As evening descended, Guha, the lord of the Niṣādas, addressed Bharata with warmth and hospitality. “I trust your army, having eaten and been honored with their wishes fulfilled, will spend this night here. Tomorrow, after a restful stay, you may depart with your troops.” Thus began a new chapter in the journey, as recorded in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Responding to Guha’s kindness, Bharata—wise and discerning—spoke thoughtfully: “O friend of my teacher, your generous wish has been fulfilled, for you alone have desired to honor such a great army of mine.” Having spoken thus, the illustrious Bharata, radiant with might, addressed Guha once more: “O Guha, by which path shall I go to the hermitage of Bharadvāja? This region is dense, and the bank of the Gaṅgā is difficult to cross.” Hearing these words from the wise prince, Guha, who knew the ways of the forest well, joined his palms and replied, “My servants, skilled with bows, will accompany you; and I too will follow, O prince of great fame. Yet, tell me truly—surely you do not approach Rāma with evil intent? His deeds are blameless, but this great army of yours gives me doubt.” To these cautious words, Bharata replied gently, his voice clear as the sky: “Let there never be such a misfortune. You should not suspect me, for Rāghava is my elder brother, equal to my father. I am going to bring back Kakutstha, who dwells in the forest. Do not entertain any other thought, Guha—I speak the truth to you.” Hearing Bharata’s sincere words, joy lit Guha’s face. Delighted, he said, “Blessed are you! I see no one on earth equal to you, who wishes to renounce a kingdom that has come to you without effort. Surely your fame will follow you through the worlds, for you wish to bring back Rāma, who has fallen into hardship.” As Guha and Bharata conversed, the sun lost its brilliance and night approached. Guha, having arranged the army, felt satisfied, and together with the illustrious Shatrughna, returned to his resting place. Yet, as darkness fell, a sorrow born of anxious thought overtook the great-souled Bharata. Though devoted to righteousness and undeserving of such grief, he was tormented inwardly, as if a hidden fire scorched a tree parched by a forest blaze. Sweat, born from the fire of grief, flowed from all his limbs, just as the Himalaya releases its snow when heated by the sun. Bharata’s mind became a cavern of meditation, echoing with sighs like minerals, filled with the multitude of dejected trees—his thoughts weighed down by peaks of sorrow and fatigue. He was overwhelmed by the great mountain of suffering, by the endless force of bewilderment, by the bamboo of burning pain, and by the herbs of distress—this son of Kaikeyi. Sighing deeply, his mind greatly troubled and his awareness confused, he felt as if struck down from his herd, finding no peace, tormented by the fever of his heart. Seeing Bharata so distressed, Guha, wise and compassionate, approached with his people and sought to comfort him concerning his elder brother. Now begins the next chapter of this sacred tale. Guha, who dwelt in the forest, spoke to Bharata of Lakṣmaṇa’s noble character, whose virtues were immeasurable. “I spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, who remained awake, ever alert, holding his excellent bow and arrows, intent on protecting his brother.” “Dear one,” I said to him, “here is a comfortable bed prepared for you. Be at ease and rest upon it happily, O delight of the Raghus. All these people are accustomed to hardship, but you are worthy of comfort. We shall keep watch for the sake of protecting this righteous one. There is no one on earth dearer to me than Rāma; do not be anxious—I say this truly before you. By his favor, I hope for great fame in this world, for the attainment of righteousness, and for abundant and pure prosperity. Thus, I shall protect my dear friend Rāma as he sleeps with Sītā, bow in hand, together with all my kinsmen. There is nothing in this forest unknown to me as I wander here; even an army of four divisions we could overcome in battle.” “Thus addressed by the great-souled Lakṣmaṇa, who looked only to righteousness, we were all persuaded.” “But how,” Lakṣmaṇa said, “could I possibly find sleep, or even life or happiness, while Rāma, son of Daśaratha, lies on the ground with Sītā? He whom not even all the gods and demons together could overpower in battle—see, Guha, how he now rests on grass with Sītā. This only son of Daśaratha, equal to him in every virtue, was obtained through great asceticism and many hardships. With him exiled, the king will not live long; surely the earth will soon become a widow. The women, exhausted, have ceased their loud wailing; surely today the royal palace is silent. Neither Kausalyā, nor the king, nor my own mother—I do not expect that any of them will survive this night.” With these words, Guha sought to ease Bharata’s sorrow, sharing the devotion and suffering of Lakṣmaṇa, and the deep love that bound the brothers, as night enveloped the forest and the hearts of those who loved Rāma.