With deep reverence and wisdom, the conversation between the brothers unfolded in the forest. A noble question was posed to Rāma, the greatly wise: “Do you properly approve of the ways of military expeditions, the giving and withholding of punishment, the two kinds of birth, alliances, and enmities? Do you take counsel with your ministers, as is proper, sometimes with four, sometimes with three, or all together, or each separately? Are your studies of the Vedas yielding their fruits? Are your rituals, your marriages, your learning—all these, are they fruitful? Is your understanding, O Rāghava, as I have described, truly leading you to long life, to fame, to the pursuit of righteousness, desire, and wealth? Do you follow the conduct of your father and our ancestors, the path that leads to goodness and virtue? And do you, Rāghava, refrain from enjoying delicious food alone, choosing instead to share it with friends who desire it? Know that the wise king, having governed his people with justice and upheld the law, and having rightfully attained the earth, departs to heaven when his time comes.” Thus concluded the hundredth sarga of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the ancient and revered Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Hearing Rāma’s words, Bharata replied with sorrow: “What use is kingship to me, deprived as I am of righteousness? It is our eternal law, O best of men, that when the eldest son is present, the younger cannot become king. Come, Rāghava, return with me to the prosperous city of Ayodhyā and be consecrated for the good of our lineage. People may call a king a mere mortal, but to me, he is divine when his conduct is guided by righteousness and wealth, even though he is human. While I remained in Kekaya and you had gone to the forest, our noble father, esteemed among the virtuous, ascended to heaven. As soon as you and Lakṣmaṇa departed, the king, overwhelmed by grief and sorrow, reached the heavenly world. Rise up, O tiger among men, and perform the water-rite for our father; I and Śatrughna have already offered water before. Indeed, it is said that water offered with love to the ancestors becomes imperishable in their world—and you, Rāghava, are so dear to our father. He grieved only for you, longing to see you, his mind fixed on you alone; deprived of you, sick with sorrow for you, remembering you always, our father passed away.” Thus ended the one hundred and first sarga in the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the ancient and revered Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When Rāma heard these sorrowful words from Bharata, which told of his father’s death, he was struck as if by a thunderbolt. The mighty Rāma lost consciousness, collapsing to the ground like a great, blossoming tree felled by an axe in the forest. There he lay, the lord of the world, fallen to the earth like a mighty elephant, exhausted and fast asleep on the riverbank. His brothers, all great archers, overcome with grief, wept with Sītā and sprinkled water on him to revive him. Regaining consciousness, tears streaming from his eyes, the son of Kakutstha began to utter many pitiful words. When Rāma learned that his father, the lord of the earth, had passed away, he spoke words in accordance with dharma to Bharata: “Now that my father has gone to his destined path, what shall I do in Ayodhyā? Who will govern Ayodhyā, which depended on that foremost of kings? What duty remains for me, who am of difficult birth, toward that great-souled one who died from grief over me, and for whom I could not even perform the funeral rites? Ah, Bharata, you are truly fortunate, for the king was duly honored in all the funeral rites by you, blameless one, and by Śatrughna. Even after completing my forest exile, I do not have the heart to return to Ayodhyā, which, deprived of its sovereign, has become leaderless and distracted. O subduer of foes, even if I complete my exile, who will rule Ayodhyā again now that my father has departed to the other world? Once, when my father saw me behaving well, he would speak gentle words to comfort me—how will I ever again hear those pleasing words?” Having said this to Bharata, Rāghava approached his wife, whose face was like the full moon, and, tormented by grief, addressed her: “Sītā, your father-in-law has died; you are bereft of a father, Lakṣmaṇa. Bharata sorrowfully tells us the king has gone to heaven.” As Kakutstha spoke thus, abundant tears welled up in the eyes of those illustrious princes. Then all the brothers, greatly consoling Rāghava, said, “Let the water-rite be performed for our father, the lord of the earth.” When Sītā heard that her father-in-law, the king, had gone to the heavenly realms, her eyes filled with tears and she could not look at her husband. Then Rāma, after consoling Janaka’s daughter as she wept, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, himself sorrowful, to his sorrowful brother: “Bring me a cake of ingudi flour and fetch an upper garment of bark; I will go to perform the water-rite for my great-souled father. Let Sītā go ahead, and you walk beside her; I will follow behind, for this path is exceedingly harsh.” Then Sumitrā’s son, ever devoted, self-controlled, gentle, peaceful, and steadfast in his devotion to Rāma, who understood himself and was of great wisdom, prepared to carry out his brother’s wish.