As the night deepened, Bharata’s heart was heavy with sorrow. He reflected with anguish that while his own mother might survive, tending to Śatrughna, Kausalyā—grieving for her heroic son—would surely perish from heartbreak. He foresaw his father, King Daśaratha, his mind shattered by regret for not crowning Rāma as king, slipping away from the world. When that time came and his father was gone, Bharata thought, all those who had achieved their ambitions would gather to perform the king’s funeral rites. He pictured the city of Ayodhyā, resplendent with its beautiful squares, wide and well-laid roads, grand mansions and palaces adorned with every jewel. The city teemed with elephants, horses, and chariots, vibrant with the sounds of instruments, blessed with prosperity and joy, its people moving about in happiness amid parks, gardens, gatherings, and festivals. This was his father’s royal city, alive with celebration. Bharata hoped that, if fate allowed and they returned safely with the truthful Rāma after their exile, they too would re-enter that city in happiness. As Bharata, the great-souled prince, stood lamenting through the night, dawn finally broke. When the sun rose clear, Guha arranged for Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa to have their hair matted on the banks of the Bhāgīrathī, and then saw them off with all care and comfort. The two brothers, now wearing matted locks and bark garments, mighty as the leaders of elephant herds, bearing their bows, arrows, and swords, supreme in ascetic resolve, departed with Sītā, glancing back at those they left behind. Now, listen to the eighty-seventh sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. When Bharata heard Guha’s words, so deeply distressing, he was overcome by sorrow and fell into deep thought right where he stood. Though delicate in appearance, Bharata was of great strength, his shoulders broad as a lion’s, his arms mighty, his eyes wide and lovely as lotuses—youthful and pleasing to behold. Yet, overwhelmed by grief, he lost his composure, suddenly collapsing like an elephant struck in the heart. Seeing Bharata fallen unconscious, Guha’s face lost all color; he was stricken with distress, like a tree shaken by an earthquake. Śatrughna, who stood nearby, embraced his brother and also wept aloud, losing consciousness, worn down by grief. All the mothers of Bharata, emaciated from fasting and afflicted by their husband’s misfortune, gathered around him as he lay on the ground, weeping. Kausalyā, deeply troubled, followed and embraced him, holding him close like a loving cow with her calf, her heart consumed by sorrow. “My son,” she cried, “I hope no illness afflicts your body; for now, the life of this royal house depends on you. Seeing you, I find strength to live on, though Rāma and his brothers have departed. With King Daśaratha gone, you alone are our protector now. My son, I hope you have heard nothing unpleasant about Lakṣmaṇa, 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 Kausalyā and turned to Guha. “Tell me, Guha,” he asked, “where did my brother spend the night? Where were Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa? On what bed did they sleep, and what did they eat?” Guha, king of the Niṣādas, answered Bharata with all the details of how he had received Rāma, his dear and honored guest. “I brought for Rāma a great variety of food, both fine and coarse, and many kinds of fruit for his meal. But Rāma, steadfast in truth and valor, declined all of it, remembering his duty as a warrior. ‘We must not accept gifts, my friend, though we should always give,’ the great-souled one gently told us. “After Lakṣmaṇa brought water, the illustrious Rāma drank and then observed a fast, together with Sītā. With the water that remained, Lakṣmaṇa also performed the ritual; the three of them, restraining their speech, devoutly observed the evening worship. Then Saumitri himself quickly brought grass and prepared a pure resting place for Rāghava. On that bed, Rāma entered together with Sītā; after washing their feet, Lakṣmaṇa withdrew. “Here is the root of the Ingudī tree, and this is the very grass on which Rāma and Sītā spent that night. With his back firm, fingers on the bowstring, quivers full of arrows, Lakṣmaṇa, having set his great bow, stood watchfully throughout the night. I too, bearing an excellent bow and arrows, stood there with Lakṣmaṇa, and with vigilant kinsmen, we guarded him, like mighty Indra.” Here ends the eighty-eighth sarga in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Having heard everything in detail, Bharata, together with his counselors, approached the root of the Ingudī tree and gazed upon Rāma’s resting place. He said to all the mothers, “Here, that great-souled one spent the night on the ground; this is the mark where he lay. Born to the illustrious and wise Daśaratha, Rāma, of noble lineage and great fortune, does not deserve to sleep on the earth. How does the tiger among men, who once slept on beds covered with the finest animal skins and luxurious bedding, now lie on the bare ground?