Ayodhya, once vibrant and full of life, now resembled a drinking ground abandoned by its revelers, its finest cups shattered and scattered, the air empty of festivity. The city appeared like a ruined well, its earth cracked and sunken, surrounded by broken vessels, its nourishing waters long since exhausted—a place collapsed and forlorn. It was as if a mighty bow, once strung and drawn by the strong, had been severed by arrows, its cord snapped, now lying useless upon the ground. Ayodhya seemed like a young girl, suddenly deserted by a valiant horseman in the midst of battle, her ornaments cast aside, left weak and helpless. The city was like a vast reservoir, its waters dried up, once teeming with great fish and turtles, its banks broken and its lotuses withered and gone. It was as though Ayodhya were a sorrowful woman, unadorned and scorched by grief, forbidden to use ointments, bereft of all ornaments. The city’s former brilliance was hidden, like the sun’s light veiled by dense blue thunderclouds in the rainy season. Amidst this gloom, Bharata, the illustrious son of Dasharatha, stood in his chariot and spoke to his charioteer, his heart heavy with sorrow. “Why is it,” he asked, “that today the deep, vibrant sounds of singing and instruments are not heard in Ayodhya as they were before? The scent of wine and garlands has faded, and the fragrance of incense and aloe wood no longer drifts through the air. The sounds of splendid chariots, the gentle neighing of horses, the trumpeting of intoxicated elephants, and the great clatter of carriages—all are absent from this city since Rāma was exiled. “With Rāma gone, the young women, distressed, no longer adorn themselves with precious sandalwood, aloe, and fresh garlands. Men garlanded with flowers do not go out for excursions, and festivals are not celebrated in the city, which is stricken 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 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. There, seeing the inner chambers stripped of their former brilliance, like a day without the sun, deserted by the gods, the self-controlled Bharata was overwhelmed by grief and shed tears. Thus ended the one hundred fourteenth sarga of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient and revered Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Then, having settled his mothers in Ayodhya, the steadfast Bharata, tormented by sorrow, 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 shall wait for Rāma to return and rule, for he is the great and renowned king.” Hearing these noble words, full of devotion, all the ministers and the priest Vasiṣṭha praised Bharata. “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?” Hearing their words, pleasing and in accord with his heart, Bharata said to his charioteer, “Yoke my chariot.” With a joyful face, he respectfully greeted all his mothers, and, accompanied by Shatrughna, ascended the chariot. The two brothers, filled with supreme delight, set out, surrounded by ministers and priests. Ahead, the elders led by Vashishtha and all the Brahmins proceeded eastward, toward Nandigrāma. The great army, though uninvited, crowded with elephants, horses, and chariots, followed Bharata, along with all the city dwellers. Righteous and affectionate toward his brothers, Bharata traveled swiftly to Nandigrāma, bearing Rāma’s sandals upon his head as he stood in the chariot. Upon arrival, he quickly dismounted and spoke to his elders: “This kingdom has been given to me by my brother, as if by renunciation; these sandals, adorned with gold, bear the burden of its welfare.” Placing the sandals of renunciation upon his head, Bharata, afflicted by sorrow, addressed the entire assembly of citizens: “Quickly hold the umbrella over these revered sandals; by them, and by my teacher, righteousness abides in the kingdom. My brother has entrusted this renunciation to me out of friendship; I will preserve it until Raghava returns. When I have quickly restored them to Raghava, I will behold the feet of Rama together with the sandals. Then, relieved of my burden, reunited with Raghava, I will submit the kingdom to my teacher and devote myself to the service of my elders. Having given the sandals of renunciation to Raghava, and the kingdom and Ayodhya, I will become purified of sin. When Kakutstha is anointed and the people are joyful and delighted, my happiness and fame will be four times greater than from the kingdom itself.” Thus, with devotion and humility, Bharata prepared to rule as a regent, ever awaiting Rāma’s return, upholding righteousness for the welfare of Ayodhya.