As Bharata journeyed through Ayodhya, he was struck by how the city had changed. The shrines, once adorned with beautiful garlands, now looked forlorn; their courtyards were unclean, the temples stood empty, lacking the brilliance they once possessed. Offerings meant for the gods lay scattered, and the sacrificial enclosures were in disarray. Even in the flower markets, there were no garlands or wares to be seen that day. The streets, too, were empty of merchants. Those who remained were troubled, their hearts weighed down with anxious thoughts, and their businesses had come to a halt. In the temples and shrines, even the birds seemed dejected, as if they, too, felt the sorrow that had engulfed the city. Bharata saw men and women wandering, unkempt and thin, their eyes brimming with tears, lost in thought and overcome with longing. After witnessing these inauspicious signs throughout Ayodhya, Bharata, his mind distressed, made his way to the royal palace. He gazed upon the city, once bright as Indra’s own, but now marked by empty towers, deserted mansions, and gates and doors stained red with dust. Overwhelmed with sorrow, he observed many unpleasant things that had never before occurred in his beloved city. The great-souled son, his head bowed and spirit joyless, entered his father’s house. This marks the seventy-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Inside his father’s house, Bharata found no sign of his father. So, he went to his mother’s residence. When Kaikeyī 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 respectfully took hold of his mother’s auspicious feet. Kaikeyī, renowned, placed him on her lap, first smelling his head and then embracing him. 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, told his mother everything. “Today is the seventh night since I left my grandfather’s house. Both grandfather and uncle Yudhājit are well, mother. 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. “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 clouded 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 born of noble lineage, suddenly fell to the ground, overcome by the force of grief for his father. Uttering the pitiful cry, “Alas, I am destroyed!” the mighty-armed hero stretched 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, the foremost among the victorious covered his face with a splendid garment. Those present saw him, distressed and fallen to the ground like a severed branch of a sal tree in the forest, shining like a god, and gazed upon him. Like a maddened elephant, radiant as the moon and sun upon the earth, they raised him, afflicted by sorrow, and spoke words of encouragement. “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.” He, weeping for a long time and turning about on the ground, 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. Where is the hand, gentle to the touch, of my father, whose actions were unblemished, by which he would constantly wipe away the dust from me?