Bharata, overwhelmed with sorrow, reflected on the misfortune that had befallen Rāma, the radiant and mighty lord of the world. For Bharata’s sake, Rāma had abandoned all desires and now dwelled in the forest, renouncing comforts and royal pleasures. The world blamed Bharata for this calamity, and his heart was heavy with remorse. Determined to seek forgiveness, he resolved to fall at the feet of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, humbly asking for their pardon. As Bharata lamented in the forest, he came upon a wondrous sight: a great, auspicious, and beautiful leaf-hut. It was spacious, its roof woven from the leaves of sāla, tāla, and aśvakarṇa trees, and the floor softly spread with kuśa grass, resembling an altar prepared for sacred sacrifice. The hut was adorned with mighty bows, gold-backed and strong, shining like Indra’s own weapon, fit for battle and capable of destroying enemies. Fierce arrows, radiant as the rays of the sun, were stored in quivers, their shining faces resembling serpents and making the hut look like a serpent’s abode. Splendid garments of silver and swords decorated the dwelling, along with shields marked by golden spots, all shining brightly. There were curious gloves made of lizard skin, adorned with gold, and the hut seemed as invincible as a lion’s cave among wild beasts. Within Rāma’s dwelling, Bharata saw a broad altar facing east and north, glowing with sacred fire and auspiciousness. After gazing for a moment, Bharata beheld his revered elder, Rāma, seated in the hut, his hair matted and crowned. Rāma was clad in black antelope skin and bark garments, shining like fire, surrounded on all sides. Bharata saw the righteous lord of the earth, with lion-like shoulders, mighty arms, lotus-like eyes, and the stature of a ruler whose domain stretched to the sea. Seated with mighty arms, like eternal Brahmā, Rāma rested on a ground spread with darbha grass, accompanied by Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. The sight of Rāma overwhelmed Bharata with grief and sorrow. He, the righteous son of Kaikeyī, rushed forward, his heart aching. Seeing Rāma, Bharata’s pain was so great that his voice choked with tears, and he could not compose himself. He lamented aloud, recalling how his elder brother—once worthy of honor in royal assemblies—now sat among wild forest animals. The great soul who had been adorned with garments worth thousands now practiced righteousness clad in a deerskin. He who once wore beautiful garlands now bore the heavy mass of matted hair. Bharata wondered how Rāghava endured such hardship. Rāma, who had accumulated merit through prescribed sacrifices, now sought righteousness through bodily suffering. His body, once anointed with precious sandalwood, was now covered with dirt. Bharata’s heart broke as he realized that, because of him, Rāma—so accustomed to comfort—had come to this suffering. He cursed his own cruel life, condemned by the world. Lamenting in distress, his lotus-like face bathed in sweat, Bharata wept and fell at Rāma’s feet. Afflicted by sorrow, the mighty prince could only utter “Noble one” in his grief, unable to say anything more, his throat blocked by tears. Shatrughna, too, weeping, bowed at Rāma’s feet. Rāma embraced them both, gently wiping away their tears. Then, with Sumantra and Guha, the royal princes gathered in the forest, their presence like the sun and moon joined in the sky with Venus and Jupiter. Seeing these kings, resplendent as lordly elephants, assembled in the great forest, all the forest-dwellers too shed tears, abandoning their joy. Thus ended the ninety-ninth sarga of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient and sacred Rāmāyaṇa composed by Vālmīki. Rāma now saw Bharata, difficult to recognize, with matted hair and bark garments, his palms joined and fallen to the ground—like the sun at the end of an age. Somehow recognizing his brother, whose face was pale and body emaciated, Rāma took hold of him with his arm. The descendant of Raghu smelled Bharata’s head, embraced him, lifted him onto his lap, and questioned him with care. “Where is your father, dear one, that you have come to the forest? For as long as he lives, you should not have come here. Ah, after so long I see Bharata approaching from afar; his appearance is unfamiliar in this forest—why, dear one, have you come here? Is the king still alive, dear one, that you have come here? Or has the king, stricken with grief, suddenly departed this world? Gentle one, surely your kingdom, the lasting inheritance of a child, has not been lost? Dear one, do you serve your father, who is true to his vows? Is King Dasharatha, steadfast in truth, well? The one who performed the Rājasūya and Aśvamedha sacrifices, firm in righteousness? Is the learned and ever-righteous Brāhmaṇa, the illustrious preceptor of the Ikṣvāku line, duly honored, dear one? Dear one, is Kausalyā well, and Sumitrā, mother of sons? And is the noble queen Kaikeyī also happy? Is your family priest, endowed with discipline, learned, free from envy, and impartial, honored by you?” With tender concern, Rāma spoke these words to Bharata, seeking the welfare of their family and kingdom, even as the forest echoed with the sorrow and love of their reunion.