Seeing his beloved brother Bharata, who sighed again and again like a maddened elephant, Rama embraced him warmly and spoke with gentle affection. “You are noble by birth, Bharata, endowed with virtue, radiant, and steadfast in your vows. How could someone such as 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 actions, for she acted out of ignorance. “O wise and blameless one, the will of our elders is always to be followed, especially when it concerns matters of spouses and sons. In this world, O gentle one, the virtuous count us as wives, sons, and disciples, and so too should you understand yourself. Whether I dwell in the forest, clad in bark and black antelope skin, or reign in the kingdom as a great king, it is for our father to decide where I should be. “As long as there is respect for our righteous father, honored by the world, so too, O best of the righteous, should there be respect for our mother. Since I have been sent to the forest by these two righteous parents, how could I act otherwise? You should accept the kingdom of Ayodhya, honored by all, while I must dwell in the Dandaka forest, clothed in bark. “The division has been made in the presence of the people. The great king, our father, having given his commands, has ascended to heaven. He, your father and mine, righteous and a teacher of the world, is our authority. You should enjoy the share allotted to you by him. For fourteen years, gentle one, I shall dwell in the Dandaka forest and accept the portion given to me by our great-souled father. Whatever our 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 sovereignty over all the worlds tempts me otherwise.” Thus ended the one hundred and fourth sarga in the glorious Ayodhya Kanda of the ancient epic, the holy Ramayana composed by sage Valmiki. As the night passed, the lion-like brothers, surrounded by their friends, grieved together in sorrow. When dawn broke bright and clear, Bharata and his brothers, accompanied by their companions, performed their morning oblations and recitations on the banks of the Mandakini. Then, they approached Rama. They sat together in silence, none speaking a word. At last, Bharata, surrounded by his friends, addressed Rama: “My mother, having been appeased, has given this kingdom to me. I now return 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 no one can match 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. Just as a tree planted and nurtured by a man grows tall and thick, becoming difficult for a short person to climb, so too, 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; 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 words, the citizens and all the people approved, praising him and entreating Rama again. Seeing the illustrious Bharata so afflicted and lamenting, Rama, steadfast in self-control, comforted him with wisdom. He said, “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. “Wrinkles have appeared on the limbs, and the hair has turned white; a man is worn out by old age—what can he possibly accomplish then? People rejoice when the sun rises and rejoice when it sets, yet they do not realize the shortening of their own lifespan. They delight at seeing each new season arrive, but with the change of seasons, the life of living beings is diminished. Just as one piece of wood meets another in the vast ocean, and after meeting, they part again when the time comes...” Thus, Rama spoke, comforting his brother and the people, guiding them with wisdom and reminding them of the impermanence of all things.