When Bharata had reverently placed the sandals of Rāma upon his head, he climbed into his chariot, his heart gladdened, with his brother Shatrughna by his side. The venerable sages—Vasiṣṭha, Vāmadeva, and Jābāli—steadfast in their vows, along with the honored ministers, went on ahead, leading the way. Their procession turned eastward, making their way toward the beautiful Mandākinī river, all the while circumambulating the sacred mountain Chitrakūṭa. As they journeyed, Bharata and his great army passed by thousands of wondrous minerals and enchanting sights that adorned the landscape. Soon, not far from Chitrakūṭa, Bharata beheld the hermitage where the sage Bharadvāja dwelt. Arriving there, the wise Bharata descended from his chariot and, with deep reverence, bowed at the feet of the sage. Delighted by Bharata’s arrival, Bharadvāja addressed him warmly, “O dear one, was your purpose fulfilled? Did you meet with Rāma?” Thus questioned by the sage, Bharata, ever devoted to his elder brother, replied with humility and truth. He recounted how, though both his teacher and he himself had urged Rāma, the steadfast and gracious Rāghava spoke to Vasiṣṭha, saying, “I will uphold my father’s promise exactly as it was made; for fourteen years, as my father vowed.” Vasiṣṭha, wise and skillful in speech, then addressed Rāma, “O wise one, joyfully give these adorned golden sandals, for they will safeguard Ayodhyā’s welfare under your care.” Rāghava, standing facing the east, mounted the sandals and entrusted them to Bharata, granting him the authority to rule in his stead. “I am now withdrawn and permitted by the great-souled Rāma,” Bharata said, “and I return to Ayodhyā, bearing these auspicious sandals.” Hearing these noble words, the great sage Bharadvāja spoke even more auspiciously, “This is not surprising, O tiger among men, best among those of noble conduct. As water naturally fills a hollow, so does virtue reside in you. Your father, the mighty-armed Daśaratha, is like nectar, for you are his son—knower of dharma and devoted to righteousness.” Having received the sage’s blessings, Bharata, with palms joined, took leave, touching Bharadvāja’s feet in reverence. Then, after circling the sage respectfully, the illustrious Bharata departed with his ministers, leading the vast army of chariots, wagons, horses, and elephants back towards Ayodhyā. On their way, they beheld the sacred Yamunā river, adorned with gentle waves, and once more gazed upon the auspicious Ganges, pure and holy. Having crossed these lovely, water-filled rivers with their companions, they entered the charming city of Śṛṅgibera with their troops. From there, the company caught sight of Ayodhyā once again. But as Ayodhyā came into view, Bharata’s heart was seized with sorrow. He turned to his charioteer and said, “Look! Ayodhyā is ruined; it does not shine. Forlorn, joyless, distressed, its sounds are suppressed, and it is bereft of father and brother.” With a chariot whose sound was deep and resonant, the illustrious Bharata entered Ayodhyā swiftly. What he saw grieved him deeply: the city was now inhabited by owls and vultures, though still filled with elephants and men, yet it seemed struck by darkness—gloomy and dim like the night itself. To Bharata, Ayodhyā was like Rohiṇī oppressed by the rising planet, his beloved wife’s radiance afflicted by the approach of the enemy Rāhu. The city appeared as a mountain stream—thin, disturbed, its birds driven away by drought, its fish and creatures hidden, its waters diminished. It was like a sacrificial flame, golden-bright but smokeless, rising after the oblation only to be extinguished. Ayodhyā seemed to him like an army in a great battle, its armor shattered, horses, chariots, and banners destroyed, its heroes fallen and misfortune reigning. It was as if a wave of the ocean, once foaming and resounding, had been calmed by the wind, its roar now silenced. The city resembled an altar, abandoned by priests and their splendid implements, left silent after the soma sacrifice was complete. Bharata saw Ayodhyā as a cow, distressed in the midst of the herd, wandering in search of fresh grass, abandoned by the bull, longing for the leader. It was like a new string of pearls, separated from its finest, radiant, and polished gems, shining yet incomplete. It was as a star fallen from the sky, its brilliance and expanse withdrawn, cast down to earth by the loss of its merit. He saw Ayodhyā like a forest creeper, once adorned with flowers and humming bees at spring’s end, now withered and scorched by a swift forest fire. It was like the sky veiled by clouds, its moon and stars concealed; a city with its markets and shops closed, its sacred texts confused and silent. Thus, Bharata returned to Ayodhyā, his heart heavy with grief, bearing the sandals of Rāma, and resolved to rule only as the servant of his beloved brother, until the day of Rāma’s return.