At Bharadvāja’s hermitage, Bharata and his vast retinue were greeted by a sight of abundance: all manner of animals had been prepared for the sacrificial offering, signaling the sage’s extraordinary hospitality. The people marveled at the wondrous welcome shown to Bharata, feeling as if they were living in a dream, so magnificent was the sage’s generosity. That night, the entire company delighted in the joys of Bharadvāja’s hermitage, much like the gods reveling in Nandana, their celestial garden. As dawn approached, the rivers and Gandharvas who had gathered departed, taking leave with the sage’s permission, along with all the lovely women who had graced the festivities. The intoxicated men, their bodies anointed with divine aloe and sandalwood, lingered amidst the scattered, splendid garlands—trampled and strewn by the crowds. Thus ended the ninety-first sarga of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient and sacred Rāmāyaṇa composed by sage Vālmīki. With the night passed, Bharata, having been duly honored, approached the sage Bharadvāja with joined palms. The sage, having completed his morning fire rituals, saw Bharata—the tiger among men—arrive and addressed him warmly: “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 and replied: “Revered one, I, along with 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 have been most comfortably accommodated. 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 by Bharata, who longed to see his brother, the great ascetic Bharadvāja replied: “At a distance of two and a half yojanas through 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 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.” Hearing the call to depart, the royal women, though worthy of carriages, left their vehicles and surrounded 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, took his feet with embarrassment. Having circumambulated the venerable sage, she stood not far from Bharata, her heart weighed down with sorrow. Then Bharadvāja, firm in his vows, questioned Bharata: “I wish to know in detail about your mothers, O descendant of Raghu.” Thus addressed, Bharata, righteous and expert 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. 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’s voice choked with tears; he sighed deeply, his eyes red like an enraged elephant. The wise sage Bharadvāja then addressed him 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 offered his respects and circumambulated the sage, Bharata then addressed the army, instructing them to prepare for departure. Splendid chariots adorned with gold were harnessed, and a great multitude of people, eager to set out, mounted them. Elephant maidens and elephants with golden trappings and banners, like clouds at the end of summer, set out with resounding noise. Various vehicles, both large and small, departed, and the highly esteemed foot soldiers proceeded on foot, all moving forward toward Citrakūṭa, where Rāma awaited.