After a restful night, Bharata, accompanied by his vast army and attendants, approached the revered sage Bharadvāja with gratitude. He spoke warmly, “Revered one, my entire retinue and I have rested well and are satisfied in every way by your hospitality. Freed from fatigue and distress, well provided with food and shelter, even our servants have been comfortably accommodated, without exception.” With earnest respect, 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.” Hearing Bharata’s longing to see his brother, 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 the call to depart was sounded, the royal women, though worthy of carriages, stepped down from 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, steadfast in his vows, addressed Bharata, “I wish to know in detail about your mothers, O descendant of Raghu.” Bharata, righteous and 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. 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 sage Bharadvāja 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 offering his respects and circumambulating the sage, Bharata instructed his army 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. The women, led by Kausalyā and desiring to see Rāma, joyfully departed in covered carriages. Bharata, radiant and surrounded by his retinue, set out in a splendid palanquin shining like the moon, sun, and dawn. That 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. Bharata’s army, filled with delighted priests, horses, and warriors, frightened flocks of deer and birds as it advanced through the great forest, and shone brilliantly there. Thus ends the ninety-second sarga of the glorious Ayodhya Kanda in the ancient and revered Ramayana composed by the sage Valmiki. As Bharata’s great army, adorned with banners, advanced, 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. The righteous son of Dasharatha, pleased, set out surrounded by his great, resounding fourfold army. Bharata’s mighty force, resembling the surging waves of the ocean, covered the earth as a rain cloud covers the sky in the rainy season.