Bharata, his heart heavy with sorrow and indignation, confronted his mother Kaikeyī. He declared that he would never wish to abandon her, even though her intentions were wicked, if only Rāma would always regard her as a mother. Yet, he wondered aloud, how could such a dreadful thought have arisen in her—a woman fallen from good conduct and condemned by their ancestors? He reminded her that, in their noble lineage, it was always the eldest son who was anointed as king, while the other brothers, steadfast and focused, acted according to his guidance. Bharata accused Kaikeyī of failing to uphold justice, neglecting royal duty, and not understanding the enduring path of royal conduct. He emphasized that, among kings—especially the Ikṣvākus—the tradition was clear: the eldest always became king. Those devoted solely to righteousness and the customs of their lineage had lost their pride in conduct upon encountering Kaikeyī's actions. Even though she was descended from illustrious kings, Bharata lamented, how had this blameworthy delusion crept into her, clouding her judgment? He refused to carry out her wicked desires, for she was intent on evil and had begun a calamity that would bring death to him. Yet, for her sake, he resolved to perform the unpleasant task of bringing his brother Rāma back from the forest, a brother dear to their family. Once Rāma returned, Bharata vowed, with unwavering heart, to become his devoted servant, shining with inner strength. Having spoken thus, the great-souled Bharata, though overwhelmed by grief, wounded Kaikeyī with a multitude of harsh words, roaring in his anguish like a lion in a mountain cave. As his anger grew, Bharata spoke again, his words sharp and relentless. He told Kaikeyī to be deprived of the kingdom, for she was cruel and a doer of evil deeds, abandoned by righteousness, and he wished she would not die weeping. He questioned what wrong the king or Rāma, who was truly righteous, had ever done to her, that through her actions both death and exile had come upon them. By destroying their family, Kaikeyī had incurred the guilt of killing an unborn child; Bharata cursed her, telling her to go to hell and not attain her husband's world. Her terrible deeds had led her to abandon one beloved by all the worlds and had brought fear even to Bharata himself. Because of her, his father had died, Rāma had taken refuge in the forest, and Bharata himself was disgraced in the eyes of the living. He accused Kaikeyī of being a false mother, truly his enemy, greedy for the kingdom, and declared he would not speak to her, for she was an evil-doer and destroyer of her husband. Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and his other mothers, afflicted with great sorrow, had suffered because of her, who had defiled their lineage. Bharata declared that Kaikeyī was not the daughter of the wise and righteous king, the lord of the horse-sacrifice, but a demoness born to destroy her father's lineage. Because of her, Rāma—steadfast in righteousness and ever devoted to truth—had been sent to the forest in sorrow, and their father had departed to the heavenly realm. For this sinful act, Kaikeyī was now the chief, abandoned by Bharata and fatherless, rejected by her brothers, and despised by the whole world. Having separated Kausalyā, who was joined to righteousness, from her son, and determined on evil, Bharata wondered to what world Kaikeyī would go, for she was bound for hell. He reminded her that the eldest son, Rāma—equal to a father and born of Kausalyā—was the natural refuge of the family. A son, born from the very limbs and heart of his mother, was therefore dearer to her than any other relative, not merely because of kinship. To illustrate this truth, Bharata recalled the story of Surabhi, the righteous cow honored by the gods. Once, Surabhi saw her two sons on the earth, exhausted and senseless, lying on the ground at midday, weary and overcome by toil. She wept, her eyes filled with tears, overcome by grief for her children. As she moved below the great-souled king of the gods, subtle drops, fragrant with Surabhi’s scent, fell from her body. Even Indra, lord of the gods, seeing those fragrant tears fall upon his own body, regarded Surabhi with even greater respect. Observing her, Shakra saw Surabhi standing in the sky, distressed, weeping, and overwhelmed with sorrow. Seeing her tormented by grief, the illustrious Indra, wielder of the thunderbolt, approached her with joined palms and spoke anxiously, “Surely, there is no great danger threatening us from anywhere? For what reason are you sorrowful? Tell me, you who seek the welfare of all.” Surabhi replied, “No harm threatens you from anywhere, O lord of immortals; but I grieve for my own sons, who are in distress. Seeing these two, thin and miserable, scorched by the rays of the sun and exhausted by the ploughman, O lord of the gods, I am afflicted. Born from my own body, suffering and weighed down by burdens—when I see them, I am tormented; there is nothing dearer than a son. Though she whose thousands of sons fill the whole world is seen weeping, Shakra does not consider anyone dearer than a son.” Surabhi, unmatched in her conduct, ever seeking to uphold the world, noble and constant in virtue, by her very nature and actions—even she, who could have thousands of sons, grieved as if deprived of all. Bharata then asked, what of Kausalyā, who must live without Rāma? Thus, Bharata’s grief and indignation poured forth, his words echoing the pain of a son separated from his beloved brother and the anguish of a mother deprived of her child.