With unwavering resolve, Rāma declared, "I will uphold my father's promise exactly as it was made; for fourteen years, as my father vowed." Hearing these words, the wise and eloquent sage Vasiṣṭha addressed Rāma with a great speech, saying, "Give these adorned golden sandals with joy, O wise one, for they will safeguard Ayodhya’s welfare under your care." Thus instructed, Rāma, facing east, mounted the golden sandals and entrusted them to Bharata, empowering him to rule in his stead. Having received Rāma’s permission and the auspicious sandals, Bharata withdrew, his heart heavy yet dutiful, and set forth for Ayodhya. As he departed, the great-hearted Bharata spoke nobly, prompting the sage Bharadvāja to bless him with 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." Bharata, reverent and humble, touched Bharadvāja’s feet and circled him, taking leave with joined palms. Then, accompanied by his ministers, Bharata began the journey back to Ayodhya. The vast army, with chariots, wagons, horses, and elephants, followed Bharata as they traveled together. Along the way, they beheld the divine Yamunā river, adorned with waves, and once more gazed upon the auspicious Ganges, its pure waters inspiring awe. Crossing these lovely rivers with their companions, they entered the charming city of Śṛṅgibera with their troops. From there, they finally caught sight of Ayodhya, their beloved home. But as they approached, Bharata, tormented by sorrow at the absence of his father and brother, spoke mournfully 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. Bharata, riding a chariot whose sound was deep and resonant, swiftly entered Ayodhya. But what he saw was not the city he remembered. Ayodhya was inhabited by owls and vultures, filled with elephants and men, yet struck by darkness, gloomy and dim like the night. Like Rohiṇī oppressed by the rising planet, Bharata saw his beloved wife, radiant in splendor, yet afflicted by the approach of the enemy Rāhu. The city was like a mountain stream, thin and disturbed, its birds driven away by drought, its fish, crocodiles, and alligators hidden, its course diminished. It was like a sacrificial flame, golden-bright but without smoke, rising up after the oblation only to be extinguished. Ayodhya resembled an army after a great battle, its armor shattered, its horses, chariots, and banners destroyed, its heroes slain, fallen into misfortune. The city was like a wave of the ocean, once foaming and resounding, now stilled by the calming wind, its roar silenced. Like an altar abandoned by priests and their sacrificial implements, left silent after the completion of the Soma sacrifice. Like a cow, distressed in the herd, wandering in search of fresh grass, abandoned by the bull, longing for its leader. Ayodhya was like a string of pearls, separated from its finest, radiant gems, shining like the sun’s rays but incomplete. Like a star fallen from the sky, its brilliance withdrawn, cast down to earth by the loss of merit. Like a forest creeper adorned with flowers at the end of spring, once resounding with intoxicated bees, now withered and scorched by fire. It was like the sky veiled by clouds, its moon and stars concealed; like a city with markets and shops closed, its sacred texts confused and silent. Like a drinking ground left unswept, covered with broken and emptied cups, its revelers gone. Like a ruined well, its ground cracked and sunken, surrounded by broken vessels, its water used up, collapsed and fallen. Ayodhya was like a great bow, strung and drawn by the strong, now cut by arrows, its cord snapped, fallen to the ground. Like a young girl abandoned by a valiant horseman in battle, her ornaments cast aside, left weak and helpless. Like a vast reservoir dried up, once filled with large fish and turtles, its banks broken, its lotuses gone. The city appeared like a sorrowful, unadorned woman, her body scorched by grief, forbidden to use ointments, left without ornaments. Like the sun’s light hidden by dark clouds in the rainy season, concealed by blue thunderclouds. Standing in his chariot, Bharata, the illustrious son of Dasharatha, addressed his charioteer, "Why is it that today the deep, vibrant sound of singing and instruments is not heard in Ayodhya as it was before? The scent of wine and garlands is faded, and the fragrance of incense and aloe wood no longer drifts everywhere." Thus, Bharata returned to a city bereft of joy, its splendor dimmed by sorrow, longing for the presence of Rāma and the return of happiness.