Bharata, returning to Ayodhya, wandered through the city and saw sorrow everywhere. Families sat in their homes without food, their vitality drained, and fortune seemed to have abandoned their households. The shrines, once adorned with fragrant garlands, had lost their beauty—their courtyards stood unclean, the temples empty, no longer shining as they once did. He noticed that offerings to the gods lay scattered, and the sacrificial enclosures were neglected. In the flower markets, not a single garland or wares could be found. The merchants, too, were absent; their hearts weighed down with anxious thoughts, their businesses halted. Even the birds in the temples and shrines appeared dejected, as if sharing in the city’s grief. Men and women moved through Ayodhya, unkempt and thin, their eyes brimming with tears. Lost in thought, they were overcome with longing. Witnessing these inauspicious signs, Bharata’s heart grew heavy. Distressed, he made his way to the royal palace. As he entered the city—usually as radiant as Indra’s own—he saw empty towers and deserted mansions. The gates and doors were dusty and red, and sorrow overwhelmed him. He observed many unpleasant things that had never occurred before in Ayodhya. The great-souled Bharata, his head bowed and joyless, entered his father’s house. At this point, the seventy-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, unfolds. Inside his father’s house, Bharata did not find his father. So, he went to see his mother, Kaikeyī, in her own residence. Upon seeing her son, returned from exile, Kaikeyī rose joyfully, leaving her golden seat behind. Bharata, devoted to righteousness, entered his own house—now bereft of splendor—and, seeing his mother, respectfully took hold of her auspicious feet. Kaikeyī, renowned, placed Bharata on her lap, smelling his head and embracing him, and began to ask him questions. “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, 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. 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. 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?” Kaikeyī replied, speaking words that were dear yet dreadful and unwelcome. Knowing the truth but feigning ignorance—her mind deluded 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 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 fell down, 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 covered his face with a splendid garment. Those around him saw him, distressed and fallen to the ground like a severed branch of a sal tree in the forest, shining like a god. They gazed upon him, and, resembling a maddened elephant, radiant like the moon and sun upon the earth, they raised him, afflicted by sorrow, and spoke these words: “Rise, rise! Why do you lie there, O prince of great fame? Men of your kind, honored among the virtuous, do not grieve in assemblies. You are endowed with generosity and sacrificial authority; your conduct, learning, and speech are noble. Your intellect, O wise one, shines in the palace like the sun.” Weeping for a long time and turning about on the ground, Bharata addressed his mother, overwhelmed by many sorrows. “I had resolved, thinking the king would consecrate Rama and perform a sacrifice, and joyfully set out on my journey. But now everything has turned out differently; my mind is shattered, for I do not see my father, who always delighted in what was dear and beneficial. Mother, by what illness did the king depart before I arrived? Blessed are Rama and all the others, whom the father himself performed the rites for. Surely the great king, renowned, does not know I have arrived; for my father would quickly bend and touch my head.” Thus, the sorrow of Bharata and the grief of Ayodhya unfolded, marking a turning point in the tale of the Ikṣvāku dynasty.