Hearing Bharata’s words, Guha’s face lit up with joy. Delighted, he spoke again to Bharata, his heart full of admiration. “Blessed are you, O Bharata,” Guha said warmly. “Nowhere on earth do I see anyone equal to you, willing to renounce a kingdom that has come to you effortlessly. Surely, your fame will spread through all the worlds, for you seek to bring back Rāma, who has fallen into hardship.” As Guha and Bharata conversed, the sun’s brilliance faded, and night began to descend. Guha, having made all arrangements for the army’s rest, was satisfied. Together with Shatrughna, the illustrious one, he returned again to his own resting place. But as night settled, a sorrow born of anxious thought overtook the great-souled Bharata. Though he was devoted to righteousness and undeserving of such grief, his heart was tormented. An inner fire burned within Rāghava, consuming him like a hidden blaze scorching a parched tree in the forest. Sweat, born from the fire of grief, streamed from all his limbs, just as the mighty Himalaya, heated by the sun, releases its snows. His mind became a mountain cavern, filled with the sighs of minerals, surrounded by dejected trees, and crowned with peaks of sorrow and fatigue. The son of Kaikeyi was overwhelmed by this mountain of suffering, battered by the endless force of bewilderment, the bamboo of burning pain, and the herbs of distress. Sighing deeply, his mind greatly troubled and his awareness confused, Bharata, fallen into dire misfortune, found no peace. His heart fevered, he was like a bull struck down, separated from its herd. Seeing Bharata so deeply distressed, Guha, wise and understanding, approached him with his people. He sought to comfort Bharata, speaking gently of his elder brother. Now begins the eighty-sixth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Guha, the forest-dweller, began to tell Bharata of the noble character of Lakṣmaṇa, whose virtues were immeasurable. “I spoke to Lakṣmaṇa,” Guha recounted, “who remained ever awake, holding his excellent bow and arrows, intent always on protecting his brother. I said to 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 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.’” Guha continued, “Thus addressed by the great-souled Lakṣmaṇa, who looked only to righteousness, we were all persuaded. Lakṣmaṇa said, ‘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 that 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.’” Lakṣmaṇa continued, “The city, with its beautiful squares, well-laid great roads, splendid mansions and palaces adorned with every jewel, crowded with elephants, horses, and chariots, resounding with the sound of instruments, filled with every blessing, teeming with joyful 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.” Guha then said, “While that great-souled prince stood there lamenting in this way, the night passed. At dawn, when the sun had risen clear, I arranged for both of them to have their hair matted here on the bank of the Bhāgīrathī, and I saw them off in 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.” Now begins the eighty-seventh sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing Guha’s words, which were deeply distressing, Bharata at once fell into deep thought, right there where he heard them.