Eager to find his exiled brother, Bharata approached the great sage Bharadvāja, a knower of righteousness, and respectfully inquired, “O revered one, please tell me which path leads to the hermitage of that noble and virtuous soul, and how far it lies from here.” Hearing Bharata’s earnest question, the mighty ascetic Bharadvāja, radiant with spiritual energy, replied, “Two and a half yojanas from here, in the lonely depths of the forest, stands the mountain Citrakūṭa, covered in delightful, unbroken woods. On its northern side flows the Mandākinī river, shaded by blossoming trees and adorned with flowering groves. Beyond that river rises Mount Citrakūṭa itself. At the foot of both the mountain and the river, dear prince, stands a humble leaf-hut—there, without doubt, your brothers reside.” The sage continued, “O noble leader of armies, guide your great force—filled with elephants, horses, and chariots—along the southern road, or take paths to the left or right as needed; then you will see Rāghava himself.” As the call to depart rang out, the royal women, though accustomed to the comfort of carriages, stepped down from their vehicles and gathered around the venerable brāhmaṇa. Queen Kausalyā, trembling, emaciated, and overcome with sorrow, together with Queen Sumitrā, clasped the sage’s feet with both hands. Kaikeyī, shamed and scorned for her unfulfilled ambitions, also approached Bharadvāja, her heart heavy with embarrassment, and touched his feet. After respectfully circumambulating the great sage, she stood not far from Bharata, her spirit weighed down by grief. Then Bharadvāja, steadfast in his vows, turned to Bharata and asked, “O descendant of Raghu, I wish to know in detail about your mothers.” With joined palms and a sorrowful heart, Bharata replied, “Revered one, the sorrowful, grief-stricken, and emaciated lady you see is my father’s chief queen, as radiant as a goddess. She is Kausalyā, who gave birth to Rāma, that 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 karṇikāra branch in the forest bereft of flowers. This is Queen Sumitrā, who 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.” He continued, his voice trembling, “Know Kaikeyī as my mother—angry, lacking wisdom, proud, thinking herself fortunate, craving power, ignoble though she appears noble. I see her as cruel and intent on evil, for she is the root of this great calamity that befell my father.” Having spoken thus, Bharata, that lion among men, sighed deeply, his eyes red with unshed tears, like an enraged elephant. The wise and discerning sage Bharadvāja then addressed him with words full of meaning, “Bharata, do not blame Kaikeyī. 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 due respects and circumambulating the sage, Bharata turned to his army and ordered them to prepare for departure. Splendid chariots adorned with gold were yoked, and the great multitude, eager to set out, mounted them. Elephant maidens and mighty tuskers adorned with golden trappings and banners, like clouds at the end of summer, set forth with a resounding noise. All manner of vehicles, both large and small, rolled out, while the honored foot soldiers proceeded on foot. The women, led by Kausalyā and longing to see Rāma, departed joyfully in covered carriages. Bharata himself, radiant and surrounded by his retinue, set out in a splendid palanquin, shining like the moon, the sun, and the dawn. The great army, filled with elephants, horses, and chariots, moved southward, spreading out like a vast, rising cloud. They passed through forests teeming with deer and birds, crossed the far banks of the Ganga, and traversed mountains and rivers. Bharata’s army, filled with delighted priests, horses, and warriors, shone brilliantly as it advanced through the great forest, startling flocks of deer and birds along the way. Thus ended 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, advanced, wild elephants, struck with fear, fled with their herds. In the forest groves, on mountains, and by rivers, they saw bears, herds of spotted deer, and antelopes. The righteous son of Dasharatha, pleased, proceeded surrounded by his vast, resounding fourfold army. Bharata’s mighty host, like a mass of ocean waves, covered the earth as rain clouds cover the sky in the rainy season—a sign that much time had passed. After traveling a long distance, with their vehicles thoroughly fatigued, the illustrious Bharata spoke to Vasiṣṭha, foremost among counselors, “From the appearance of the land, and as I have heard described, it is clear we have reached the place that Bharadvāja told us of.