Bharata, accompanied by Shatrughna, ascended his chariot, bearing the golden sandals of his revered brother upon his head as a mark of solemn devotion. Preceding him, the assemblage of sages led by Vasishta, Vamadeva, and Jabali moved with grace, followed swiftly by the council of ministers who joined Bharata’s grand convoy. Together, they circumambulated the sacred Mount Chitrakuta and pressed eastward toward the holy river Mandakini. As they journeyed, Bharata beheld the splendor of the mountains, serene lakes, and lush forests—his gaze falling in reverence upon the sacred hermitage of Sage Bharadwaja.
Upon reaching the ashram, Bharata alighted from his chariot, humbly prostrating at the feet of the venerable sage and greeting him with folded hands. The sage, delighted, inquired, “O Bharata, is your task complete? Have you met the noble Rama?” Bharata, his voice tinged with earnestness, replied, “O venerable one, the illustrious Sage Vasishta and I sought the audience of Rama. To the great sage, Rama declared, ‘I shall fulfill my father’s decree and remain in these ascetic woods for fourteen years.’ At Sage Vasishta’s counsel, Rama, facing the east in solemn meditation, placed these golden sandals upon his feet and bestowed them upon me to serve as the emblem of his rule over Ayodhya. Thus, with his permission, I now return to the kingdom.”
Sage Bharadwaja, filled with wisdom, blessed Bharata with auspicious words: “O best among kings, your noble virtues are unmatched. A son as righteous as you ensure the immortality of a king like Dasaratha. Proceed with unwavering resolve, for you shall honor your father’s legacy.” Overwhelmed with joy and gratitude, Bharata sought the sage’s blessings and permission to depart. Circumambulating the sage, Bharata and his retinue resumed their journey to Ayodhya.
The army and entourage of Bharata advanced like rolling clouds, their tumultuous sounds reverberating like thunder—the clash of chariots, the gallop of horses, and the trumpet of mighty elephants filled the air. Crossing the Yamuna, its swirling currents flowing in mighty tides, they soon approached the sacred Ganga. With sages, ministers, kinsmen, and warriors in tow, Bharata’s grand convoy traversed the majestic, dancing waters of the Ganges and entered the city of Srungiberapura. From there, they advanced swiftly toward the bereaved city of Ayodhya.
As Bharata neared the city’s boundaries, his heart sank at its desolation. Addressing his charioteer, he lamented, “Ayodhya has lost its splendor without my father and brother. Once resounding with music, its streets now lie silent, and its glory has faded.” The sound of Bharata’s returning chariot and the neighing horses struck the hearts of Ayodhya’s citizens like a distant storm. Cats and owls prowled through abandoned quarters; elephants and men were nowhere to be seen. The city lay shrouded in gloom like the star Rohini eclipsed by the shadow of Rahu, robbed of its radiance.
The city appeared as if scorched by cruel winds—its waters receded, leaving fish and crocodiles gasping for life in shallow streams. Like a blazing fire with tongues of flame curling skyward, its dust seemed to rise in anguish, shimmering gold in the sunlight before settling back in deathly stillness. Ayodhya resembled a defeated army—its warriors fallen, their shields torn, their flesh bloodied and marred. The once-roaring ocean now lay silenced, its tides shattered and frothing clouds stilled by unrelenting gales. Like the remnants of a great yajna, where smoke lingers but the sages have departed, Ayodhya stood hollow and forsaken.
Bharata gazed upon the desolate city: it appeared like a cow bereft of her calf, wandering in grief without food or water; a garland stripped of its jewels; a star fallen from the heavens, its light extinguished. It resembled a once-resplendent forest now consumed by fire, its charred remains a grim testament to its former beauty. Shops and trade centers stood abandoned, their doors closed. The city was like a dark sky without stars like cracked earth gasping for rain like a warrior struck down by an unseen arrow.
Turning to his charioteer, Bharata sighed, “In earlier days, every corner echoed with sweet strains of music. The air was rich with the fragrance of flowers and sandalwood. Now, there is only silence—Rama’s absence has stripped the city of life. The people, bereft of joy, live in despair, their faces untouched by ornament or hope. When I wonder, will Ayodhya bloom again, refreshed like the earth reborn after rain?”
Thus lamenting, Bharata arrived at Dasaratha’s palace, now lifeless as a lion’s cave devoid of its king. The harem stood silent and deserted, like a sunless day forsaken by the gods. The sight brought tears to Bharata’s eyes, for the palace seemed but a hollow shell of its former grandeur.
Here, the cosmic design of destiny continued to unfurl. The burden of fate bore heavily upon the noble Rama, yet within it lay the seeds of universal purpose. As Bharata moved through Ayodhya, his steadfast heart prepared to honor his brother’s will, bringing light to a kingdom eclipsed by sorrow.
