Shatrughna, overcome by sorrow, stood near Bharata and embraced him tightly. Unable to contain his grief, he wept aloud and lost consciousness, worn down by the pain of their father’s misfortune and the exile of Rama. Around them, Bharata’s mothers gathered, their bodies emaciated from fasting, their hearts heavy with misery. They surrounded Bharata as he lay collapsed on the ground, weeping, but it was Kausalya, deeply troubled, who followed and embraced him. With the tenderness of a loving cow for her calf, the ascetic Kausalya held Bharata close, her tears flowing and her heart consumed by grief. She spoke gently to him, “My son, I hope no illness afflicts your body; for now, the life of this royal house depends on you. Seeing you, I live on, though Rama and his brothers have departed. With King Dasharatha gone, you alone are our protector now. 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 he still wept. He comforted Kausalya and then turned to Guha, the king of the Nishadas, and 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, Guha.” Guha, honored by Bharata’s question, recounted everything. He spoke of how he had welcomed Rama, his dear and revered guest, bringing a great variety of foods—both fine and coarse—and many kinds of fruits for his meal. Yet Rama, 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,” Rama gently persuaded us, O King. Lakshmana brought water, and Rama drank, then observed his fast together with Sita. With the water that remained, Lakshmana performed his own ritual, and the three of them, their speech restrained, devoutly observed the evening worship. Saumitri swiftly fetched grass and prepared a pure resting place for Rama. On that bed, Rama entered with Sita; after washing their feet, Lakshmana withdrew. Guha pointed out, “This is the root of the Ingudī tree, and this is the very grass on which Rama and Sita spent that night.” He described how Lakshmana, his back straight, fingers on the bowstring, quivers full of arrows, stood vigil through the night, watching over them. Guha himself, bearing an excellent bow and arrows, stood alongside Lakshmana, with vigilant kinsmen armed with bows, guarding Rama as if they were mighty Indra. Thus ended the sarga, marking a poignant moment in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Having heard Guha’s account in detail, Bharata, together with his counselors, approached the root of the Ingudī tree and gazed upon Rama’s resting place. He spoke to the mothers, “Here, that great-souled one spent the night on the ground; this is the mark where he lay.” Bharata’s heart ached as he 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. 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, that scorcher of foes.” Bharata’s mind reeled, “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.” He examined the resting place, “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 Maithilī, though virtuous, did not feel hardship.” Bharata lamented, “Alas! I am truly cruel, for because of me, Raghava lies on such a bed with his wife, as if without support. Born in a royal lineage, bringing happiness to all people, beloved of all, he has abandoned the most cherished kingdom. How is it that Raghava, dark as a blue lotus, red-eyed, delightful to behold, who deserves happiness but is worthy of no suffering, lies on the ground?” In this way, the sorrow and reverence of Bharata and his companions for Rama’s suffering was laid bare, as they stood at the humble resting place beneath the Ingudī tree, hearts heavy with love and remorse.