Bharata, delicate in form yet possessing great strength, with broad, lion-like shoulders and mighty arms, and eyes as expansive as lotuses, stood before them—youthful and pleasing to behold. But as he listened and the weight of sorrow pressed upon him, he paused to catch his breath. Overwhelmed by grief, he suddenly collapsed to the earth, like a mighty elephant felled by a wound to the heart. Witnessing Bharata’s collapse, Guha’s face drained of color, and distress overtook him, as if he were a tree shaken by a sudden earthquake. Shatrughna, who stood close by, rushed to Bharata’s side, embracing his fallen brother. Consumed by sorrow, Shatrughna too wept aloud and, worn down by grief, lost consciousness. At this, all the mothers of Bharata gathered around—emaciated from fasting, miserable in their suffering, and stricken by the misfortune that had befallen their husband, King Dasharatha. They surrounded Bharata as he lay on the ground, weeping. Among them, Kausalya, deeply troubled, followed and embraced him. Like a loving cow enfolding her calf, the ascetic Kausalya held Bharata close, her heart burning with grief, tears streaming down her face. “My son,” she cried, “I hope no illness afflicts your body, for now the life of this royal house depends upon you. Seeing you, my son, I find the strength to go on, though Rama and his brothers have departed. With King Dasharatha gone, you alone are our protector. Tell me, my son, have you heard anything unpleasant about Lakshmana, who went to the forest with his wife? For to a mother with only one son, he too is as dear as a son.” After a moment, Bharata regained his composure, though tears still flowed. The illustrious Bharata gently comforted Kausalya, then turned to Guha with a heavy heart. “Tell me, Guha,” he asked, “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 everything.” Guha, king of the Nishadas, answered Bharata with reverence, recounting all that had happened and how he had received Rama as a beloved 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, 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. “After Lakshmana brought water, the illustrious Rama drank and then observed the fast, together with Sita. With the water that remained, Lakshmana performed the evening ritual. The three of them, their speech restrained, devoutly observed the evening worship. Then Saumitri—Lakshmana—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 here is the very grass on which Rama and Sita spent that night. With his back held straight, fingers on the bowstring, quivers full of arrows, Lakshmana, his great bow at the ready, stood watchfully throughout the night. I too, armed with an excellent bow and arrows, stood with Lakshmana, and with vigilant kinsmen, we guarded him—like mighty Indra himself.” Having heard all this in detail, Bharata, together with his counselors, approached the root of the Ingudī tree and gazed upon the place where Rama had rested. He turned to all 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 is it that the tiger among men, who once slept on beds covered with the finest animal skins and luxurious bedding, now lies on the hard ground? He always dwelled in the highest palaces, on golden, silver, and jeweled floors, upon the best of beds. Surrounded by 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. “He was 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, he was the 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. “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. I think this bed was comfortable for my brother, by which the young, ascetic, delicate Maithili, though virtuous, did not feel hardship.” Thus, in sorrow and wonder, Bharata and his companions stood by the Ingudī tree, beholding the marks of Rama and Sita’s night upon the earth, their hearts filled with grief and reverence for the trials faced by the noble exiles.