Hearing the wise words of Indra, the king of the gods, Surabhi—ever steadfast and skilled in speech—addressed him in sorrow. "O lord of immortals," she said, "no harm threatens you from any quarter. But my heart aches for my own sons, who now suffer in distress. Look upon these two, thin and miserable, scorched by the sun’s rays and wearied by the ploughman’s yoke. Born from my very body, burdened and in pain, their suffering torments me, for nothing is dearer than a son." Surabhi continued, "Even she who has thousands of sons spread throughout the world—if she is seen weeping, O Shakra, it is because there is nothing more precious than a child. Ever noble in conduct, upholding the world, and unwavering in virtue, by her very nature and actions she is unmatched. Yet even such a mother, blessed with countless sons, grieves as though bereft of all. What then of Kausalya, who must live without her only son, Rama?" She spoke with deep feeling, "Kausalya is a chaste woman with but one son, and you have made her bereft of him. Because of this, sorrow will cling to you always, in this life and beyond. I will fulfill my duty to my brother and father and uphold their honor without doubt. Once I have brought back Kausalya’s radiant son, I myself will enter the forest where the sages dwell. For I cannot bear the sin you have committed, while the citizens look on with tearful throats. I cannot endure this evil resolve of yours." Her grief mounting, Surabhi declared, "Therefore, either enter the fire, or go yourself into the Dandaka forest, or tie a rope around your neck—for you have no other refuge. When Rama, steadfast in truth and valor, returns to the earth, then I too will have fulfilled my duty and will be cleansed of the stain of exile." Overwhelmed by her words, the mighty one fell to the ground in fury, like an elephant in the forest goaded by spears and hooks, hissing like a serpent. His eyes were bloodshot, his garments loosened, and his ornaments cast aside. That tormentor of foes lay fallen on the earth, like Indra’s banner cast down at the end of a festival. Now begins the seventy-fifth sarga. After a long while, the mighty Bharata regained consciousness, his eyes streaming with tears, and gazed upon his grieving mother. Among the assembled ministers, Bharata reproached his mother bitterly: "I do not desire the kingdom, nor will I consult with the ministers or with you. I knew nothing of the king’s intended consecration, for I was far away, dwelling with Shatrughna. I knew nothing of Rama’s exile to the forest, nor of the banishment of Saumitri and Sita, or how it came to pass." As the great-souled Bharata cried out in anguish, Kausalya, hearing his voice, spoke to Sumitra, "Bharata, son of Kaikeyi, who has wrought this cruel deed, has come. I wish to see Bharata, who sees far." Having spoken thus, Kausalya—pale, clad in soiled garments, trembling and senseless—set out with Sumitra to where Bharata was. Bharata, together with Shatrughna and Rama’s younger brother, made his way to Kausalya’s residence. There, seeing Kausalya overwhelmed by grief and bereft of her senses, Shatrughna and Bharata, both filled with sorrow, embraced her. Weeping themselves, they approached the noble and wise lady, who was also weeping in her sorrow. Then Kausalya, greatly afflicted, spoke to Bharata: "Now, the kingdom you desired has come to you, free from obstacles. Indeed, Kaikeyi has quickly obtained it for you by her cruel deed. Having sent my son, clad in bark garments, to dwell in the forest, what virtue does Kaikeyi, with her cruel vision, see in this?" With deep pain, she continued, "Soon, Kaikeyi will surely send me as well to where my illustrious son, shining like gold, now dwells. Or else, I myself, accompanied by Sumitra, will gladly go, performing the sacred fire-rite beforehand, to where Raghava is. Or, if you wish, you may yourself take me there today, to where that tiger among men, my son, endures his penance. Indeed, this vast kingdom, filled with wealth and grain, and complete with elephants, horses, and chariots, has been handed over to you by her." Thus, with many such harsh words, Kausalya reproached Bharata, though he was blameless, causing him deep anguish as if a needle had pierced an open wound. Agitated in mind, Bharata fell at her feet, lamenting in many ways, losing consciousness; and when he regained his senses, he stood there, stricken. As Kausalya lamented, Bharata, with joined palms, spoke to her, surrounded as she was by grief: "Respected lady, why do you reproach me, who am innocent and unaware? You know well my deep and steadfast affection for Raghava. May my mind, which follows the path of the scriptures, never turn from him—he who is truthful, the best among the virtuous, and has your approval." He continued, "Let the most sinful servant be sent, let him defile the sun, or strike a sleeping cow with his foot—such is the fate of one who acts with your consent. If a master, having made his servant perform great deeds, renders him useless, that is unrighteousness—such is the fate of one who acts with your consent. If, while protecting his subjects like his own children, a king is betrayed, let sin befall the one who acts with your consent." Thus, with humility and pain, Bharata pleaded his innocence and unwavering love for Rama, seeking to console Kausalya in her great sorrow.