As Bharata’s chariot approached Ayodhya, he gazed ahead and spoke to his charioteer with a troubled heart. “This city, famed for its sacred gardens, does not appear familiar to me,” he said, his eyes scanning the distant skyline. “Ayodhya is visible from afar, O charioteer, with its pale earth, filled with Brahmins accomplished in virtue and skilled in the Vedas. Once, it was crowded with sages and protected by the noblest of royal seers; in that city, a great, tumultuous sound always filled the air.” He paused, listening intently. “But today, I do not hear, all around, the voices of men and women. The gardens, after the day’s play, are now deserted by the people. Formerly, 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. Neither 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.” His gaze fell on the once-lively paths. “With fallen leaves scattered along the ways 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 the scent of sandalwood and agaru, enveloped in incomparable incense, are no longer heard. Why does the auspicious wind not blow today as before, carrying the mingled sounds of drums, mridangas, and veenas struck at the corners? Why has the sound, once constant, ceased today, and why does the city seem to 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.” He grew more anxious. “Indeed, when confusion is absent, my heart seems to sink; I am despondent, my heart is subdued, I am fearful, and my senses are agitated.” With these heavy thoughts, Bharata swiftly entered the city protected by the Ikshvaku dynasty, passing through the Vaijayanta gate, his vehicle weary from the long journey. The doorkeepers rose in respect and inquired about his victory; accompanied by them, Bharata proceeded, his heart filled with many anxieties, greeting those stationed at the gate. At that moment, Raghava—Bharata—turned to his charioteer, who was exhausted from driving the horses. “O faultless one, for what reason have I been brought here in such haste?” he asked. “My heart is seized by ominous foreboding, and 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 I notice harshness everywhere. The gates are not properly closed, all splendor is absent, rituals of offering are neglected, and the air is heavy with smoke from burnt incense. I see households whose families have not eaten, people lacking vitality, and 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, and the sacrificial enclosures are in such a state; in the flower markets, neither garlands nor other wares are seen today. Even merchants are not seen here as before; their hearts are troubled with anxious thoughts, and their businesses have come to a halt. 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.” Having spoken thus, Bharata, his mind distressed after witnessing these inauspicious signs in Ayodhya, went 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 sorrow overwhelmed him. Observing many unpleasant things that had never before occurred in his beloved city, the great-souled son, his head bowed and mind joyless, entered his father’s house. Thus concludes the seventy-first sarga (canto). Now begins the seventy-second. Within his father’s house, Bharata did not find his father. Anxious, he turned and went to see his mother in her own residence. When Kaikeyi saw her son, returned from exile, she rose from her golden seat, her heart filled with joy. Bharata, ever devoted to righteousness, entered his own house—now bereft of its former splendor—and seeing his mother, respectfully took hold of her auspicious feet. Kaikeyi, renowned among women, placed him on her lap, smelled his head, embraced him, and began to question him with affection. “How many nights have passed since you left your grandfather’s house? Has the fatigue of your swift journey by chariot not troubled you? Is your grandfather well, and your maternal uncle Yudhājit? My son, you should tell me everything about your journey and their welfare.” Thus questioned by his mother, the lotus-eyed Bharata, beloved son of the king, replied, “Today is the seventh night since I left my grandfather’s house. My mother, both grandfather and uncle Yudhājit are well. The king, devoted to austerity, gave me wealth and jewels, and because I was weary from the journey, I arrived here before the others. Pressed by messengers sent by the king, I came quickly; mother, I wish to ask you something, and you ought to tell me.” Thus, the story continues, as Bharata—his heart heavy with foreboding—seeks the truth behind the sorrow that has befallen Ayodhya.