When the sacred Panchami dawned upon the land, Rama, having fulfilled the span of fourteen years in exile, approached the venerable hermitage of sage Bharadwaja, a seer whose spiritual prowess spanned the three times—past, present, and future—and whose words bore the clarity and precision of truth itself, for his penance had refined him into a beacon of insight. Rama, king in virtue though robed in bark, bowed in body, word, and thought before the sage, whose austerities were as immense as his compassion.
“O revered sage,” Rama began, the weight of memory pressing upon his noble voice, “how fares my beloved Ayodhya? Is the land vibrant with harvest and rain, do cattle yield sweet milk, do steeds and elephants walk the city’s bounds in glory? Are the people healthy and content? Does Bharata govern with the soul of dharma?”
The sage, with a smile that mirrored the stillness of deep wisdom, answered: “O Rama, Bharata, your brother of great austerity, rules not in his name but in yours, upon the sanctified pledge of your sandals. Clad in matted locks, neglectful of comfort, he awaits your return in reverence and hope. All is well. When you renounced your throne and entered the forest with Sita and Lakshmana, it troubled my heart. But now you return triumphant, with your noble wife and brother, and I rejoice. I am well aware of your trials in Dandaka and Janasthana, as well as your commitment to protecting the sages and Brahmins. Ravana, who stole your blameless consort, has fallen by your bow. I saw it all—not with eyes, but through the fire of penance that illumines truth. Maricha’s deception, Sita’s abduction, Kabandha’s fall, your meeting with Sugriva, the slaying of Vali, Hanuman’s glorious flight, the bridge over the sea by Nala, the burning of Lanka, the fall of Ravana and his kin, your audience with gods and the blessings they showered—all these are known to me as though I witnessed them. My disciples bring tidings of Ayodhya, and my spirit, fixed in tapas, perceives what lies veiled to most.”
With hands joined in humility, Rama bowed again and said, “O sage of sages, bless the path we tread. Let trees bear fruit out of season. Let honey flow in golden rivulets. Let roots and berries abound for the Vanaras, and let flowers bloom without wilt or dryness. May streams sparkle for their joy.” And as he spoke, the trees burst with sweet bounty, and the Vanaras ate with delight, bathing in crystal waters and dancing under the scented blossoms.
Yet in Rama’s heart remained a quiet storm. “Let not my return bring shadow to those I love,” he mused. “If Bharata is content in the throne and bound to its glory, let him reign unchallenged. I seek no kingdom purchased at the cost of a brother’s peace.” Then, turning to Hanuman, he said, “O swift son of Vayu, fly to Ayodhya. First, go to Sringaverapura and greet Guha, noble king of the forest tribes. Say that Rama remembers his undying friendship and is well. From him, learn the ways and heart of Bharata. Tell Bharata of Sita’s abduction by Ravana, my pact with Sugriva, the fall of Vali, Hanuman’s journey across the sea, the bridge upon the ocean, and the final battle that freed Sita. Say to him that even the creator Brahma and Indra have graced my path, and by the will of Mahadeva, I met my father’s spirit. Say that I come now with Sugriva and our forces, not for rule but for reunion. Yet study Bharata well. See his face, his gestures, the flicker of his speech—whether his soul still walks the path of renunciation. If the opulence of Ayodhya has chained him in desire, let him rule this earth freely, and I shall return to the forest. But if his heart beats only for dharma, I shall embrace him with joy.”
Thus instructed, Hanuman soared into the skies, his form like a human comet streaking through clouds. Crossing the confluence of Ganga and Yamuna, he alighted at Sringaverapura and stood before Guha. “O noble friend of Rama,” he said, “your companion from the lineage of Ikshvaku has emerged from exile. With Sita and Lakshmana, he stays at Bharadwaja’s ashram. Soon shall you see him.” Joy lit Guha’s face like dawn, and Hanuman leapt again, coursing through forests and rivers—the Parasurama Tirtha, Valikini, Varudhini, Gomati—through thick groves of sala trees and hamlets teeming with villagers.
At last he beheld Ayodhya, nestled amidst flowering groves, its air thick with the scent of blossoms, and the people robed in restraint, their hearts turned away from pleasure while their true king lived as a hermit. In the midst of this noble city, Hanuman saw Bharata, lean from fast, clad in coarse linen, golden sandals before him on a pedestal, ruling not in joy but in devotion. His ministers, priests, and commanders all wore the garb of renunciates, and none in the kingdom pursued luxury while Rama remained away.
Moved by the sight, Hanuman bowed deeply. “O Bharata,” he said, “you who grieve for Rama, you whose soul wears linen even as your rank demands gold, rejoice! The prince of Ayodhya returns! He has slain Ravana, retrieved Sita, and brings with him the victorious Vanaras. Lakshmana glows beside him like Indra’s queen by his side, and Sita, radiant as the moon, follows her lord. Rama, your brother, the protector of dharma, now draws near!”
Bharata, overcome by joy, embraced Hanuman, his tears falling like monsoon rain. “O noble one! Are you a man or a divine messenger? What news do you bring? A thousand cows I grant you, and a hundred villages! Sixteen maidens adorned in silk and gold, and an entourage of celestial beauty—all I offer in your honour!” Yet his joy was not bound by gift or gold, but soared in silent gratitude for the return of dharma’s guardian. Still, he spoke, words flowing without pause, while Hanuman stood in quiet awe of this prince who had renounced power without bitterness, whose love for Rama shone undimmed by years.
In that moment, Hanuman thought, Truly, such greatness is born only in the line of Ikshvaku.
