After a short journey, Rāghava—Rāma—arrived at the tranquil slopes of Citrakūṭa and came to the sacred river Mandākinī. There, he addressed the people who had accompanied him. Seated upon the earth, the tiger among men took his place in the seat of heroes, embracing the solitude of the forest. The lord of men, a ruler born for greatness, had entered exile—alas, what sorrow for my birth and my life! Bharata lamented, “For my sake, the radiant and mighty lord of the world has fallen into misfortune. Renouncing all desires, Rāghava now dwells in the wilderness.” Tormented by guilt and blame, Bharata resolved, “Today, shamed before the world, I shall fall at the feet of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, and beg for their forgiveness.” As he poured out his grief in the depths of the forest, the son of Daśaratha beheld a wondrous sight: a spacious, auspicious leaf-hut, beautiful to behold. Its roof was woven from the leaves of sāla, tāla, and aśvakarṇa trees, and its floor was softly spread with kuśa grass, resembling a sacred altar prepared for sacrifice. Adorning the hut were mighty bows, gold-backed and shining, like Indra’s own weapons—fit for battle and dazzling to the eye. Quivers filled with fierce arrows, radiant as the sun’s rays, were arranged within, their gleaming tips resembling serpents, making the hut appear like the abode of serpents. The dwelling shone splendidly with silver garments and swords, and shields adorned with golden spots. There were curious gloves made from lizard skin, decorated with gold, and the hut, surrounded by the tokens of invincibility, stood like a lion’s cave amid wild beasts. Bharata’s gaze fell upon a broad altar facing east and north, glowing with sacred fire—an auspicious sight within Rāma’s forest dwelling. After pausing in awe, Bharata’s eyes found his revered elder brother, Rāma, seated within the hut, his hair matted and knotted atop his head. Rāma sat clad in black antelope skin and bark garments, his presence shining like fire, with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa at his side. The righteous lord of the earth, with shoulders broad as a lion’s, mighty arms, and lotus-like eyes, sat upon a seat of darbha grass. He was the ruler of the land bounded by the sea, yet now seated in humble exile, resembling eternal Brahmā himself. Overcome by grief and sorrow, the illustrious Bharata—righteous son of Kaikeyī—rushed forward. Seeing his brother, his heart broke, and he lamented, his voice choked with tears, unable to compose himself. “He who was once attended by all in the grand assembly now sits here among wild forest animals—my elder brother! He who wore garments worth thousands now practices righteousness clad in deerskin. He who was adorned with beautiful garlands now bears this heavy mass of matted hair—how does Rāghava endure it? He who gained merit through great sacrifices now seeks righteousness through bodily hardship. He whose body was once anointed with precious sandalwood—how is it now covered with dirt? Because of me, Rāma—accustomed to every comfort—now suffers such hardship. Fie upon my cruel life, condemned by the world!” Thus lamenting, his lotus-like face bathed in sweat, Bharata wept and fell at Rāma’s feet. Afflicted by sorrow, the mighty prince could utter only, “Noble one,” his voice lost in grief, unable to say more. Tears blocked his throat; seeing Rāma, he could only repeat, “Noble one,” and no further words came. Shatrughna, too, weeping, bowed low at Rāma’s feet. Rāma embraced them both, wiping away their tears with brotherly affection. Then Sumantra and Guha joined them, and the royal princes gathered together in the forest, shining like the sun and moon joined with Venus and Jupiter in the heavens. Seeing these noble kings, resplendent as lordly elephants, assembled in the great forest, even the forest-dwellers wept, abandoning their joy at the sorrowful reunion. Thus ended the ninety-ninth sarga of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient and sacred Rāmāyaṇa composed by Vālmīki. Rāma now beheld Bharata, who was difficult to recognize—his hair matted, clad in bark, palms joined and fallen to the ground, his radiance dimmed like the sun at the end of an age. Recognizing his brother, whose face was pale and body emaciated, Rāma gently lifted Bharata with his arm. Smelling his head in affection, Rāma embraced him, seating Bharata upon his lap, and spoke to him with deep concern: “Where is our father, dear one, that you have come to the forest? As long as he lives, you should not be here. Ah, after so long, I see Bharata approaching from afar, but in this forest, his appearance is unfamiliar. Why, dear one, have you come here? Is the king still alive, that you have come to me? Or has he, stricken with grief, departed this world? Gentle one, surely your kingdom, the lasting inheritance of a child, has not been lost? Do you serve our father, who is true to his vows? Is King Daśaratha, steadfast in truth, well—the one who performed the Rājasūya and Aśvamedha sacrifices, firm in righteousness? And is the learned and ever-righteous Brāhmaṇa, the illustrious preceptor of the Ikṣvāku line, duly honored, dear one?” Thus, with love and concern, Rāma questioned Bharata, seeking to understand the sorrow that had brought his beloved brother to the lonely forest.