As the brothers stood together, the weight of loss and duty upon them, Rāma began to speak with gentle wisdom. He observed how, with the passage of time, wrinkles appear on the body and hair turns white; old age overtakes a person, leaving little that can be accomplished. Yet, he noted, people rejoice at the rising and setting of the sun, unaware that each day brings their own lives closer to an end. They delight in the coming of each new season, not realizing that with every change, their own lifespan quietly diminishes. He likened the meetings and partings of people to two pieces of wood that chance upon each other in the vast ocean—coming together for a moment, only to drift apart again. In the same way, wives, sons, relatives, and friends gather for a time, but their separation is inevitable. No living being remains unchanged, and so there is little power or purpose in mourning those who have departed. Rāma continued, saying that just as a traveler on the road might say to a passing caravan, “I too will come after you,” so too do we follow the path of our ancestors and forefathers—a path from which none can deviate. Knowing this, why should one grieve? As age declines and life’s current flows only forward, he urged that the mind be turned toward happiness, for it is the joy of their offspring that parents desire. He reminded them that their father, the lord of the earth, righteous and purified by many auspicious sacrifices and generous gifts, had now gone to heaven. Through just rule, protection of his people, and the giving of wealth in accordance with dharma, their father had attained the highest realm. By his auspicious deeds and sacrifices, King Daśaratha had reached heaven, having enjoyed the full span of life and all its pleasures. Honored by the virtuous, their father had now attained divine prosperity and dwelled in the world of Brahma, free from sorrow and not to be mourned. Rāma gently counseled that no wise person, having heard and understood these truths, ought to grieve in such a way. The wise, he said, avoid sorrow, lamentation, and weeping in all circumstances. Therefore, he urged his brother to be at ease, to remain in the city, recalling the instructions of their father, who was foremost among the self-controlled and the eloquent. As for himself, Rāma declared that he would fulfill their noble father’s command, for it would not be right to disregard it. Their father was always to be honored. Thus, Rāma resolved to uphold Daśaratha’s word by dwelling in the forest, as he had been instructed. He affirmed that those who seek the next world must act with intelligence, compassion, and obedience to elders. He encouraged his brother to conduct himself according to his own nature, guided by the example of their virtuous father. Having spoken these meaningful words, Rāma, steadfast and wise, fell silent, ceasing to address his younger brother. Then, on the banks of the Mandākinī, Bharata—devoted to righteousness—addressed Rāma, who was beloved by the people. He spoke with reverence, marveling at Rāma’s steadfastness: who in this world could be like him, untouched by sorrow or joy? Bharata praised Rāma’s respect for elders and his wisdom in seeking their counsel. Such a one, he said, whether living or departed, present or absent, would not be troubled by anything. Knowing both the higher and lower truths, as Rāma did, he should not grieve even in the face of great misfortune. Bharata described Rāma as possessing the nature of the immortals—great-souled, steadfast in truth, all-knowing, and wise. One who understands the nature of creation and dissolution, he said, should not be afflicted by unbearable sorrow. Turning to his own role in the events that had unfolded, Bharata humbly begged forgiveness for the wrongs his mother had committed on his behalf while he was away. Though her deeds were evil, he would not inflict harsh punishment on her, bound as he was by righteousness. How, he asked, could he, a son of Daśaratha—pure in lineage and deeds—ever commit an unrighteous act? He declared that he would never reproach elders, teachers, kings, or even his deceased father, nor the divine powers. Who, he wondered, would perform a sinful act merely to please a woman, if he truly understood dharma? It was said from ancient times that beings become confused at the end of their lives, and their father’s actions had made that tradition manifest before them. Whatever their father had done, whether out of anger, delusion, or haste, Bharata urged Rāma—who always sought what was right—to withdraw that act. For the consequences of a father’s deed, he said, fall upon the son. Thus, in this moment of grief and duty, the brothers spoke with wisdom and compassion, honoring their father’s legacy and the path of righteousness.