Bharata’s chariot rolled swiftly through forests and meadows, the wheels groaning under the weight of his sorrow. His heart, once calm, now burned with a single desire — to find Rama, to beg his forgiveness, and to bring him home.
Alongside him rode Shatrughna, silent and steadfast, their faces pale with grief. Ministers, sages, and the noble citizens of Ayodhya followed, their eyes heavy with tears, their lips whispering prayers.
Days turned to nights as they crossed rivers and woods, until at last, they reached the sacred land of Chitrakoot — where the mountains stood tall, and the rivers sang sweet songs.
In the heart of the forest, they found him — Rama, radiant even in simple robes, his face calm like the moon. Sita sat nearby, her eyes gentle and serene, while Lakshmana stood guard — loyal and fierce as ever.
Seeing Bharata, Rama rose, his arms open wide, his voice filled with love. “O Bharata, my brother, what brings you here? Has all been well in Ayodhya?”
But Bharata could hold back no longer. He fell at Rama’s feet, his tears soaking the earth. “O Rama, forgive me! I am the son of the cruel Kaikeyi, the cause of our father’s death, the reason for your exile.”
Rama lifted Bharata gently. “No, my brother. You are blameless. Destiny plays its part, and we mere mortals walk its path. Rise, Bharata, for you are dearer to me than life itself.”
The forest echoed with the cries of the people as they witnessed the reunion of the royal brothers — hearts broken and healed in the same breath.
Then Bharata spoke, his voice trembling. “Come home, O Rama. Ayodhya weeps for you. The throne is yours. I seek no kingdom stained with sorrow.”
But Rama, his gaze steady as the mountains, replied, “O Bharata, you know my vow. Our father’s word is sacred, and I must honor it. I shall not return until fourteen years have passed.”
Bharata wept bitterly. “How can I rule when the true king walks these forests?”
Rama smiled softly. “Rule not for yourself, but for the people, our father’s children.”
At last, Bharata bowed deeply. “If you will not return, then give me something to rule in your name.”
Rama, moved by his brother’s love, took off his sandals — simple yet touched by his noble feet — and handed them to Bharata. “Place these upon the throne. Rule as my guardian until I return.”
Bharata took the sandals with reverence, holding them as one holds a treasure. “These shall sit upon the throne of Ayodhya. I shall live not as a king, but as a servant — awaiting the day you return.”
With hearts heavy yet bound by love, Bharata and his retinue turned back — leaving Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana to the forest, carrying with them the symbol of Rama’s promise.
And so, the sandals — humble yet mighty — ruled Ayodhya, while the people waited, counting each day until the return of their true king.