With gentle concern and wisdom, Bharata questioned Rāma, “Are your studies of the Vedas bearing fruit? Do your rituals bring their intended blessings? Are your marriages and your learning themselves fruitful?” He continued, “O Rāghava, does your understanding, as I have described, truly lead to long life, fame, and the fulfillment of righteousness, desire, and wealth? Do you follow the conduct that our father and ancestors observed, the way that leads only to goodness and righteousness? And do you, O Rāghava, avoid eating delicious food alone, choosing instead to share it with your friends who long for it?” Bharata reflected further, “A wise king, having ruled his people justly and upheld the law, and having rightfully attained the whole earth, at last departs to heaven when his time comes.” Thus ended that hundredth sarga in the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the ancient and revered Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Hearing Rāma’s words, Bharata replied, his voice heavy with emotion, “What use is kingship to me, when I am deprived of righteousness? Among us, O best of men, this is the eternal law: when the eldest son is present, the younger cannot become king. Come, Rāghava, return with me to prosperous Ayodhyā and be consecrated for the good of our lineage. Though a king is called a mortal man, to me he is as 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. It is said that water offered with love to the ancestors becomes imperishable in their world; and you, Rāghava, are 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, our father passed away.” Thus ended the one hundred and first sarga in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing this sorrowful speech from Bharata, which told of his father’s death, Rāma was overcome with shock and grief. The words struck him like a thunderbolt hurled by Indra, the foe of the Dānavas, felling the mighty Rāma to the ground. Grasping his arms, Rāma collapsed as a blossoming tree cut down by an axe falls in the forest. There he lay, the lord of the world, like a great elephant exhausted on a riverbank, deep in sleep. His brothers—great archers all—along with Sītā, wept in anguish and sprinkled water on him. Regaining consciousness, tears streaming from his eyes, the son of Kakutstha began to speak many pitiful words. When Rāma heard that his father, the lord of the earth, had passed away, that righteous one spoke in accordance with dharma to Bharata: “Now that my father has gone to the 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, 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 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 spoken thus to Bharata, Rāghava approached his wife, whose face was like the full moon, and addressed her, tormented by grief. “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 in this way, 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 was unable to look at her husband. 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 Sumitra’s son, ever devoted to them—self-controlled, gentle, peaceful, and firm in his devotion to Rāma, who understood himself and was of great wisdom—together with Sumantara and the princes, comforted Rāghava and helped him descend to the auspicious Mandākinī river. Those illustrious ones, after reaching with difficulty the beautiful Mandākinī, whose banks were always adorned with flowering groves, prepared to perform the sacred rites for their departed father.