As Bharata’s chariot drew near, he gazed from afar and spoke to his charioteer, “See, Ayodhya appears before us, its pale earth visible in the distance. It is a city once filled with Brahmins accomplished in virtue and skilled in the Vedas.” He remembered how, not long ago, Ayodhya had been crowded with sages and protected by the noblest of royal seers. In those days, a great, lively tumult always filled the city. But now, Bharata noticed with sorrow, “Today, I do not hear, all around, the voices of men and women. The gardens, after the day’s play, are deserted by the people.” He remembered how the gardens once shone with people running about in delight, but now they seemed to mourn, abandoned by those who once filled them with joy. “O charioteer,” Bharata continued, “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 they once did. The gardens, formerly so exuberant, now look forlorn.” He recalled how these gardens had been filled with people enjoying themselves, brimming with happiness, but now they were utterly devoid of joy. He noticed fallen leaves scattered along the paths, and the trees seemed to cry out in their emptiness. Even the usual sounds of intoxicated beasts and birds were absent. The sweet, gentle voices that once spoke many words, mingled with the fragrances of sandalwood and agaru, and enveloped in incomparable incense, were no longer heard. “Why does the auspicious wind not blow today as it once did, carrying the mingled sounds of drums, mridangas, and veenas struck at the corners?” he wondered. “Why has that constant sound vanished, and why does the city seem to move so sluggishly? I see many unfavorable and evil omens.” Troubled by these inauspicious signs, Bharata confessed, “My mind is disturbed. Surely, well-being among my relatives is hard to find. When confusion is absent, my heart sinks. I am despondent, fearful, and my senses are agitated.” Despite his heavy heart, Bharata entered Ayodhya swiftly, protected by the glory of the Ikshvaku dynasty, passing through the Vaijayanta gate, his vehicle weary from the long journey. The doorkeepers rose to greet him, asking of his victory, and accompanied him as he proceeded, his heart weighed down by many anxieties, offering greetings to those stationed at the gate. There, Raghava—Bharata—turned to his charioteer, who was exhausted from driving the horses. “O faultless one,” he asked, “for what reason have I been brought here in such haste? My heart is seized by ominous foreboding, and my spirit seems to be collapsing. I have seen such signs before, when kings met their end.” He continued, “O charioteer, I see all those signs here: the streets are unswept, and there is harshness everywhere. The gates are not properly closed, all splendor is absent, and rituals of offering are neglected. The air is heavy with smoke from burnt incense. 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 are empty and dull.” “The offerings to the gods are scattered, and the sacrificial enclosures are in disarray. In the flower markets, neither garlands nor other wares are seen today. Even the merchants are gone; 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, lost in thought, and overcome with longing.” Having spoken thus, Bharata, his mind distressed by these inauspicious signs in Ayodhya, made his way to the royal palace. As he entered the city, bright as Indra’s own but with empty towers, deserted mansions, and dusty red gates and doors, he was overwhelmed with sorrow. Observing so many unpleasant things, never before seen in his beloved city, the great-souled Bharata, his head bowed and heart joyless, entered his father’s house. But there, in his father’s house, Bharata did not find his father. So he turned to his mother’s residence. When Kaikeyi saw her son, returned from exile, she rose joyfully, leaving her golden seat behind. Bharata, ever devoted to righteousness, entered his own house—now bereft of splendor—and, seeing his mother, respectfully took hold of her auspicious feet. Kaikeyi, renowned among queens, placed him on her lap, smelling his head and embracing him. She began to question her son, “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, tell me everything about your journey and their welfare.” Thus questioned, lotus-eyed Bharata 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. Why is your golden-adorned couch empty, and why do the people of the Ikṣvāku line not appear joyful to me?