As Bharata and his companions journeyed homeward, they first glimpsed the divine Yamunā river, its gentle waves shimmering in the sunlight. Soon after, the auspicious Ganges appeared before them, its pure waters inviting and sacred. Together with his retinue, Bharata crossed these beautiful, water-filled rivers and entered the charming city of Śṛṅgibera, accompanied by his troops. From Śṛṅgibera’s gates, the travelers caught sight of Ayodhya once more. Yet the city, once vibrant, now seemed empty and forlorn. Bharata, his heart heavy with sorrow for the loss of his father and the absence of his brother Rāma, turned to his charioteer and spoke in anguish, “Look at Ayodhya! It is ruined, its splendor gone. It stands formless, joyless, distressed, and silent.” With a chariot whose sound was deep and resonant, the illustrious Bharata entered Ayodhya swiftly. As he looked around, he saw a city inhabited by owls and vultures, filled with elephants and men, but enveloped in darkness and gloom, as if shrouded in night. He beheld his beloved wife, radiant yet afflicted, like Rohiṇī oppressed by the approach of Rāhu. The city seemed like a mountain stream, its waters diminished, its birds driven away by drought, its fish, crocodiles, and alligators hidden, its course reduced. Ayodhya was like a sacrificial flame, golden-bright but without smoke, which, after the oblation has been poured, rises up and then is extinguished. It resembled an army whose armor had been shattered, its horses, chariots, and banners destroyed, heroes slain, and fallen into misfortune. Like a wave of the ocean, once foaming and resounding, now stilled by the calming wind, its roar silenced. It was like an altar abandoned by priests and their splendid sacrificial implements, left silent after the completion of the Soma sacrifice. He saw Ayodhya as a cow, distressed in the midst of the herd, wandering for fresh grass, abandoned by the bull, longing for the leader. It was like a string of pearls, separated from its finest gems, shining but incomplete. Like a star fallen from the sky, its brilliance and expanse withdrawn, cast down by the loss of its merit. The city was like a forest creeper, once adorned with flowers and bees, now withered and scorched by fire. Ayodhya appeared as the sky, veiled by clouds, its moon and stars concealed; a city whose markets and shops were closed, its sacred texts confused and silent. It was like a drinking ground, unswept, covered with broken cups, its revelers gone. Like a ruined well, its ground cracked and sunken, surrounded by broken vessels, its water used up, collapsed and fallen. Like a great bow, strung and drawn, now cut and fallen, its cord snapped. Like a young girl, suddenly abandoned by a valiant horseman, 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 and lotuses gone. Like a woman, sorrowful and unadorned, 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 thunderclouds. Standing in his chariot, Bharata, 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 before? The scent of wine and garlands is 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 elephants, and the clatter of carriages are gone 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 in many such ways, Bharata entered his father’s residence, now bereft of its king, like a cave abandoned by a lion. He saw the inner chambers deserted of their brilliance, like a day without the sun, abandoned by the gods. Overcome by sorrow, Bharata, self-controlled yet deeply distressed, shed tears. After settling his mothers in Ayodhya, Bharata, steadfast but tormented by grief, spoke to his elders, “I will go to Nandigrāma; today I bid you all farewell. There, I will endure all this sorrow without Rāghava.” Thus concludes this chapter of the ancient and revered Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, recounting Bharata’s return to a grieving Ayodhya and his resolve to live in sorrowful austerity until Rāma’s return.