As Bharata approached Ayodhya, a sense of unease gripped his heart. He turned to his charioteer and spoke with a troubled mind, “These inauspicious signs weigh heavily upon me. O charioteer, it seems that well-being among my relatives is hard to find.” His heart, usually steady, now felt as though it were sinking; confusion was absent, yet despondency overtook him. Fearful and agitated, his senses were unsettled, and his spirit subdued. Swiftly, Bharata entered the city protected by the Ikshvaku dynasty, passing through the Vaijayanta gate. His vehicle bore the marks of a long and weary journey. The doorkeepers, rising to greet him, inquired about his victory. Accompanied by them, Bharata moved forward, his heart heavy with anxiety, exchanging greetings with those stationed at the gate. Turning to the charioteer, who was weary from driving the horses, Bharata asked, “O faultless one, why have I been brought here with such haste?” Ominous forebodings seized his heart, and he felt his very nature was falling apart. “I have heard such signs before, when kings met their end,” he said, his voice full of dread. As he looked around, Bharata described what he saw: “O charioteer, all the signs are here—the streets are unswept, and harshness pervades everywhere. The gates are not properly closed, all splendor is gone, rituals of offering are neglected, and the air is thick with smoke from burnt incense. Households are filled with families who have not eaten, people are lacking vitality, and homes are bereft of fortune. The shrines have lost their garlanded beauty, their courtyards are unclean, and the temples stand empty, no longer shining as before. Offerings to the gods lie scattered, the sacrificial enclosures are in disarray, and in the flower markets, there are neither garlands nor other wares today. Even the merchants are absent, their hearts troubled and their businesses halted. In the temples and shrines, even the flocks of birds appear dejected. I see men and women throughout the city, unkempt, their eyes filled with tears, thin, lost in thought, and overcome with longing.” Having spoken thus, Bharata, distressed by the inauspicious signs he witnessed in Ayodhya, proceeded to the royal palace. But as he gazed upon the city—once as radiant as Indra’s own—he saw empty towers, deserted mansions, and gates and doors covered in red dust. Sorrow overwhelmed him. He observed many unpleasant things in his beloved city, things that had never occurred before. The great-souled Bharata, his head bowed and his mind dejected, entered his father’s house without joy. But there, in his father’s house, Bharata did not find his father. So, he went to his mother’s residence. When Kaikeyi saw her son, returned from exile, she rose joyfully from her golden seat. 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 and delighted, placed him on her lap, embraced him, and smelled his head with affection. She 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 troubled you? Is your grandfather well, and your maternal uncle Yudhājit? My son, tell me everything about your journey and their welfare.” Thus questioned, Bharata, the beloved son of the king and lotus-eyed, answered his mother, “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, 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, troubled. “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, uttering words that were dear yet dreadful, unwelcome and harsh. Though she knew the truth, she feigned ignorance, her mind clouded by the desire 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—was struck by grief. He suddenly fell to the ground, overwhelmed by sorrow for his father. Crying out in anguish, “Alas, I am destroyed!” the mighty-armed hero collapsed, stretching out his arms in despair. Enveloped by grief and tormented by his father’s death, the 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, though his throat was constricted by sorrow, the foremost among the victorious covered his face with a splendid garment. Those who saw him, distressed and fallen to the ground like a severed branch of a sal tree in the forest, shining like a god, gazed upon him with compassion. Thus unfolded the sorrowful return of Bharata to Ayodhya, as recounted in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa.