Bharata entered his mother Kaikeyi’s chambers, his heart heavy with unease. He looked around and saw the golden-adorned couch, once the seat of his father’s presence, now empty. The palace, usually vibrant with the joy of the Ikṣvāku lineage, seemed subdued and sorrowful to him. Turning to his mother, Bharata spoke with longing, “Mother, the king often spent his time here with you. I came hoping to see him, but today he is nowhere to be found. I wish to bow at my father’s feet—tell me, where is he? Or perhaps he is with the eldest queen, Kausalyā?” Kaikeyi, her mind clouded by ambition for the throne, concealed her true knowledge and answered with words that were both dear and dreadful. She said, “Your father has met the fate that comes to all beings. The great and illustrious king, ever devoted to sacrifice, has departed on the path of the righteous.” Hearing these words, Bharata, noble and pure of heart, was struck down by grief. Overwhelmed by the loss of his father, he collapsed to the ground, crying out in anguish, “Alas, I am destroyed!” His mighty arms stretched out as he fell, and his sorrow poured forth in loud lamentation. He gazed at the now-vacant couch and mourned, “This couch, once graced by my father, used to shine like the night sky when the full moon glows and the clouds have dispersed. But now, deprived of that wise one, it has lost its luster, like the sky without the moon, or the ocean emptied of water.” Struggling to contain his tears, his voice choked by sorrow, Bharata, the foremost among the victorious, covered his face with a splendid garment. Those who saw him—fallen and distressed, like a severed branch of a sal tree in the forest, yet radiant as a god—were moved by his suffering. They approached him, his grief as powerful as a maddened elephant, his radiance likened to the sun and moon upon the earth. They lifted him gently and tried to console him: “Rise, rise, O prince of great fame! Why do you lie there? Men such as you, honored among the virtuous, do not grieve in the assembly. You are endowed with generosity and sacrificial authority; your conduct, learning, and speech are noble. Your intellect shines in the palace like the sun, O wise one.” After weeping for a long time and turning about on the ground, Bharata addressed his mother, his heart weighed down by sorrow. “I had set out on my journey with the thought that the king would consecrate Rama and perform a sacrifice. But now everything is changed, my mind is shattered, for I do not see my father, who always delighted in what was dear and beneficial.” He asked, “Mother, by what illness did the king depart before I arrived? Blessed are Rama and the others, for the father himself performed the rites for them. Surely the great king does not know I have returned, for my father would have swiftly bent down and touched my head. Where is the gentle hand of my father, whose actions were always pure, who would wipe the dust from me? He who is my brother, father, and friend, whose servant I am—tell me quickly of Rama, whose conduct is 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 steadfast in duty, truthful, and firm in his vows—O noble lady, what did my father, the valiant king, say to him? I wish to hear my father’s final, noble message.” Thus questioned, Kaikeyi spoke the truth as it was: “The king, lamenting ‘Rama! O Sita! O Lakshmana!’ departed to the highest realm. Your father, bound by the forces of time and fate like a great elephant, uttered these last words: ‘Those whose purposes are fulfilled will see Rama returned with Sita, and Lakshmana, mighty-armed, come back again.’” Hearing this, Bharata was stricken anew by this second painful revelation. His face fell, and he questioned his mother again, “Where is that righteous one, the joy of Kausalya, who has departed together with his brother Lakshmana and Sita?” Kaikeyi, though her words were unpleasant and she feared to say what might please him, began to speak the truth: “That prince, my son, wearing garments of bark, has gone to the great forest of Dandaka, accompanied by Vaidehi and attended by Lakshmana.” Alarmed by this, Bharata’s mind raced with suspicion, fearing some wrongdoing on his brother’s part. Yet, recalling the nobility of his lineage, he questioned further: “Surely Rama has not slain a Brahmin, nor wrongfully seized anyone’s wealth? Surely he has not harmed any innocent, rich or poor? Surely the prince has not coveted another’s wife? For what reason, as if he had committed a grievous sin, has he been exiled to the Dandaka forest?” Then Kaikeyi, her nature and actions guiding her, spoke as things had truly happened. Addressing the great-souled Bharata, she, deluded yet thinking herself wise, explained, “No wealth belonging to a Brahmin has been seized by Rama, nor has he harmed any innocent, rich or poor. Rama has not even looked upon another’s wife. But, my son, when I heard of Rama’s intended consecration, I asked your father for the kingdom for you and for Rama’s exile. Your father, true to his word and his conduct, did exactly that.