As Bharata reflected on the fate of his family, sorrow weighed heavily on his heart. He thought of his father, King Daśaratha, who, having lost the chariot of his mind and failing to install Rāma as king, would soon pass away. When that moment came and his father was gone, those who had attained their desires would perform the king’s funeral rites. Bharata’s mind wandered to the city of Ayodhyā, its splendid squares and broad, well-laid roads, magnificent mansions and palaces adorned with every jewel. The city thrived, crowded with elephants, horses, and chariots, resounding with music and filled with every blessing. Its people were joyful and prosperous, moving about happily amidst parks, gardens, festivals, and great gatherings. Bharata hoped that, if they could return safely with the truthful Rāma after the period of exile, they too would re-enter that radiant city in happiness. As the great-souled prince lamented thus, the night slowly passed. With the coming of dawn and the sun rising clear, arrangements were made for Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa to have their hair matted on the banks of the Bhāgīrathī. With care and comfort, they were seen off. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, now wearing matted locks and bark garments, stood mighty as leaders of elephant herds. Armed with excellent bows, arrows, and swords, supreme in asceticism, they departed with Sītā, glancing back as they left. Now, listen to the eighty-seventh sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing Guha’s words—which brought deep distress—Bharata was struck with sorrow and fell into thought right where he stood. Though delicate, Bharata possessed great strength, with lion-like shoulders, mighty arms, and eyes broad as lotuses. Youthful and pleasing to behold, he tried to regain his breath but, overwhelmed by grief, suddenly collapsed like an elephant struck in the heart by goads. Seeing Bharata fallen unconscious, Guha’s face lost its color and he became deeply distressed, like a tree shaken by an earthquake. Shatrughna, standing nearby, embraced Bharata in his grief and wept aloud, himself losing consciousness, worn down by sorrow. All of Bharata’s mothers, emaciated from fasting and afflicted by Daśaratha’s misfortune, gathered around him as he lay on the ground weeping. Kausalya, deeply troubled, followed and embraced Bharata, holding him close like a loving cow with her calf, her heart consumed by grief. “My son,” Kausalya wept, “I hope no illness afflicts your body, for now the life of this royal house depends on you. Seeing you, I live on, though Rāma and his brothers have departed; with King Daśaratha gone, you alone are our protector. My son, I hope you have heard nothing unpleasant about Lakṣmaṇa, who went to the forest with his wife. For to a mother with but one son, he too is a son.” After a moment, regaining his composure though still weeping, the illustrious Bharata comforted Kausalya and turned to Guha, asking, “Where did my brother spend the night? Where were Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa? On what bed did they sleep, and what did they eat? Tell me, Guha.” Guha, king of the Niṣādas, recounted everything. He told Bharata how he had welcomed Rāma as a dear and honored guest and brought a great variety of food—both fine and coarse—and many kinds of fruits for his meal. But Rāma, steadfast in truth and valor, declined all of it, remembering the duty of a warrior. “We must not accept gifts, my friend, though we should always give,” the great-souled Rāma gently explained. Lakṣmaṇa brought water, and Rāma drank, then observed the fast together with Sītā. With the water that remained, Lakṣmaṇa performed the ritual, and the three of them, restraining their speech, devoutly observed the evening worship. Saumitri then quickly gathered grass and prepared a pure resting place for Rāghava. On that bed, Rāma and Sītā lay down after washing their feet, while Lakṣmaṇa withdrew. Guha pointed out the very spot: “This is the root of the Ingudī tree, and this is the grass on which Rāma and Sītā spent that night.” Lakṣmaṇa, with his back straight, fingers on the bowstring, quivers full of arrows, and his great bow at the ready, stood watchfully around them throughout the night. Guha himself, bearing an excellent bow and arrows, stood beside Lakṣmaṇa, and, with vigilant kinsmen armed with bows, they guarded Rāma like mighty Indra. Here ends the eighty-eighth sarga in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Having heard all these details, Bharata, together with his counselors, approached the root of the Ingudī tree and gazed upon Rāma’s resting place. He turned to the mothers and said, “Here, that great-souled one spent the night on the ground; this is the mark where he lay.” Bharata’s heart ached as he remembered: “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? He always dwelled in the highest palaces, on golden, silver, and jeweled floors, upon the best of beds.” Thus, the sorrow and devotion of Bharata, the steadfastness of Rāma, and the devotion of all those who loved them shone forth on the banks of the Bhāgīrathī, as the story of their exile and the endurance of dharma continued to unfold.