As dawn broke over the tranquil hermitage, the great sage Bharadvāja emerged from his dwelling, his presence radiant with spiritual brilliance. He greeted Bharata warmly, asking, “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.” With deep reverence, Bharata bowed low, palms joined, and addressed the sage who stood before him. “Revered one,” he replied, “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—without exception—have all been most comfortably accommodated.” Then, with humility, Bharata said, “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.” Hearing Bharata’s earnest request, the great ascetic Bharadvāja, endowed with immense 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 preparations for departure began, the royal women, though accustomed to the comfort of carriages, left their conveyances and gathered around the venerable brāhmaṇa. Kausalyā, trembling, emaciated, and miserable, together with Queen Sumitrā, clasped the sage’s feet with both hands. Kaikeyī, shamed and despised by all for her unfulfilled desire, took his feet with embarrassment. After circumambulating the great sage, she stood not far from Bharata, her heart heavy with sorrow. Then Bharadvāja, steadfast in his vows, turned to Bharata and inquired, “I wish to know in detail about your mothers, O descendant of Raghu.” With joined palms, Bharata, righteous and eloquent, replied, “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, eyes red like an enraged elephant—sighed deeply. The wise sage Bharadvāja, discerning and compassionate, addressed him with meaningful words: “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.” After paying his respects and circumambulating the sage, Bharata turned to his army and ordered 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 mighty elephants, decorated with golden trappings and banners, set out with a resounding noise, like clouds at the end of summer. Various vehicles, both large and small, departed, and the highly esteemed foot soldiers proceeded on foot. The women, led by Kausalyā and longing to see Rāma, joyfully rode in covered carriages. Bharata himself, radiant and surrounded by his retinue, set out in a splendid palanquin shining like the moon, sun, and dawn. The great army, filled with elephants, horses, and chariots, moved southward, spreading out like a vast rising cloud. Passing through forests teeming with deer and birds, they reached the far banks of the Ganga, as well as mountains and rivers. That army of Bharata, filled with delighted priests, horses, and warriors, frightened flocks of deer and birds as it advanced through the great forest, shining brilliantly amid the wilderness. Thus concludes the ninety-second sarga of the glorious Ayodhya Kanda in the ancient and revered Ramayana composed by the sage Valmiki. As the great army, adorned with banners, pressed onward, wild elephants, struck with fear, fled with their herds. Bears, herds of spotted deer, and antelopes were seen in the forest groves, as well as on the mountains and by the rivers, as Bharata’s vast procession journeyed on toward Citrakūṭa.