When Bharata, radiant as a god yet stricken with sorrow, collapsed upon the ground like a severed branch of a sal tree in the forest, those around him gazed at him with concern and compassion. He resembled a mighty, maddened elephant, and his brilliance shone like the sun and moon upon the earth. Moved by his suffering, they gently raised him up and spoke words of encouragement: “Rise, rise! Why do you lie here, O prince of great renown? Men of your noble character, honored among the virtuous, do not give way to grief in the midst of others.” They reminded him of his virtues—his generosity, his authority in sacrifice, his noble conduct, learning, and speech. His intellect, they said, shone in the palace like the sun itself. Yet, overwhelmed by many sorrows, Bharata wept for a long time, turning upon the ground, and then addressed his mother with anguish in his heart. He spoke, “I had set out joyfully, believing the king would consecrate Rama and perform the great sacrifice. 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 good. Mother, by what illness did the king depart before I could arrive? Blessed are Rama and the others, for the father himself performed their funeral rites. Surely, the great and renowned king does not know I have come; for my father would always bend down and touch my head in welcome. Where is that gentle hand of my father, whose actions were pure, with which he would constantly wipe the dust from me?” He continued, his voice breaking, “He who was my brother, my father, and my friend, whose servant I am—tell me quickly, O wise one, about Rama, whose actions are flawless. For the eldest becomes a father to one who knows righteousness; I will grasp his feet, for now he is my refuge. He who knows dharma, who is steadfast in duty, truthful, and firm in his vows—O noble lady, what did the king, my father of true valor, say to him? I long 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 this world for the highest realm, the foremost among those who have gone. Your father, bound by 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 was struck by a fresh wave of grief, his face falling as he questioned his mother again: “Where now is that righteous one, the joy of Kausalya, who has departed together with his brother Lakshmana and Sita?” Kaikeyi, though fearing to speak words that might pain him, answered truthfully: “That prince, my son, wearing garments of bark, has gone to the great Dandaka forest, accompanied by Vaidehi and attended by Lakshmana.” Alarmed, Bharata wondered if his brother had committed some grave wrong, but remembering the nobility of their lineage, he pressed further: “Surely Rama has not slain a Brahmin, nor seized another’s wealth? Surely he has not harmed any innocent, rich or poor? Surely he has not coveted another’s wife? For what reason, as if guilty of the worst sin, has he been exiled to the Dandaka forest?” Kaikeyi, swayed by her own nature and actions, spoke out, thinking herself wise: “No, Rama has not seized a Brahmin’s wealth nor harmed anyone, rich or poor. He has not even looked upon another’s wife. But, my son, when I learned 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, granted my wishes. Rama, together with Saumitri and Sita, was sent away, and the great king, unable to see his beloved son, was overcome by grief and passed away. Now, O righteous one, you should assume the kingship. All this I did for your sake alone. Do not grieve—take courage, my son. The city and kingdom are now yours and secure. Therefore, quickly, with the foremost sages led by Vasistha, gather the Brahmins and, with a steadfast heart, consecrate yourself as king.” Thus ends the seventy-second sarga. Now begins the seventy-third. Hearing of his father’s death and the exile of his brothers, Bharata, tormented by sorrow, spoke in anguish: “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 added sorrow to my sorrow, like pouring salt into a wound, by causing the king’s death 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 stolen from this family by your delusion, you who bring disgrace to our line. Having encountered you, my father, steadfast in truth and of great renown, was consumed by intense grief and thus perished—King Dasharatha is no more.