With chariots rolling, wagons creaking, and the steady tread of horses and elephants, the vast army made its return journey, faithfully following Bharata. As they traveled, their eyes fell upon the divine Yamunā river, its waves shimmering in the light. Once more, they beheld the holy Ganges, that auspicious river whose pure waters gladdened their hearts. Crossing that lovely, water-filled river with all their companions, they entered the charming city of Śṛṅgibera, their troops in tow. From the city’s vantage, Ayodhya came once more into view—a sight that stirred deep sorrow in Bharata’s heart. For as he gazed upon his homeland, now bereft of both his father and his beloved brother Rāma, grief overwhelmed him, and he spoke in anguish to his charioteer: “Look, charioteer! Ayodhya is ruined; it no longer shines. It is formless, joyless, and distressed; its familiar sounds are silenced.” Thus concluded the one hundred thirteenth chapter of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the revered Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Swiftly, with a chariot whose sound was deep and resonant, the illustrious Bharata entered Ayodhya. But what he saw was a city transformed—inhabited now by owls and vultures, still filled with elephants and people, but shrouded in darkness, gloomy and dim as the night itself. His heart ached at the sight, for Ayodhya seemed to him like Rohiṇī oppressed by the approach of Rāhu, her splendor dimmed by misfortune. The city was like a mountain stream, once full and lively, now 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 after the oblation, rising up only to be extinguished. Ayodhya appeared as an army after a great battle: its armor shattered, horses and chariots destroyed, banners fallen, its heroes slain, and misfortune upon it. Once, it was like a wave of the ocean—foaming and resounding—but now stilled by the calming wind, its roar silenced. It was like an altar, splendid in sacrifice, now abandoned by all priests and implements, left silent after the Soma ritual. The city was as a cow, distressed in the herd, wandering in search of fresh grass, abandoned by the bull, longing for her leader. It was like a string of pearls, separated from its finest, radiant gems, its luster diminished. Like a star fallen from the sky, its brilliance withdrawn, cast down to earth by loss of merit. Ayodhya was like a forest creeper, once adorned with flowers and humming bees, now withered and scorched by a swift fire. It was as the sky veiled by clouds, its moon and stars concealed; as a city whose markets and shops are closed, sacred texts confused and silent. Like a drinking ground, unswept, covered with broken, empty cups, its revelers gone. Like a ruined well, its ground cracked, surrounded by broken vessels, its water used up and collapsed. It was as a great bow, once strung and drawn, now cut and fallen, its cord snapped. Like a young girl, suddenly abandoned by a valiant horseman in battle, her ornaments cast aside, left weak and helpless. Like a vast reservoir, its water dried up, filled with large fish and turtles, its banks broken, its lotuses gone. Like a woman, sorrowful and unadorned, her body scorched by grief, forbidden ointments and ornaments. Like the sun’s light, hidden by dark clouds in the rainy season, concealed by blue thunderclouds. Standing in his chariot, Bharata, son of Dasharatha, spoke to his charioteer: “Why is it that today the deep, vibrant sound of singing and instruments is not heard in Ayodhya as before? The scent of wine and garlands has faded; the fragrance of incense and aloe wood no longer drifts everywhere. The sounds of splendid chariots, the gentle neighing of horses, the trumpeting of intoxicated elephants, and the great clatter of carriages are no longer heard in this city now that Rāma has been exiled. “With Rāma gone, the young women, distressed, no longer adorn themselves with precious sandalwood, aloe, and fresh garlands. Men wearing beautiful garlands do not go out for excursions, and festivals are not celebrated in the city, afflicted by grief for Rāma. Surely, with my brother, the radiance of this city has departed; Ayodhya does not shine, just as a night with only ashes does not glow. “When will my brother return like a great festival, bringing joy to Ayodhya as clouds bring relief to the summer? The main roads of Ayodhya are no longer crowded with young men, splendidly dressed, moving with proud steps.” Speaking thus in many ways, Bharata entered his father’s residence, now bereft of its king, like a cave abandoned by a lion. Within, he saw the inner chambers deserted of their brilliance, like a day without the sun, abandoned by the gods. The self-controlled Bharata, overwhelmed by sorrow, shed tears. Thus ended the one hundred fourteenth chapter of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient and revered Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Then, having settled his mothers in Ayodhya, the steadfast Bharata, tormented by grief, turned to his elders and spoke, his heart heavy with sorrow.