Hearing Guha’s deeply distressing words, Bharata was overcome with sorrow and fell into deep thought, right where he stood. Though delicate in appearance, Bharata was strong, with lion-like shoulders, mighty arms, and eyes as broad as lotuses. He was youthful and pleasing to behold, yet now, grief overwhelmed him. He struggled for breath, and, his heart heavy with pain, suddenly collapsed—like a mighty elephant struck in the heart by sharp goads. Seeing Bharata fall unconscious, Guha’s face lost all color; he was stricken with distress, like a tree shaken by an earthquake. Shatrughna, who stood nearby, rushed to Bharata’s side, embracing him in his grief. Weeping aloud, Shatrughna too lost consciousness, worn down by sorrow. At that moment, all the mothers of Bharata, emaciated from fasting and afflicted by their husband’s misfortune, gathered around the fallen prince. They wept as they surrounded him on the ground, but Kausalya, deeply troubled, followed and embraced Bharata herself. Like a loving cow clutching her calf, the ascetic Kausalya held him close, her heart consumed by grief and tears streaming down her face. “My son,” she cried, “I hope no illness afflicts your body, for now the very life of this royal house depends on you. Seeing you, my son, I am able to live on, though Rama and his brothers have departed. With King Dasharatha gone, you alone are our protector now. I hope you have heard no ill news of 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, Bharata regained his composure, though his eyes were still wet with tears. He gently comforted Kausalya and then turned to Guha, asking, “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, respectfully recounted everything to Bharata—how he had received Rama as a dear and 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 did not accept anything, remembering the duty of a warrior. ‘We must not accept gifts, my friend, though we should always give,’ the great-souled one gently persuaded us, O King. “After Lakshmana brought water, Rama drank and then observed his fast, together with Sita. With the water that remained, Lakshmana performed the evening worship, and the three of them, restraining their speech, devoutly performed the ritual. Then Saumitri himself quickly brought grass and prepared a pure resting place for Raghava. On that bed, Rama entered together with Sita; after washing their feet, Lakshmana withdrew. “This, here, is the root of the Ingudī tree, and this very grass is where Rama and Sita spent that night. With his back straight, fingers on the bowstring, and quivers full of arrows, Lakshmana, having set his great bow, stood guard throughout the night. I too, bearing an excellent bow and arrows, stood there with Lakshmana, and with vigilant kinsmen armed with bows, we guarded Rama, like mighty Indra himself.” Having heard everything in detail, Bharata, accompanied by his counselors, approached the root of the Ingudī tree and gazed upon Rama’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. Born to the illustrious and wise Dasharatha, Rama, of noble lineage and great fortune, does not deserve to sleep on the bare 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 ground? He always dwelled in the highest palaces, on golden, silver, and jeweled floors, upon the best of beds. Among heaps of flowers, fragrant with sandalwood and agaru, in chambers bright as white clouds and resounding with the cries of parrots, he lived in the finest, cool, and fragrant palaces, like those on Mount Meru, with walls adorned with gold. “Always was he awakened by the sounds of songs and instruments, the jingling of splendid ornaments, and the deep tones of the best drums. Praised at the proper time by bards and many sūtas and māgadhas, with fitting songs and hymns, that scorcher of foes. This is unbelievable in the world; it does not seem true to me. My mind is bewildered—perhaps this is a dream, I think. “Surely, there is no deity stronger than fate, since Rama, son of Dasharatha, must sleep thus on the ground. And Sita, the beloved daughter of the king of Videha, dear to the eye and Dasharatha’s daughter-in-law, lies on the ground as well. This is my brother's bed; indeed, it has been turned over. The grass on this hard ground is all pressed down by his limbs. I think Sita, adorned with her ornaments, slept on this bed then, for here and there golden drops are seen clinging.” Thus, in that place of sorrow, Bharata and all those gathered looked upon the humble resting spot of Rama and Sita, their hearts heavy with grief, honoring the sacrifice and steadfastness of the exiled prince and his beloved.