Within the tranquil hermitage of the great sage Bharadvāja, Bharata and his vast retinue beheld wondrous sights. There were lakes brimming with refreshing drinks for camels, oxen, elephants, and horses, and serene bathing ponds with gentle banks, their waters adorned with blooming lotuses and water-lilies. Pools as blue as the sky, clear and inviting, tempted all to bathe; heaps of soft barley, glimmering like blue beryl, were laid out in abundance. In that sacred place, they saw all manner of animals prepared for the sacrificial rites. The people marveled at the extraordinary hospitality extended to Bharata by the illustrious sage—it seemed so enchanting, they wondered if it were all but a dream. Delighting as the gods do in their celestial Nandana grove, Bharata and his company spent a beautiful, blissful night at Bharadvāja’s hermitage. As dawn approached, the rivers and Gandharvas, having received the sage’s blessing, departed as they had come, accompanied by all the lovely women who had graced the gathering. The men, intoxicated and fragrant with divine aloe and sandalwood, lingered on, while splendid garlands lay scattered and trampled underfoot. Thus concluded that remarkable night, as told in the ninety-first sarga of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the ancient and sacred Rāmāyaṇa composed by sage Vālmīki. With the new day, Bharata, having been honored along with his retinue, approached the venerable Bharadvāja. Seeing Bharata arrive with palms joined in reverence, the sage—his fire rituals complete—greeted him warmly. “Did you rest comfortably here in my hermitage?” he inquired. “Is your company well? Tell me, blameless one, if you found my hospitality satisfactory.” Bharata bowed deeply, his hands folded, and replied to the radiant sage who had emerged from his dwelling, “Revered one, my entire army and attendants, together with myself, have rested well and are satisfied in every way by your kindness. Freed from fatigue and distress, well-provided with food and shelter, even our servants, without exception, have been most comfortably accommodated.” With gratitude, Bharata continued, “O revered sage, I now take my leave. Please look upon me with your friendly gaze as I go to seek 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 by Bharata, who longed to see his brother, the great ascetic Bharadvāja, radiant with energy, replied, “At a distance of two and a half yojanas through the uninhabited forest lies Mount Citrakūṭa, with its delightful, unbroken woods. On its northern side flows the Mandākinī river, shaded by trees in bloom and graced with flowering groves. Beyond that river stands Citrakūṭa itself; 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 given, the royal women, though they deserved carriages, left their vehicles and gathered around the brāhmaṇa. Trembling, emaciated, and miserable, Kausalyā, together with Queen Sumitrā, approached and grasped the sage’s feet with both hands. Kaikeyī, shamed and despised for her unfulfilled desires, also took his feet, her heart heavy with embarrassment. Having circumambulated the venerable sage, she stood not far from Bharata, weighed down by sorrow. Then Bharadvāja, steadfast in his vows, turned to Bharata and asked, “I wish to know in detail about your mothers, O descendant of Raghu.” Bharata, righteous and eloquent, 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. This queen has two sons, both resplendent as gods—Lakṣmaṇa and Śatrughna—heroes of true valor. For her sake, those tigers among men risked their lives, and Daśaratha, deprived of his sons, has gone to heaven. Know Kaikeyī as my mother—angry, lacking wisdom, proud, thinking herself fortunate, craving power, ignoble though she appears noble. Know this mother of mine to be cruel and intent on evil, for I see her as the root of this great calamity for my father.” Having spoken thus, Bharata, his voice choked with tears, sighed deeply, his eyes red like an enraged elephant. The wise and discerning sage Bharadvāja addressed Bharata gently, “Kaikeyī should not be blamed by you, Bharata; for Rāma’s exile will bring about a happy outcome. For gods, demons, and seers of purified souls, Rāma’s exile here will indeed prove beneficial.” Having duly offered his respects and circumambulated the sage, Bharata then instructed the army to prepare for departure. Splendid chariots adorned with gold were harnessed, and the great multitude of people, eager to set out, mounted them, ready to journey onward toward Citrakūṭa.