As Bharata stood before Rāma in the forest, his voice heavy with grief, he began to recount the sorrowful events that had unfolded in Ayodhyā. “While I remained in Kekaya and you, noble brother, had departed to the forest, our revered father—honored among the virtuous—left this mortal world and ascended to heaven. As soon as you and Lakṣmaṇa set forth into exile, the king, overwhelmed by anguish and despair, passed away and reached the realm of the ancestors.” Bharata’s eyes glistened with tears as he continued, “Rise up, O tiger among men, and perform the water-rite for our father. Śatrughna and I have already offered water, as is our duty. It is said that water offered with love to the ancestors becomes imperishable in their world, and you, Rāghava, were always dearest to our father. His heart ached only for you—he longed to see you, his mind fixed on you alone. Deprived of your presence, sick with sorrow, and constantly remembering you, our father departed this world.” As Bharata finished speaking, the weight of his words struck Rāma like a thunderbolt hurled by Indra himself. Overcome by grief, Rāma lost consciousness, collapsing to the ground as if a great blossoming tree had been felled by an axe in the forest. There he lay, the lord of the world, like a mighty elephant exhausted and sleeping on a riverbank. Seeing their beloved brother fallen, Lakṣmaṇa, Bharata, and Śatrughna—great archers all—were themselves worn down by sorrow. Together with Sītā, they wept bitterly and sprinkled water upon Rāma, striving to revive him. Slowly, Rāma regained his senses, tears streaming from his eyes, and began to speak in a voice choked with pain. Learning at last of his father’s passing, Rāma, ever righteous, turned to Bharata and said, “Now that my father has gone the destined way, what purpose remains for me in Ayodhyā? Who will rule our city, which depended so completely on that foremost of kings? What duty is left for me, born of difficult circumstances, toward that great-souled one who died from grief over my exile, and for whom I was not even present to perform the funeral rites?” He looked at Bharata with sorrow and said, “Ah, Bharata, you are truly fortunate, for you and Śatrughna have honored our father with all the proper rites. Even if I complete my time in the forest, I do not have the heart to return to Ayodhyā, now leaderless and distracted by grief. O subduer of foes, who will rule Ayodhyā now that our father has departed to the next world? Once, when my father saw me act righteously, he would speak gentle words to comfort me—how will I ever again hear those pleasing words from him?” Having thus unburdened his heart to Bharata, Rāma approached Sītā, her face as radiant as the full moon, and addressed her, his voice trembling with grief. “Sītā, your father-in-law has died; you are bereft of a father, Lakṣmaṇa. Bharata has sorrowfully brought us the news that the king has gone to heaven.” At these words, tears welled up in the eyes of the illustrious princes, and Sītā herself could not bear to look at her husband, her eyes overflowing with sorrow. Then, all the brothers, seeking to console Rāma, urged him, “Let the water-rite be performed for our father, the lord of the earth.” Rāma, seeing the depth of their grief, comforted Sītā as she wept, and then, though sorrowful himself, turned to Lakṣmaṇa and said, “Bring me a cake made of ingudi flour and fetch an upper garment of bark. I will go now to perform the water-rite for our great-souled father. Let Sītā go ahead, and you walk beside her, Lakṣmaṇa; I will follow, for this path is exceedingly harsh.” Sumitra’s son, Lakṣmaṇa, ever devoted, self-controlled, gentle, and steadfast in his service to Rāma, did as he was asked. Sumantara, together with the princes, comforted Rāghava and accompanied him as he descended to the auspicious Mandākinī river. With great difficulty, the illustrious ones reached the beautiful Mandākinī, whose banks were adorned with blossoming groves. They came to a holy, pure, and mudless ford where the waters flowed swiftly. There, with hearts full of devotion, they poured water, saying, “May this be for you, O King.” Rāma, his palms joined and filled with water, turned toward the southern direction, weeping, and spoke these words: “O tiger among kings, may this pure, unfailing water, offered by me today, reach you who have gone to the world of the ancestors.” Crossing back from the riverbank, Rāma, together with his brothers, performed the water-offering for their father. On a bed of darbha grass, Rāma placed cakes made of flour mixed with jujube and barley, and, overwhelmed with grief, spoke through his tears, “O great king, partake of this offering with satisfaction, for we are without proper food. As is the food a person eats, so is the food offered to his ancestors.” Having completed the rites, Rāma, the tiger among men, returned by the same path, climbing the lovely slope of the mountain. Upon reaching the entrance of their leaf-hut, he embraced Bharata and Lakṣmaṇa with his arms. The sound of their weeping echoed across the mountain, as the brothers, together with Sītā, wailed in their grief like roaring lions. Hearing the tumultuous cries of the princes as they performed the water-offering for their father, the soldiers of Bharata were seized with fear, awed by the depth of the brothers’ sorrow.