Bharata, with a heart full of reverence, spoke earnestly to Guha: “May such a time of misfortune never come! Do not suspect me, Guha. Rāghava is my elder brother—he is as dear to me as my own father. I am going to bring back Kakutstha, who now dwells in the forest. Do not let any other thought arise—I speak the truth to you, Guha.” Hearing Bharata’s sincere words, Guha’s face lit up with joy. Delighted, he replied, “Blessed are you, Bharata! I see no one on earth your equal—you wish to renounce a kingdom that has come to you without effort. Surely, your fame will follow you through all the worlds, for you seek to bring back Rāma, who has fallen into hardship.” As Guha and Bharata conversed in this way, the sun lost its brilliance and night drew near. Guha made the necessary arrangements for the army, found satisfaction in his duties, and, together with the illustrious Shatrughna, returned to his resting place. But as the night deepened, a sorrow born of anxious thought overcame the great-souled Bharata, who, devoted as he was to righteousness, did not deserve such grief. An inner burning tormented him, like a hidden fire scorching a tree parched by the forest blaze. Sweat, born of his grief, flowed from all his limbs just as the Himalaya, heated by the sun, releases its snow. His mind became a cavern filled with the mountains of meditation, sighs like hidden minerals, and the dejection of trees—his heart weighed down by the peaks of sorrow and fatigue. Overwhelmed by the mountain of suffering, by the endless force of bewilderment, by the bamboo of burning pain, and by the herbs of distress, Bharata, the son of Kaikeyi, was consumed by anguish. Sighing deeply, his mind troubled and awareness clouded, he found no peace—tormented by the fever of his heart, like a bull struck down from its herd. Seeing Bharata so afflicted, Guha, wise and compassionate, approached him with his people, seeking to comfort him regarding his elder brother. Now begins the eighty-sixth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Guha, the forest-dweller, began to tell Bharata of the noble character of Lakṣmaṇa, whose virtues are beyond measure. He said, “I spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, who, ever vigilant and virtuous, remained awake through the night, bow and arrows in hand, intent only on protecting his brother. I told him, ‘Dear one, here is a comfortable bed prepared for you. Be at ease and rest happily, O delight of the Raghus. All these people are used to hardship, but you are worthy of comfort. We shall keep watch to protect this righteous one.’ “There is no one dearer to me on earth than Rāma; do not be anxious—I say this truly before you. By his favor, I hope for great fame, righteousness, 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; even an army of four divisions could not overcome us here.” Guha continued, “But Lakṣmaṇa, great-souled and steadfast in righteousness, replied, ‘How 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 any of them will survive this night. My mother may survive, watching over Śatrughna, but Kausalyā, grieving for her heroic son, will perish. My father, having let slip the chariot of his mind and not installing Rāma in the kingdom, will pass away. When that time comes and my father is gone, all those who have achieved their aims will perform his funeral rites. ‘The city, with its beautiful squares, well-laid roads, splendid mansions and palaces adorned with every jewel, crowded with elephants, horses, and chariots, resounding with instruments, filled with blessings and prosperous people, complete with parks and gardens, rich in gatherings and festivals—my father’s royal city will see people moving about happily. If, together with the truthful one, we safely return when the time is fulfilled, we too shall enter that city in happiness.’ “While that great-souled prince lamented in this way,” Guha concluded, “the night passed. At dawn, when the sun had risen clear, I arranged for both Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa to have their hair matted here on the bank of the Bhāgīrathī, and I saw them off with comfort. Those two, wearing matted locks and bark garments, mighty as leaders of elephant herds, bearing excellent bows, arrows, and swords, supreme in asceticism, departed with Sītā, glancing back as they went.