With great reverence, Bharata placed the sandals—those sacred symbols of Rāma’s authority—upon his head, and, filled with delight, ascended his chariot with Shatrughna at his side. The venerable sages Vasiṣṭha, Vāmadeva, and Jābāli, steadfast in their vows, along with the honored ministers, led the way. Their procession moved eastward, tracing the path along the beautiful Mandākinī river and circumambulating the majestic mountain Chitrakūṭa. As they journeyed, Bharata and his army marveled at the thousands of delightful minerals and wondrous sights that adorned the landscape. Soon, not far from Chitrakūṭa, Bharata glimpsed the hermitage where the sage Bharadvāja had made his abode. Upon arrival, the wise Bharata descended from his chariot, approached the sage, and bowed humbly at his feet. Bharadvāja, pleased, addressed Bharata with warmth, “O dear one, has your task been accomplished? Have you met with Rāma?” Bharata, ever devoted to his brother, replied respectfully to the sage. He recounted how, though both his teacher and he himself had entreated Rāma, the steadfast Rāghava, greatly pleased, spoke to Vasiṣṭha: “I will uphold my father’s promise exactly as it was made; for fourteen years, as my father vowed.” Vasiṣṭha, wise and skillful in words, then said to Rāghava, “Give these adorned golden sandals with joy, O wise one, for they will safeguard Ayodhya’s welfare under your care.” Rāghava, standing facing east, mounted the sandals and entrusted them to Bharata for the rule of Ayodhya. Bharata explained, “I am now withdrawn and permitted by the great-souled Rāma; I return to Ayodhya, bearing these auspicious sandals.” Hearing this noble account, the sage Bharadvāja spoke even more auspicious words: “This is not surprising, O tiger among men, best among those of noble conduct; as water flows naturally into a hollow, so does virtue reside in you. Your father Daśaratha, mighty-armed, is like nectar, for you are such a son—knower of dharma and devoted to righteousness.” After speaking thus, Bharata, with joined palms, took leave of the great-souled sage, touching his feet. He circled Bharadvāja reverently and then departed for Ayodhya with his ministers. The vast army followed, with chariots, wagons, horses, and elephants moving in procession. On their journey, they saw the divine Yamunā river, adorned with waves, and again beheld the auspicious Ganges, its waters pure and sacred. After crossing these lovely rivers with their companions, they entered the charming city of Śṛṅgibera with their troops. From Śṛṅgibera, they finally beheld Ayodhya once more. But upon seeing Ayodhya, now bereft of his father and brother, Bharata was tormented by sorrow. He spoke to his charioteer, “Charioteer, look! Ayodhya is ruined, it does not shine; formless, joyless, distressed, its sounds suppressed.” Thus concludes the one hundred thirteenth chapter of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the venerable Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, the ancient epic. As Bharata entered Ayodhya, the sound of his chariot was deep and resonant, resonating through the city. He saw Ayodhya, now inhabited by owls and vultures, filled with elephants and men, but struck by darkness—gloomy and dim like the night. Like Rohiṇī oppressed by the rising planet, he saw his beloved wife, radiant in splendor, yet afflicted by the approach of the enemy Rāhu. Ayodhya appeared like a mountain stream, thin and disturbed, its birds driven away by drought, its fish and crocodiles hidden, its course diminished. It was like a sacrificial flame, golden-bright but without smoke, which, after the oblation has been poured, rises up and then is extinguished. The city seemed as if an army in a great battle, its armor shattered, its horses, chariots, and banners destroyed, its heroes slain, fallen into misfortune. Like a wave of the ocean, once foaming and resounding, now stilled by the calming wind, its roar silenced, Ayodhya’s vibrancy had faded. It was like an altar abandoned by all the priests and their splendid sacrificial implements, left silent after the completion of the Soma sacrifice. Like a cow, standing distressed in the midst of the herd, wandering in search of fresh grass, abandoned by the bull, longing for the leader of the cows. Ayodhya resembled a new string of pearls, separated from its finest, radiant, and well-polished gems, shining like the sun’s rays. Like a star suddenly fallen from the sky, its brilliance and expanse withdrawn, cast down to earth by the loss of its merit. Like a forest creeper, adorned with flowers at the end of spring, resounding with the hum of intoxicated bees, now withered and exhausted, scorched by a swift forest fire. The city was like the sky, veiled by clouds, its moon and stars concealed; like a city, its markets and shops closed, its sacred texts confused and silent. Like a drinking ground, left unswept, covered with broken and emptied cups of the finest liquors, its revelers gone. Thus, Bharata entered Ayodhya, his heart heavy with the sorrow of absence, and beheld the city’s faded glory, longing for the return of Rāma and the restoration of joy.