Hearing Guha’s words, which brought great distress, Bharata was struck by deep thought right where he stood. Though delicate in appearance, Bharata possessed immense strength—his shoulders broad and lion-like, arms powerful, his eyes wide as lotuses, youthful and pleasing to behold. Yet, overwhelmed by sorrow, he struggled to regain his breath and suddenly collapsed, like a mighty elephant pierced in the heart by sharp goads. Guha, witnessing Bharata’s fall into unconsciousness, was shaken; his face lost its color, and he stood there, distressed, as if a tree trembling in an earthquake. Shatrughna, who stood nearby, embraced his brother in that state, weeping aloud until he too lost consciousness, worn down by grief. Soon, Bharata’s mothers, emaciated from fasting and miserable with the misfortune that had befallen their husband, gathered around him as he lay on the ground, weeping. Kausalya, deeply troubled, followed and embraced Bharata. Like a loving cow cradling her calf, the ascetic Kausalya held him close, her heart consumed by sorrow. “My son,” she said, “I hope no illness afflicts your body, for now, the life of this royal house depends on you. Seeing you, I continue to live, though Rama and his brothers have departed. With King Dasharatha gone, you alone are our protector. Tell me, my son, 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, Bharata regained his composure, though tears still flowed. He comforted Kausalya and then turned to Guha, speaking: “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, answered Bharata, recounting everything—how he had received Rama, his 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. Yet Rama, steadfast in truth and valor, declined all of it; he did 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 persuaded us, O King. “After Lakshmana brought water, the illustrious Rama drank and then observed the fast, together with Sita. With the water that remained, Lakshmana also performed the ritual; the three of them, their speech restrained, devoutly observed the evening worship. Then Saumitri quickly brought grass himself and prepared a pure resting place for Raghava. On that bed, Rama entered together with Sita; after washing their feet, Lakshmana withdrew. “This is the root of the Ingudī tree, and this is the very grass on which Rama and Sita spent that night. With his back restrained, his fingers on the bowstring, quivers full of arrows, Lakshmana, having set his great bow, stood watchfully around them throughout the night. I too, bearing an excellent bow and arrows, stood there with Lakshmana, and with vigilant kinsmen armed with bows, 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 Rama’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.” Bharata reflected, “Born to the illustrious and wise Dasharatha, Rama, 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. Among heaps of flowers, fragrant with sandalwood and agaru, in chambers bright as white clouds, 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 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. Here, Sita’s upper garment is caught, clearly visible; for the silken threads are seen entangled here.” Thus Bharata, surrounded by his family and counselors, mourned the hardship endured by Rama and Sita, their royal dignity humbled by exile, their noble forms resting upon the earth beneath the Ingudī tree.