Suppressing his tears, his throat tight with grief, Bharata—the foremost among the victorious—covered his face with a splendid garment. Those around him saw him, anguished and fallen to the ground like a severed branch of a sal tree in the forest, yet shining like a god. They gazed upon him, radiant like the moon and sun upon the earth, but now afflicted by sorrow, resembling a maddened elephant. With gentle words, they raised him up and spoke: “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.” Still weeping for a long time, 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 so I 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? He who is my brother, father, and friend, whose servant I am—quickly tell me of Rama, 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 questioned, Kaikeyi spoke the words as they truly were: “The king, lamenting ‘Rama! O Sita! O Lakshmana!’ 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 Rama returned with Sita, and Lakshmana, mighty-armed, come back again.’” Hearing this, Bharata became despondent at this second painful announcement. His face fell, and again he questioned his mother: “Where now is that righteous one, the joy of Kausalya, who has departed together with his brother Lakshmana and Sita?” Thus questioned, his mother began to speak the truth as it was, though the words were unpleasant and she feared to say what might be dear to him: “That prince, my son, wearing garments of bark, has gone to the great forest of Dandaka, accompanied by Vaidehi and attended by Lakshmana.” Hearing this, Bharata was alarmed, suspecting some fault in his brother’s conduct. But, recalling the nobility of his own lineage, he began to inquire further: “Surely Rama has not slain a Brahmin, nor has he wrongfully seized the wealth of anyone? Surely he has not harmed any innocent rich or poor person? Surely the prince has not coveted another’s wife? For what reason, like one who has committed the sin of killing a fetus, has he been exiled to the Dandaka forest?” Then his fickle mother, in accordance with her own actions and by her very nature, began to speak out just as things had happened. Addressed by the great-souled Bharata, Kaikeyi—delighted yet deluded and thinking herself wise—spoke: “No wealth belonging to a Brahmin has been seized by Rama, nor has he harmed any innocent rich or poor person. Rama has not even looked upon another’s wife with his eyes. 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, adhering to his own conduct, did exactly that. Rama, together with Saumitri and Sita, was sent away; and the great and illustrious king, unable to see his beloved son, overwhelmed by grief for his son, passed away. Now, O righteous one, you should assume the kingship. All this was done by me for your sake alone. Do not grieve, do not be troubled; take refuge in courage, my son. The city and the kingdom are now under your authority and free from harm. Therefore, my son, quickly, in accordance with proper rites and with the foremost sages led by Vasistha, gather the Brahmins and, with a steadfast heart, consecrate yourself as king upon the earth.” Thus is heard the seventy-third sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing of his father’s death and the exile of his brothers, Bharata, tormented by sorrow, spoke: “What use is the kingdom to me now, as I grieve here, bereft of my father and my brother, who was like a father to me? You have brought sorrow upon my sorrow, like pouring salt into a wound, by making the king pass away and turning Rama into an ascetic. You have come like the night of destruction for the ruin of our family; my father, embracing a burning coal, did not realize it was you. Because of you, O wicked one, the king met his death; happiness has been taken from this family by your delusion, you who bring disgrace to our line.