrived at the city of Kalinga, where he entered the dense Śāla forest. His vehicle now thoroughly exhausted from the long journey, Bharata pressed on, passing through the forest to reach his destination at dawn. After seven nights on the road, that noble son of Daśaratha at last beheld Ayodhya, the illustrious city founded by King Manu. As Ayodhya came into view, Bharata spoke to his charioteer, his heart heavy with unease: “This city, famed for its sacred gardens, does not appear familiar to me.” He peered ahead and continued, “Ayodhya is seen from afar, O charioteer, its earth pale, inhabited by Brahmins accomplished in virtue and skilled in the Vedas. Once, Ayodhya was crowded with sages and protected by the best of royal seers; a great, joyful tumult always filled the air. But today, I do not hear the voices of men and women all around. The gardens, once alive with people after their daily play, now stand deserted.” He gazed at the city, sorrow filling his voice. “Formerly, the gardens shone with people running about; now they seem to mourn, abandoned by those who once delighted in them. O charioteer, the city appears to me like a wilderness. No vehicles, no elephants, no horses are to be seen. The leading men no longer go out or come in as before; the gardens, once exuberant, now seem joyless and forlorn. In the past, these places were filled with people enjoying themselves, full of the highest delights; now I see them utterly devoid of joy. With fallen leaves scattered along the paths and trees seeming to cry out, even the usual sounds of intoxicated beasts and birds are absent.” He went on, “The sweet, gentle voices that once filled the air, mingled with the fragrance of sandalwood and agaru, and enveloped in incomparable incense, are no longer heard. Why does the auspicious wind not blow today as before, bearing the mingled sound of drums, mridangas, and veenas played at every corner? Why has that constant sound ceased today? Why does the city move so sluggishly? I see many unfavorable and evil omens. Because of these inauspicious signs, my mind is troubled; surely, O charioteer, well-being among my relatives is hard to find. When confusion is absent, my heart seems to sink; I am despondent, my heart subdued, fearful, and my senses agitated.” With these anxious thoughts, Bharata swiftly entered the city protected by the Ikṣvāku dynasty, passing through the Vaijayanta gate, his vehicle weary from the journey. The doorkeepers rose to greet him, inquiring about his victory. Accompanied by them and greeting those stationed at the gate, Bharata pressed on, his mind heavy with worry. Turning to his charioteer, who was himself exhausted from the long drive, Bharata said, “O faultless one, for what reason have I been brought here in such haste? My heart is seized by ominous foreboding, my nature seems to be falling apart; I have heard such signs before, when kings met their end. O charioteer, I see all those signs here: the streets are unswept, and harshness is everywhere. The gates are not properly closed, all splendor is absent, rituals of offering are neglected, and the air is heavy with the smoke of burnt incense.” He continued his lament, “I see households whose families have not eaten, people lacking vitality, homes bereft of fortune. The shrines have lost their garlanded beauty, their courtyards are unclean, the temples are empty, and they do not shine as before. The offerings to the gods are scattered, the sacrificial enclosures are in disarray; in the flower markets, neither garlands nor other wares are seen today. Even the merchants are absent, their hearts troubled with anxious thoughts, their businesses at a standstill. In the temples and shrines, even the flocks of birds appear dejected. I see men and women in the city, unkempt, their eyes full of tears, thin, absorbed in thought, and overcome with longing.” Thus, after speaking in this way—his mind deeply distressed by the inauspicious signs he had witnessed in Ayodhya—Bharata made his way to the royal palace. He beheld the city, once bright as Indra’s own, now with empty towers, deserted mansions, and dusty red gates and doors, and his sorrow deepened. Observing so many unpleasant things, unlike anything he had ever seen in his beloved city, the great-souled Bharata, his head bowed, mind dejected and joyless, entered his father’s house. Here ends the seventy-first sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. But in his father’s house, Bharata did not find his father. Troubled, he turned and went to see his mother, in her own residence.