Bharata’s return to Ayodhya was marked by a sorrow that seemed to pervade the very heart of the city. The once-mighty capital, which had shone with prosperity and joy, now appeared broken and desolate, as if a great bow, strung and drawn by powerful hands, had been severed by arrows and fallen to the earth, its cord snapped and useless. Ayodhya was like a young maiden, suddenly abandoned by her valiant protector in the midst of battle, her ornaments cast aside, left weak and helpless. The city resembled a vast reservoir whose waters had dried up; where once great fish and turtles swam, now only broken banks remained, the lotuses vanished. The sorrow of Ayodhya was like that of a woman, bereft of adornment, her body scorched by grief, forbidden to use ointments, bereft of all ornamentation. The city’s radiance was hidden, like the sun’s light obscured by heavy clouds during the rainy season, when the golden rays are concealed by thick blue thunderclouds. In the midst of this gloom, Bharata, the illustrious son of Dasharatha, stood upon his chariot, and, gazing upon the city as it passed by, spoke to his charioteer. “Why is it,” he wondered aloud, “that today the deep, vibrant sounds of singing and musical instruments are not heard in Ayodhya as they once were? The scent of wine and garlands has faded; the fragrance of incense and aloewood no longer drifts through the air. The sounds of splendid chariots, the gentle neighing of horses, the trumpeting of proud elephants, and the great clatter of carriages—all have vanished since Rāma was exiled. “Now, in Rāma’s absence, the young women, distressed, no longer adorn themselves with sandalwood, aloe, or fresh garlands. The men, too, wearing beautiful garlands, no longer venture out for pleasant excursions, and no festivals are celebrated in this city, so afflicted by grief for Rāma. Surely, with my brother’s departure, the radiance of this city has left with him. Ayodhya no longer shines, just as a night filled with ashes does not glow. When will my brother return like a great festival, bringing joy to Ayodhya as cool clouds bring relief to the summer heat?” As he continued, Bharata noted that the main streets of Ayodhya were no longer crowded with splendidly dressed young men moving with proud steps. Speaking in this way, he entered his father’s residence, which now, without its king, seemed like a cave abandoned by a lion. There, seeing the inner chambers deserted of their former brilliance, like a day without the sun, abandoned by the gods, the self-controlled Bharata, deeply distressed, shed tears. Thus ends 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 sorrow, addressed his elders. “I will go to Nandigrāma,” he declared. “Today I bid you all farewell. There, I will endure all this sorrow in the absence of Rāghava. The king has gone to heaven, and my teacher dwells in the forest; I shall await Rāma’s return to rule, for he alone is the great and renowned king.” Hearing these noble words, the ministers and the revered priest Vasiṣṭha replied, “What you have said, Bharata, is truly praiseworthy; your words, born of brotherly affection, are most 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 instructed the charioteer, “Yoke my chariot.” With a joyful countenance, he respectfully greeted all his mothers, then ascended the chariot accompanied by Shatrughna. Together, filled with supreme delight, Bharata and Shatrughna set out in their swift chariot, surrounded by ministers and priests. Ahead of them, the elders led by Vasiṣṭha, and all the Brahmins, proceeded eastward toward Nandigrāma. The uninvited army, crowded with elephants, horses, and chariots, departed as Bharata journeyed forth, accompanied by all the city’s people. Bharata, righteous and affectionate toward his brothers, traveled swiftly to Nandigrāma, bearing Rāma’s sandals upon his head as he stood in the chariot. Upon reaching Nandigrāma, he quickly dismounted and addressed 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.” Bharata, having placed the sandals of renunciation upon his head, spoke, afflicted by sorrow, to 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 Rāma together with the sandals. Then, relieved of my burden, reunited with Rāghava, I will submit the kingdom to my teacher and devote myself to the service of my elders. Having given the sandals of renunciation to Rāghava, 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 lamenting, distressed, that illustrious Bharata ruled in Nandigrāma, sorrowful, together with his ministers. There, that lord, wearing bark garments and matted hair, dressed as a sage, dwelled in Nandigrāma—the heroic Bharata—along with his army, awaiting the return of his beloved brother.