As Bharata approached the city of Ayodhya, the very heart of the kingdom seemed to reflect the sorrow of its absent prince. The city was like a sacrificial flame—once golden-bright and pure, now extinguished and cold after the sacred offering had been poured. It resembled an army battered in a great battle, its armor shattered, its horses and chariots destroyed, its banners fallen, and its heroes lost—left to misfortune and ruin. Ayodhya was like a mighty ocean wave, once foaming and resounding, now stilled by gentle winds, its roar silenced. It was as if the altar, once vibrant with priests and rituals, now stood abandoned, silent after the completion of the Soma sacrifice. The city seemed a distressed cow, wandering amidst the herd in search of fresh grass, abandoned by the bull, longing for its leader. Its beauty was like a string of pearls, now separated from its brightest and most radiant gems, the luster of the sun's rays diminished. The city was like a fallen star, its brilliance and expanse withdrawn, cast down to earth by the loss of its merit. It was as if a forest creeper, once adorned with flowers and humming bees, had been scorched and withered by a sudden forest fire. Ayodhya was like the sky veiled by clouds, with its moon and stars concealed; like a city whose markets and shops were closed, its sacred texts confused and silent. It was as though a drinking ground lay unswept, covered with broken and emptied cups, its revelers long gone. The wells were ruined, their ground cracked and sunken, their water gone, surrounded by broken vessels. The great bows, once strung and drawn by the strong, now lay cut and fallen, their cords snapped. The city was like a young girl, suddenly abandoned by a valiant horseman in battle, her ornaments cast aside, left weak and helpless. Ayodhya resembled a vast reservoir, its waters dried up, its banks broken, its lotuses vanished. It was like a sorrowful woman, unadorned and scorched by grief, forbidden to use ointments or ornaments. The city’s radiance was hidden, like the sun’s light concealed by dark clouds in the rainy season. Standing in his chariot, Bharata, the illustrious son of Dasharatha, turned to his charioteer and spoke with a heavy heart, “Why is it that today the deep, vibrant sounds of singing and instruments are not heard in Ayodhya as they once were? The scent of wine and garlands has faded, and the fragrance of incense and aloe wood no longer drifts through the air. The once-familiar sounds of splendid chariots, the gentle neighing of horses, the trumpeting of elephants, and the great clatter of carriages are all absent from the city now that Rāma has been exiled.” He continued, “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 as it is 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, Bharata entered his father’s residence, now bereft of its king, like a cave abandoned by a lion. Seeing the inner chambers deserted of their former brilliance, like a day without the sun, abandoned by the gods themselves, the self-controlled Bharata, deeply distressed, could not hold back his 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, addressed his elders, “I will go to Nandigrāma; today I bid you all farewell. There, I will endure all this sorrow without Rāghava. For 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, the ministers and the venerable priest Vasiṣṭha replied, “What you have said, Bharata, is truly praiseworthy; your words, born of brotherly affection, are indeed fitting for you. Who would not approve of one so devoted to his kin, steadfast in love, and following the path of the noble?” Pleased by their words, which were in accord with his heart, Bharata instructed his charioteer, “Yoke my chariot.” With a joyful face, he respectfully greeted all his mothers. Then, the illustrious Bharata, accompanied by Shatrughna, ascended the chariot. Mounting the swift chariot, Shatrughna and Bharata, both 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 uninvited army, crowded with elephants, horses, and chariots, departed as Bharata went, accompanied by all the city dwellers. Bharata, righteous and affectionate toward his brothers, traveled swiftly to Nandigrāma, bearing Rāma’s sandals upon his head as he stood in the chariot, upholding his brother’s name and honor.