As Bharata neared Ayodhya, a deep unease settled within him. The city, once vibrant with constant sounds, now seemed strangely subdued. Its movement was sluggish, and everywhere he looked, he saw ominous signs—unfavorable and evil omens that troubled his heart. He confided in his charioteer, “Because of these inauspicious signs, my mind is disturbed; surely, O charioteer, well-being among my relatives is hard to find.” Without confusion, his heart felt heavy and despondent, subdued by fear and agitated senses. Swiftly, Bharata entered the city, protected by the noble Ikshvaku dynasty. He passed through the Vaijayanta gate, his vehicle weary from the long journey. The doorkeepers, seeing him, rose and asked about his victory. Accompanied by them, Bharata moved forward, anxieties weighing upon his heart, as he greeted those stationed at the gate. He turned to his charioteer, exhausted from driving the horses, and asked, “O faultless one, for what reason have I been brought here in such haste?” His heart was seized by ominous foreboding, his very nature seemed to unravel. “I have heard such signs before, when kings met their end,” he murmured. He observed the streets—unswept and harsh, the gates improperly closed, all splendor absent. Rituals of offering had been neglected, and the air was thick with smoke from burnt incense. Bharata saw households whose families had not eaten; people lacked vitality, and homes were bereft of fortune. Shrines had lost their garlanded beauty, their courtyards were unclean, temples stood empty, no longer shining as before. Offerings to the gods were scattered, sacrificial enclosures were in disarray, and in the flower markets, neither garlands nor wares could be seen. Merchants were absent, their hearts troubled, businesses halted. Even in the temples and shrines, flocks of birds appeared dejected. Men and women in the city were unkempt, their eyes filled with tears. They were thin, absorbed in thought, overcome with longing. After speaking thus, Bharata, his mind distressed by these inauspicious signs, made his way to the royal palace. As he entered Ayodhya—bright as Indra’s own city—he saw empty towers, deserted mansions, dusty red gates and doors. Sorrow overwhelmed him. Observing so many unpleasant things, which had never before occurred in his beloved city, the great-souled Bharata, head bowed and joyless, entered his father’s house. But there, in his father’s house, Bharata did not find his father. So, he went to see his mother, Kaikeyi, in her own 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, placed him on her lap, smelling his head and embracing him, and began to question Bharata. “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 told his mother everything. “Today is the seventh night since I left my grandfather’s house. 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.” He looked around. “This golden-adorned couch of yours is empty, and the people of the Ikṣvāku line do not appear joyful to me. Mother, the king used to be here most of the time 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?” Kaikeyi replied to him, speaking words that were dear yet dreadful and unwelcome, knowing the truth but feigning ignorance, her mind deluded by greed for the kingdom. “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 fell to the ground, overcome by the force of grief for his father. Uttering the pitiful words, “Alas, I am destroyed!” the mighty-armed hero collapsed, stretching out his arms in anguish. 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.” Suppressing his tears, his throat constricted by grief, Bharata, foremost among the victorious, covered his face with a splendid garment, his heart heavy with sorrow.