Bharata, his heart heavy with grief, approached Rāma and implored him, “Rāghava, come with me to prosperous Ayodhyā and be consecrated for the good of our lineage.” He spoke with reverence, saying, “Though people call a king a mortal, to me he is divine—his conduct guided by righteousness and wealth, even if he is human.” Then, with sorrow, Bharata revealed what Rāma had not yet heard: “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.” Bharata urged Rāma, “Rise up, O tiger among men, and perform the water-rite for our father; Śatrughna and I 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 dearest 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 glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the ancient and revered Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When Rāma heard Bharata’s sorrowful words, learning of his father’s death, he was struck as if by a thunderbolt. Grasping his arms, Rāma fell to the ground, like a blossoming tree felled in the forest by an axe. He lay there, exhausted, like a great elephant asleep on the riverbank. His brothers, all mighty archers, wept with Sītā and sprinkled water upon him, trying to revive him. Rāma regained consciousness, tears streaming from his eyes, and began to speak many pitiful words. Learning that his father, the lord of the earth, had passed away, the righteous Rāma addressed Bharata, his words in accordance with dharma: “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 whom I could not even perform the funeral rites for?” He turned to Bharata, saying, “Ah, 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 spoken thus to Bharata, Rāghava approached his wife, Sītā, 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 Rāma spoke, 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 Sītā 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.” Sumitra’s son Lakṣmaṇa, ever devoted to them, self-controlled, gentle, peaceful, and firm in his devotion to Rāma, who understood himself and was of great wisdom, assisted them. Sumantara, together with the princes, comforted Rāghava and helped him descend to the auspicious Mandākinī river. With great difficulty, those illustrious ones reached the beautiful Mandākinī river, whose banks were always adorned with flowering groves. Coming to a holy, pure, and mudless ford with swift-flowing waters, they poured water there, saying, “May this be for you, O King.” The lord of the earth, Rāma, taking a handful of water in his joined palms, turned toward the southern direction, weeping, and spoke, “O tiger among kings, may this pure, unfailing water, offered by me today, reach you who have gone to the world of the ancestors.” Rāghava, crossing back from the bank of the Mandākinī, performed the water-offering for his father, together with his brothers. Placing on a bed of darbha grass the cakes made of flour mixed with jujube and barley, Rāma, overwhelmed with grief, wept and spoke, “O great king, partake of this, pleased, for we are without proper food; as is the food a person eats, so is the food offered to his ancestors.” Then, by that same path, the tiger among men, Rāma, crossed back from the riverbank and climbed the lovely slope of the mountain. Reaching the entrance of the leaf-hut, the lord of the earth embraced both Bharata and Lakṣmaṇa with his arms, sharing their sorrow and love in the wake of their father’s passing.