Bharata, the son of Kaikeyi, was utterly overwhelmed by a mountain of suffering. The force of his bewilderment seemed endless; pain burned through him like a bamboo fire, and distress clung to him like bitter herbs. He sighed deeply, his mind tossed in turmoil, his awareness clouded and confused. Misfortune pressed down on him relentlessly, and he found no peace, tormented by the fever in his heart, as if he were a bull struck down and separated from its herd. Seeing Bharata in such anguish, Guha—wise and compassionate, surrounded by his people—approached to comfort him about his elder brother. Now begins the eighty-sixth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Guha, the forest-dweller, spoke to Bharata of Lakṣmaṇa’s noble character, extolling the immeasurable virtues of that great-souled prince. He recounted how he had spoken to Lakṣmaṇa, who kept vigilant watch through the night, ever wakeful, his excellent bow and arrows at hand, his mind fixed on protecting his brother. “Dear one,” Guha had said to Lakṣmaṇa, “here is a comfortable bed prepared for you. Be at ease and rest upon it happily, O delight of the Raghus. All these people with me are used to hardship, but you are worthy of comfort. We will keep watch and protect 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, for righteousness, and for pure prosperity in this world. Thus, I shall protect my dear friend Rāma as he sleeps with Sītā, bow in hand, with all my kinsmen by my side. There is nothing in this forest unknown to me; even an army of four divisions could not overcome us here.” Guha continued, “Thus addressed by Lakṣmaṇa, whose soul is steadfast in righteousness, we were all persuaded. But Lakṣmaṇa replied, ‘How can I possibly sleep, or even live or find 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 hardship. With him exiled, the king will not live long; surely the earth will soon become a widow. The women have ceased their loud wailing, exhausted; surely today the royal palace is silent. Neither Kausalyā, nor the king, nor my own mother—I do not expect any of them to survive this night. My mother may endure, 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 as king, will pass away. When that time comes and my father is gone, those who have achieved their aims will perform his funeral rites. The city, with its beautiful squares, great roads, splendid mansions and palaces adorned with every jewel, crowded with elephants, horses, and chariots, resounding with music, 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.’” Guha concluded, “While that great-souled prince lamented in this way, the night passed. At dawn, as the sun rose, 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. Wearing matted locks and bark garments, mighty as leaders of elephant herds, bearing excellent bows, arrows, and swords, supreme in asceticism, they departed with Sītā, glancing back as they went.” Now begins the eighty-seventh sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing Guha’s words, which pierced him with sorrow, Bharata fell into deep thought right where he stood. He remembered Rāma—delicate yet strong, with lion-like shoulders and mighty arms, eyes broad as lotuses, youthful and pleasing to behold. Overcome by grief, Bharata lost his breath for a moment, then suddenly collapsed like an elephant struck in the heart by goads. Seeing Bharata fallen unconscious, Guha’s face turned pale; he was shaken, like a tree trembling in an earthquake. Then Śatrughna, who stood nearby, embraced Bharata and wept aloud, overcome by grief, losing consciousness himself. At that moment, all the mothers of Bharata gathered around, emaciated from fasting, miserable, and afflicted by their husband’s misfortune. They surrounded Bharata as he lay on the ground, weeping; but Kausalyā, deeply troubled, followed and embraced him. Like a loving cow nuzzling her calf, the ascetic Kausalyā held Bharata close, weeping, her heart burning with sorrow. “My son,” she said, “I hope you are not ill; for now, the life of this royal house rests with you. Seeing you, my son, I am able to endure, though Rāma and his brothers have departed. With King Daśaratha gone, you alone are our protector now.