Ayodhya, once vibrant and resplendent, now seemed a shadow of its former self. It was like a mountain stream in the dry season—its waters thin and disturbed, the birds long gone from its banks, and the fish and crocodiles hidden away, its flow diminished to a trickle. The city resembled a sacrificial flame: golden and bright but without smoke, which, once the oblation had been offered, flared up only to be quickly extinguished. It was as if an army, once mighty in battle, now stood broken—its armor shattered, its horses and chariots destroyed, its banners fallen, its heroes slain, and misfortune pressing heavily upon it. Where once the city had been like a foaming ocean wave, resounding with life, now it was stilled by a calming wind, its roar silenced. It was like an altar, abandoned by priests and left quiet after the Soma sacrifice had ended. Ayodhya was as forlorn as a cow, lost among the herd, searching in vain for fresh grass, abandoned by the bull, longing for her leader. It was like a string of pearls, missing its finest, most radiant gems, which once shone brilliantly like the sun’s rays. The city’s brilliance had fallen like a star plummeting from the sky, its light and expanse gone, cast down to earth by a sudden loss of merit. It was like a flowering creeper at the end of spring, once alive with the hum of bees, now withered and scorched by a swift forest fire. The sky over Ayodhya seemed veiled by clouds, its moon and stars hidden; the city itself was like a marketplace closed and silent, its sacred texts confused and unread. It felt like a drinking ground left unswept, strewn with broken cups, the revelers long departed. The wells were ruined, their ground cracked and sunken, surrounded by shattered vessels, the water gone, the structure collapsed. The city was like a great bow, once strung and drawn by the strong, now broken by arrows, its cord snapped and fallen to the ground. It was as if a young girl, suddenly abandoned by a valiant horseman in battle, her ornaments cast aside, was left weak and helpless. Ayodhya seemed like a vast reservoir, once filled with large fish and turtles, now dried up, its banks broken, its lotuses vanished. Its people were like a sorrowful, unadorned woman, her body scorched by grief, forbidden to use ointments or wear ornaments. The city’s radiance was hidden, like the sun’s light obscured by dark monsoon clouds. Amidst this gloom, Bharata, the illustrious son of Dasharatha, stood in his chariot and addressed his charioteer with sorrowful wonder: “Why is it that today the deep, vibrant sounds of singing and music are not heard in Ayodhya as they once were? The scent of wine and garlands has faded, the fragrance of incense and aloe wood no longer drifts through the air. The splendid sounds of chariots, the gentle neighing of horses, the trumpeting of elephants, and the clatter of carriages have all vanished from the city since Rāma’s exile. With Rāma gone, the young women, distressed, no longer adorn themselves with sandalwood, aloe, or fresh garlands. Men dressed in beautiful garlands do not go out for excursions, and festivals are not celebrated in the city, which is afflicted with 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 cannot 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 splendidly dressed young men moving with proud steps.” Speaking thus, Bharata entered his father’s residence, now bereft of its king, like a cave abandoned by a lion. As he gazed upon the inner chambers, deserted of their brilliance—like a day without the sun, abandoned by the gods—the self-controlled Bharata, deeply distressed, shed tears. Thus ended the one hundred fourteenth sarga of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient and revered Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. After settling his mothers in Ayodhya, the steadfast Bharata, 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. The king has gone to heaven, and my teacher dwells in the forest. I wait for Rāma to return and rule, for he is the great and renowned king.” Hearing these noble words of the great-souled Bharata, all the ministers and the priest Vasiṣṭha praised him: “What you have said, Bharata, is truly praiseworthy; your words, born of brotherly affection, are indeed fitting for you. Who would not approve of you, ever devoted to your kin, steadfast in brotherly love, and following the path of the noble?” Pleased by their words, which matched his own wishes, Bharata told the charioteer, “Yoke my chariot.” With a joyful face, he respectfully greeted all his mothers, and the illustrious one ascended the chariot, accompanied by Shatrughna. Having mounted the swift chariot, Bharata and Shatrughna, filled with supreme delight, set out, surrounded by ministers and priests. Ahead of them, the elders led by Vashishtha and all the Brahmins proceeded eastward toward Nandigrāma. The unbidden army, crowded with elephants, horses, and chariots, departed as Bharata went, along with all the city dwellers, following their beloved prince.