As Bharata and his great retinue arrived at the hermitage of the sage Bharadvāja, they beheld a scene of astonishing abundance and beauty. All around them, thousands of iron vessels stood filled to the brim, decorated with flowered banners, and heaped with pure, gleaming white rice. The men gazed in wonder at these sights. At the very edge of the forest, marvelous wells appeared, brimming with creamy rice and milk. Wish-fulfilling cows wandered nearby, and trees dripped with honey, their branches heavy with sweetness. Along the path, ponds sparkled, filled not with water but with mead, and surrounded by generous heaps of well-cooked meat. Hot dishes of peacock and jungle fowl were set out for any who wished to partake. Everywhere, there were thousands of bowls, tens of thousands of pots, and hundreds of millions of golden vessels, each one filled with delicacies. Pots, jars, and dishes overflowed with fragrant curds from young cows and with preparations made from kapittha fruits. Pools gleamed with sweet mango juice, thick white milk, and heaps of rice pudding and sugar, inviting all to enjoy their bounty. On the riverbanks, men saw vessels containing all manner of medicinal pastes, powders, decoctions, and different substances for bathing. There were heaps of shining white tooth-sticks and cool, white sandalwood pastes laid out for use. Polished mirrors reflected the morning light, and heaps of garments, thousands of pairs of sandals and shoes, and cosmetic boxes, combs, and brushes were set out for the guests. Weapons, bows, ornate armor, beds, and seats were also provided, ensuring every comfort. Nearby, lakes were filled with drinks for the animals—camels, oxen, elephants, and horses—while bathing ponds with gentle banks bloomed with lotuses and water lilies. Pools the color of the sky, with clear, refreshing water, were perfect for bathing, and heaps of soft barley, blue as beryl, were piled high. All the animals needed for sacrificial offerings were prepared, and the people marveled at the wondrous hospitality that the great sage had shown to Bharata and his company. It all seemed like a dream, so extraordinary was the welcome. Delighting like gods in the Nandana garden, they passed that beautiful night at Bharadvāja’s hermitage. When morning came, the rivers and the celestial Gandharvas, along with the lovely women who had graced the gathering, departed as they had come, having received the sage’s permission. The men remained, still intoxicated, their bodies anointed with divine aloe and sandalwood, while splendid garlands lay scattered and trampled where people had walked. Thus ended the ninety-first sarga in the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the ancient and sacred Rāmāyaṇa composed by the sage Vālmīki. When the night had passed, Bharata, honored in every way, approached the sage Bharadvāja with his retinue. Seeing Bharata arrive with joined palms, the sage, having completed his fire rituals, greeted him warmly and asked, “Did you spend the night comfortably here in my hermitage? Is your entire company well? Tell me, blameless one, if you found the hospitality satisfactory.” Bharata bowed deeply, palms joined, and replied to the radiant sage who had come forth from his hermitage, “Revered one, I and my entire army and attendants have rested well and have been satisfied in every way by your hospitality. Freed from fatigue and distress, well-provided with food and shelter, even our servants, without exception, have been most comfortably accommodated.” Then Bharata continued, “O revered sage, I now take my leave. Please, with your friendly gaze, look upon me as I set out to approach my brother. O knower of righteousness, tell me which path leads to the hermitage of that righteous and great-souled one, and how far it is.” Thus questioned, the great ascetic Bharadvāja, full of energy, replied, “At a distance of two and a half yojanas in the uninhabited forest lies the mountain Citrakūṭa, with its delightful, uninterrupted woods. On its northern side flows the Mandākinī river, shaded by blossoming trees and beautiful with flowering groves. Beyond that river stands Mount Citrakūṭa; at the foot of both, dear one, is their leaf-hut, where surely the two reside. O noble leader of armies, drive your force—filled with elephants, horses, and chariots—by the southern road, or by the left or right path; then you will see Rāghava.” As the call to depart was heard, the royal women—though worthy of carriages—left their vehicles and gathered around the brāhmaṇa. Trembling, emaciated, and miserable, Kausalyā, together with Queen Sumitrā, grasped the sage’s feet with both hands. Kaikeyī, shamed and despised by all for her unfulfilled desire, also took his feet, but with embarrassment. Having circumambulated the venerable sage, she stood not far from Bharata, her heart heavy with sorrow. Then Bharadvāja, steadfast in his vows, addressed Bharata, “I wish to know in detail about your mothers, O descendant of Raghu.” Thus spoken to, the righteous Bharata, skilled in speech, replied with joined palms, “Revered one, this sorrowful, grief-stricken, and emaciated lady whom you see is my father’s chief queen, like a goddess. This is Kausalyā, who gave birth to Rāma, the tiger among men, whose stride is like a lion’s—just as Aditi bore the sustainer of all. Clinging to her left arm stands this dejected lady, like a branch of the karṇikāra tree bereft of flowers in the forest.