As Bharata approached the city, a deep unease gripped his heart. He turned to his charioteer and wondered aloud, “Why does the auspicious wind not blow today as it once did, carrying with it the mingled sounds of drums, mridangas, and veenas played at the city’s corners? Why has that constant music fallen silent, and why does the city move with such heaviness?” He gazed around, troubled. “I see so many evil omens. My mind is disturbed, O charioteer; surely, well-being among my family is hard to find. When there is no confusion, my heart feels as if it sinks. I am despondent, subdued, fearful—my senses are unsettled.” With these anxious thoughts, Bharata entered Ayodhya, the city protected by the Ikshvaku dynasty, passing through the Vaijayanta gate. His chariot was weary from the long journey. The doorkeepers rose to greet him, asking after his victory. Accompanied by them, Bharata moved forward, his heart heavy with worry, returning the greetings of those stationed at the gate. He turned to the charioteer, who was exhausted from driving the horses, and asked, “O faultless one, for what reason have I been brought here in such haste? My heart is seized by ominous foreboding, and I feel as if I am falling apart. I have heard of such signs before, when kings meet their end.” Bharata surveyed the city. “O charioteer, I see all those signs here: the streets are unswept, harshness is everywhere. The gates are not properly closed, all splendor is gone. Rituals are neglected, and the air is heavy with the smoke of burnt incense. I see households where 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, not shining as before. Offerings to the gods are scattered, sacrificial enclosures are in disarray, and the flower markets are empty of garlands and other wares. Even the merchants are nowhere to be seen; their hearts are troubled and their businesses have ceased. In the temples and shrines, even the flocks of birds seem dejected. Men and women in the city are unkempt, their eyes full of tears, thin, lost in thought, and overcome with longing.” Having spoken thus, Bharata, his mind distressed by all these inauspicious signs, made his way to the royal palace. He saw the city, once as bright as Indra’s own, now marked by empty towers, deserted mansions, and dusty red gates and doors. Sorrow overwhelmed him. Noting so many unpleasant things—things never before seen in Ayodhya—the great-souled son, his head bowed and joy gone from his mind, entered his father’s house. But within his father’s house, Bharata did not see his father. So, he went to his mother’s residence to find her. When Kaikeyī saw her son, returned from exile, she rose joyfully from her golden seat. Bharata, ever devoted to righteousness, entered his own house, now stripped of splendor, and respectfully touched his mother’s auspicious feet. Kaikeyī, renowned, placed him on her lap, embraced him, and smelled his head in affection. She began to ask him, “How many nights have passed since you left your grandfather’s house? Has the fatigue of your swift journey by chariot troubled you? Is your grandfather well, and your maternal uncle Yudhājit? My son, tell me all about your journey and their welfare.” Thus questioned by Kaikeyī, the beloved son of the king, lotus-eyed Bharata, told his mother everything. “Today is the seventh night since I left my grandfather’s house. Mother, both grandfather and uncle Yudhājit are well. The king, devoted to austerity, gave me wealth and jewels. 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.” He looked around, troubled. “This golden-adorned couch of yours is empty, and the people of the Ikṣvāku line do not appear joyful. Mother, the king used to spend most of his time here in your quarters, but though I have come wishing to see him, I do not see him today. I wish to grasp my father’s feet—tell me, where is he? Or is he perhaps in the quarters of the eldest, Kausalyā?” Kaikeyī replied, speaking words that were dear to her but dreadful and unwelcome to Bharata. Though she knew the truth, her mind was clouded by greed for the kingdom. She said, “The fate that befalls all beings has come to your father. The great and illustrious king, devoted to sacrifice, has gone to the path of the righteous.” Hearing these words, Bharata, pure and noble, suddenly collapsed to the ground, overcome by the force of grief for his father. He cried out in anguish, “Alas, I am destroyed!” and stretched out his arms in sorrow. Enveloped by grief and pained by his father’s death, radiant Bharata, his mind disturbed and confused, lamented loudly. “This couch, which once belonged to my father, used to shine beautifully, like the spotless sky at night, when the moon is full and the clouds have departed. But now, deprived of that wise one, it does not shine today—like the sky without the moon, or the ocean without water.