Bharata, the son of Kaikeyi, was plunged into a deep and overwhelming sorrow. Within his heart, the mountain of meditation became a dark cavern, sighs weighed upon him like heavy minerals, and his mind was shadowed by a forest of dejected thoughts—each tree a symbol of his despair, the peaks of his sorrow and fatigue rising high and unscalable. He was utterly overcome by this mountain of suffering and the relentless force of confusion. The burning pain in his heart was like the sharp bamboo of the forest, and the herbs that should have soothed him only brought further distress. In this state, Bharata sighed deeply, his mind tormented and confused, fallen into misfortune so great that peace eluded him entirely. The fever of grief consumed him, and he was like a bull struck down, separated from his herd, lost and alone. Seeing Bharata thus, Guha, the wise and compassionate chief of the Nishadas, approached with his people. He sought to comfort Bharata, who was so weighed down by distress, and spoke to him with gentle words about his elder brother Rāma. Guha, the dweller of the forest, then began to recount to Bharata the noble qualities of Lakṣmaṇa, Rāma’s devoted brother, whose virtues were immeasurable. Guha recalled how he once spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, who stayed awake through the night, ever alert, bow and arrows in hand, intent on guarding his brother. “Dear one,” Guha had said, “here is a comfortable bed prepared for you. Rest here at ease, O delight of the Raghus. Though these people are used to hardship, you are worthy of comfort. We will keep watch to protect the righteous Rāma. There is no one on earth dearer to me than Rāma. Have no fear—I say this truly before you. By his favor, I hope for great fame, for righteousness, and for prosperity. Thus, I shall guard my dear friend Rāma as he sleeps with Sītā, bow in hand, with all my kinsmen standing watch. Nothing in this forest is unknown to me; even an army of four divisions could not overcome us here.” Lakṣmaṇa, steadfast in righteousness, replied with resolve, “How could I find sleep, or even life or happiness, while Rāma, the son of Daśaratha, lies on the bare ground with Sītā? He whom not even all the gods and demons could defeat is now resting on grass, with Sītā by his side. This son of Daśaratha, equal to his father in every virtue, was born after great asceticism and hardship. Now, with him exiled, the king will not live long; surely the earth will soon become a widow. The palace, once filled with the voices of women, is now silent. Neither Kausalyā, nor the king, nor my own mother—I do not believe any will survive this night. Perhaps my mother will live on, caring for Śatrughna, but Kausalyā, grieving for her heroic son, will perish. My father, having lost control of his mind and not installing Rāma as king, will pass away. When that time comes, those who have achieved their aims will perform his funeral rites. “The city, with its beautiful squares, broad roads, splendid mansions and palaces, adorned with jewels, filled with elephants, horses, chariots, and the sounds of music, teeming with joy and prosperity, will continue on. Its parks and gardens, its festivals and gatherings—my father’s royal city will see people moving about in happiness. If, together with the truthful one, we safely return when the time is fulfilled, we too shall enter that city in happiness.” While Lakṣmaṇa lamented thus, the night passed. At dawn, Guha arranged for Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa to have their hair matted on the bank of the Bhāgīrathī, and saw them off with comfort. The two brothers, now ascetics in matted locks and bark garments, mighty as leaders of elephant herds, bearing bows, arrows, and swords, departed with Sītā, glancing back one last time. As Guha finished recounting these sorrowful events, Bharata was deeply shaken. He stood there, lost in thought, his heart heavy with grief for his brother. Delicate yet strong, with broad, lion-like shoulders and mighty arms, eyes as lovely as lotuses, Bharata—so youthful and pleasing to behold—could bear it no more. After a moment’s breath, overwhelmed by sorrow, he collapsed to the ground, like an elephant struck in the heart by a goad. Seeing Bharata fallen unconscious, Guha’s face turned pale with distress, as if he were a tree shaken by an earthquake. Shatrughna, standing nearby, embraced Bharata as he wept aloud, grief overwhelming him as well. The mothers of Bharata, emaciated from fasting and stricken by their husband’s misfortune, gathered around him as he lay on the ground. Kausalyā, deeply troubled, followed and embraced Bharata, holding him close like a loving cow with her calf, her heart burning with grief. “My son,” Kausalyā wept, “I hope you are not afflicted by illness. For now, the life of this royal house depends on you.