When Kaikeyī saw her son Bharata returning from exile, joy lit her face. She rose quickly from her golden seat, unable to contain her delight. Bharata, whose heart was steadfast in righteousness, stepped into his own house. Yet he found it stripped of its former splendor. There, upon seeing his mother, he approached her with deep respect and reverence, gently taking hold of her auspicious feet. Kaikeyī, renowned among women, drew Bharata close. She placed him on her lap, embracing him and affectionately smelling his head, as a loving mother would. Then, with curiosity and concern, she began to question her son: “How many nights have passed since you left your grandfather’s house? Has the swift journey by chariot wearied you? Is your grandfather well, and your maternal uncle Yudhājit? My son, tell me everything about your journey and their well-being.” Thus questioned, Bharata—beloved son of the king and lotus-eyed—answered his mother fully. “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. But, mother, I wish to ask you something, and you must tell me. “This golden-adorned couch of yours is empty, and I do not see the people of the Ikṣvāku line joyful as before. Mother, the king used to spend most of his time here in your quarters. I came longing to see him, but today he is nowhere to be found. 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, knowing the truth but feigning ignorance, her mind clouded by desire for the kingdom, replied to her son with words that were dear yet dreadful and unwelcome: “The fate that comes to all beings has come to your father. The great and illustrious king, devoted to sacrifice, has gone to the path of the righteous.” At this, Bharata—pure of heart and noble in lineage—was struck down by grief. He fell to the ground, overwhelmed by sorrow for his father. Crying out in anguish, “Alas, I am destroyed!” the mighty-armed hero stretched out his arms in despair. Consumed by grief and pain at his father’s death, the radiant Bharata, his mind disturbed and confused, wept aloud. He gazed at the couch that once belonged to his father and mourned, “This couch, which once shone beautifully when my father sat upon it—like the spotless night sky with the full moon—is now devoid of splendor, like the sky without the moon, or the ocean without water.” Suppressing his tears, his throat tight with sorrow, the foremost among the victorious covered his face with his garment. Those around him saw Bharata, shining like a god yet fallen to the ground in distress, like a severed branch of a sal tree in the forest. Like a maddened elephant, radiant as the sun and moon upon the earth, they lifted him up, themselves afflicted by sorrow, and tried to comfort him: “Rise, rise! Why do you lie there, O prince of great fame? Men such as you, 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.” But Bharata, weeping for a long time and turning about on the ground, addressed his mother, overwhelmed by many sorrows: “I had set out, believing the king would consecrate Rāma and perform a sacrifice, and I went on my journey joyfully. But now all 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 Rāma and the others, for the father himself performed the rites for them. Surely the great king does not know I have arrived, for my father would quickly bend and touch my head in greeting. Where is the hand, gentle to the touch, of my father—he whose actions were unblemished—by which he would constantly wipe away the dust from me? “He who is my brother, father, and friend, whose servant I am—O wise one—quickly tell me of Rāma, whose actions are flawless. For the eldest becomes a father to one who knows righteousness; I will grasp his feet, for he is now my refuge. He who knows righteousness, is constant in duty, truthful, and firm in his vows—O noble lady, what did the king, my father of true valor, say to him? I wish to hear the final, noble message of my father.” Thus urged, Kaikeyī spoke the truth as it was. “The king, lamenting ‘Rāma! O Sītā! O Lakṣmaṇa!’ departed to the highest realm, the foremost among those who have gone. Your father, surrounded by the bonds of time and fate like a great elephant, uttered this last word: ‘Those whose purposes are fulfilled will see Rāma returned with Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, mighty-armed, come back again.’” Hearing this, Bharata’s grief deepened at this second painful revelation. His face fell, and again he questioned his mother: “Where now is that righteous one, the joy of Kausalyā, who has departed together with his brother Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā?” Thus questioned, Kaikeyī, though fearful that her words would pain her son, began to speak the truth as it was, however unpleasant it might be.