As Bharata approached his mother Kausalya, her heart heavy with concern, she voiced her fears, “My son, I hope you have not heard anything unpleasant about Lakshmana, who went to the forest with his wife. For a mother with only one son, Lakshmana too is as dear as a son.” Bharata, overwhelmed by emotion, could not immediately reply. After a moment, regaining his composure though tears still flowed, the illustrious Bharata gently comforted Kausalya. Turning to Guha, the king of the Nishadas, he asked with deep concern, “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 trust, recounted everything in detail. He described how he had received Rama, his most cherished and honored guest. “I brought for Rama a great variety of food, both fine and coarse, and many kinds of fruits for his meal,” Guha explained. Yet Rama, steadfast in truth and valor, gently declined all offerings. 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 said, persuading Guha and his people with kindness. After Lakshmana fetched water, the illustrious Rama drank and then observed a fast, together with Sita. With the water that remained, Lakshmana performed the ritual, and the three of them, restraining their speech, devoutly observed the evening worship. Saumitri, ever attentive, quickly brought grass and prepared a pure resting place for Raghava. Upon that simple bed, Rama entered with Sita; after washing their feet, Lakshmana respectfully withdrew. Guha pointed to the root of the Ingudī tree and the very grass upon which Rama and Sita had spent the night. Lakshmana, vigilant, stood watch throughout the night, his back straight, fingers on the bowstring, quivers full of arrows, his great bow set. Guha himself, with an excellent bow and arrows, stood alongside Lakshmana, and their kinsmen, armed and watchful, guarded Rama like mighty Indra. Thus ended the eighty-eighth sarga 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 all the mothers, “Here, that great-souled one spent the night on the ground; this is the mark where he lay.” Reflecting on Rama’s noble birth, Bharata lamented, “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 remembered how Rama always dwelled in the highest palaces, with golden, silver, and jeweled floors, upon the best of beds. Among heaps of fragrant flowers, sandalwood and agaru, in chambers bright as white clouds, resounding with the cries of parrots, Rama lived in the finest, cool, and fragrant palaces, like those on Mount Meru, with walls adorned with gold. He was always awakened by songs and instruments, the jingling of splendid ornaments, and the deep tones of the best drums. Praised at the proper time by bards, sūtas, and māgadhas with fitting songs and hymns, Rama was a scorcher of foes. Bharata’s heart ached, “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.” He grieved for Sita as well, “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.” Pointing to the pressed grass, Bharata said, “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.” He mused, “I think this bed was comfortable for my brother, by which the young, ascetic, delicate Maithili, though virtuous, did not feel hardship.” Overcome by guilt, Bharata cried, “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?” He praised Lakshmana, “Truly blessed and most fortunate is Lakshmana, of auspicious marks, who follows Rama, his brother, in this difficult time. Indeed, Vaidehi has attained her purpose, who followed her husband to the forest; but we are all left uncertain, deprived of that great soul.” Bharata’s sorrow deepened, “The earth seems to me as if bereft of its streams, empty, with Dasharatha gone to heaven and Rama dwelling in the forest. No one even desires the earth in thought, though he dwells in the forest, for it is protected by the strength of his arms.” He described Ayodhya’s decline: “With its council chambers empty, its horses and elephants unrestrained, its city gates open, the royal treasury unguarded—with its army dispirited, diminished, in adversity, unprotected—even enemies do not covet it, as one does not desire food mixed with poison.” Thus Bharata mourned at the resting place of Rama, his heart filled with grief and longing for his brother, whose virtue and sacrifice had left all Ayodhya bereft and humbled.