With deep humility and hope, Guha, the devoted friend and chieftain, spoke of his aspirations: “By Rama’s favor, I trust I will earn great fame in this world, attain righteousness, and enjoy abundant, pure prosperity.” Steadfast in his loyalty, he vowed, “Therefore, I shall protect my dear friend Rama as he sleeps with Sita, bow in hand, along with all my kinsmen. There is nothing in this forest unknown to me; as I wander these woods, even an army of four divisions could not overcome us in battle.” Lakshmana, ever righteous and resolute, addressed Guha with words of assurance, and all who listened were persuaded by his noble spirit. Yet, within Lakshmana’s heart, sorrow churned. “How could I possibly rest, or even live or find happiness, while Rama, son of Dasaratha, lies on the bare ground with Sita? He whom not even all the gods and demons could defeat in battle—see, Guha, how he now sleeps upon the grass with Sita by his side. This only son of Dasaratha, equal to his father in every virtue, was gained through great asceticism and hardship. With him exiled, the king will not live long; surely the earth itself will soon become a widow.” Lakshmana’s grief deepened as he pictured the palace in Ayodhya: “The women, exhausted, have ceased their loud wailing; today the royal palace must be silent. Neither Kausalya, nor the king, nor my own mother—I do not expect that any of them will survive this night. Perhaps my mother will endure, watching over Shatrughna, but Kausalya, grieving for her heroic son, will perish. My father, having lost the chariot of his mind and not installing Rama as king, will pass away. When that time comes and my father is gone, those who have fulfilled their ambitions will perform his funeral rites.” He recalled the splendor of Ayodhya: “The city, with its beautiful squares, grand roads, magnificent mansions and palaces adorned with every jewel, crowded with elephants, horses, and chariots, resounding with music, filled with every blessing, teeming with joyful and prosperous people, complete with parks and gardens, rich with 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 exile is ended, we too shall enter that city in happiness.” As the great-souled prince stood there, pouring out his grief, the night passed. At dawn, when the sun had risen clear, Guha prepared for the brothers to have their hair matted on the banks of the sacred Bhagirathi, and bid them farewell with comfort and care. Rama and Lakshmana, now wearing matted locks and bark garments, mighty as leaders of elephant herds, bearing their excellent bows, arrows, and swords, supreme in their ascetic resolve, departed with Sita, casting backward glances as they left. Now, listen to the eighty-seventh sarga of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Ayodhya Kanda. Hearing these words of Guha, so full of sorrow, Bharata fell into deep thought right where he stood. Delicate yet strong, with lion-like shoulders, mighty arms, and eyes broad as lotuses, Bharata, youthful and pleasing to behold, was overwhelmed by grief. Regaining his breath for a moment, he suddenly collapsed, like an elephant struck in the heart by sharp goads. Seeing Bharata fallen unconscious, Guha’s face lost its color; he was shaken, like a tree trembling in an earthquake. Shatrughna, standing nearby, embraced Bharata in his anguish and wept aloud, himself overcome by sorrow. Then all the mothers of Bharata, emaciated by fasting, miserable and afflicted by their husband’s misfortune, gathered around him as he lay upon the ground, weeping. Kausalya, deeply troubled, followed and embraced him, holding him close as a loving cow would her calf, her own heart consumed by grief. “My son,” Kausalya cried, “I hope no illness afflicts your body, for now the life of this royal house depends on you. Seeing you, my son, I live on, though Rama and his brothers have departed; with King Dasaratha gone, you alone are now our protector. I hope you have heard nothing unpleasant about Lakshmana, who went to the forest with his wife; for to a mother with only one son, he too is a son.” After a moment, regaining his composure yet still weeping, the illustrious Bharata comforted Kausalya and turned to Guha: “Where did my brother spend the night? Where were Sita and Lakshmana? On what bed did they sleep, and what did they eat? Tell me, Guha.” Guha, king of the Nishadas, recounted everything: how he had received Rama, his honored guest. “I brought for Rama a great variety of food, both fine and coarse, and many kinds of fruits for his meal. But Rama, steadfast in truth and valor, declined all of it; he would not accept, remembering the duty of a warrior. ‘We must not accept gifts, my friend, though we should always give,’ the great-souled one gently told us, O King. After Lakshmana brought water, Rama drank and then observed the fast, together with Sita. Then, with the water that remained, Lakshmana also performed the ritual; the three of them, restraining their speech, devoutly observed their evening worship.” Thus, the story of that sorrowful night and the steadfast virtue of Rama and his companions was revealed to Bharata and all those who grieved with him.