As Bharata stood before Rama, his heart heavy with longing and duty, he pleaded earnestly, “Let the earth, with you as her lord, no longer be widowed, just as the autumn night is brightened by the spotless moon.” With humility, he bowed his head alongside his ministers, entreating Rama as his brother, disciple, and servant, begging Rama’s favor. “O tiger among men,” Bharata continued, “you should not transgress this eternal and ancestral circle of subjects, which has always been honored.” Having spoken thus, Bharata—the mighty-armed son of Kaikeyi—was overcome with emotion. Tears glistened in his eyes as he respectfully grasped Rama’s feet with his head, following the ancient custom. Rama, seeing his brother sighing again and again like a maddened elephant, embraced Bharata warmly and spoke words of comfort. “You are noble-born, endowed with virtue, radiant, and steadfast in your vows,” Rama said. “How could a person like you commit any wrong for the sake of the kingdom? I do not see even the slightest fault in you, O destroyer of foes, nor should you reproach your mother for her ignorance. O most wise and blameless one, the will of elders is always to be followed, especially when it concerns suitable spouses and sons. O gentle one, just as in the world we are counted by the virtuous as wives, sons, and disciples, so too should you understand yourself.” Rama continued, “Whether in the forest, wearing bark garments and black antelope skin, or in the kingdom as a great king, it is for him to decide where I should dwell. As long as there is respect for the righteous father, honored by the world, so too, O best of the righteous, should there be respect for the mother. O Raghava, since I have been sent to the forest by these two righteous parents, how could I act otherwise? You should obtain the kingdom of Ayodhya, honored by the world, while I must dwell in the Dandaka forest, clothed in bark. Thus, having made the division in the presence of the people, the great king, having given his commands, ascended to heaven. That king, your father, righteous and a teacher of the world, is the authority; you should enjoy the share allotted to you by him. O gentle one, for fourteen years I shall dwell in the Dandaka forest and enjoy the portion given to me by my great-souled father. Whatever my great father, honored among men and like the lord of the gods, told me, I consider that alone to be for the highest good, not even the sovereignty over all the worlds.” Thus concluded the one hundred and fourth sarga in the glorious Ayodhya Kanda of the holy Ramayana, composed by sage Valmiki. As night fell, the lion-like men, surrounded by their bands of friends, grieved deeply, and the night passed in sorrow. When dawn broke, Bharata and his brothers, accompanied by their friends, performed the morning oblations and recitations on the banks of the Mandakini. They then approached Rama, and together they sat in silence, none uttering a word. At last, Bharata spoke in the midst of his companions. “My mother, having been appeased, has given this kingdom to me; I now give it to you—enjoy the kingdom without hindrance. Like a dam broken by a great rush of water, this vast portion of the kingdom cannot be held by anyone but you. Just as one cannot follow the speed of a horse or the flight of Garuda, so am I unable to keep pace with your course, O king. One who is always supported by others lives easily; but, O Rama, it is hard for him who lives off others.” He continued, “Just as a tree planted and nurtured by a man grows tall, with a thick trunk, and becomes difficult for a short person to climb, so, when that tree flowers but does not bear fruit, the one who planted it does not enjoy the satisfaction for which he raised it. This is the analogy, O mighty-armed one; you should understand its meaning. If you are the chief among us, then do not rule over your servants. Let the foremost guilds and all the people, O great king, see you, unconquerable by enemies, shining in the kingdom like the blazing sun. Let the intoxicated elephants trumpet in your procession, O descendant of Kakutstha; let the women of the inner palace rejoice with full attention.” Hearing Bharata’s heartfelt words, the citizens and people of all kinds approved, saying, “Well spoken!” and entreated Rama again. But Rama, steadfast in self-control, comforted his afflicted brother. “A person does not act according to his own will; he is not his own master. From here and there, Death drags him along. All accumulations end in depletion; all elevations end in a fall; all unions end in separation; and life itself ends in death. Just as ripe fruits have no fear except of falling, so for one who is born, there is no fear except of death. Just as a house, though built with strong pillars, decays and collapses when old, so too do people, subject to old age and death, decline. The night that passes does not return; the full-flowing Yamuna moves only toward the ocean filled with water. Days and nights pass for all living beings here; they swiftly diminish their lifespans, like the sun’s rays drying up water in summer. Grieve for yourself—why do you grieve for another? For one’s lifespan diminishes, whether one stays or departs. Death goes together with a person, sits together with him, and after traveling a very long journey, returns together with him.” Thus, in the presence of all, Rama spoke words of wisdom and comfort, upholding the ancient dharma and honoring the will of his father, while Bharata and the people of Ayodhya listened with reverence and sorrow.