While Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana found peace amidst the forests of Chitrakoot, Ayodhya lay draped in sorrow, its golden streets silent, its people lost in grief. The air was heavy, and the skies seemed forever grey, for the heart of the kingdom — Rama — was gone.
In his palace chambers, King Dasharatha lay upon his royal bed, but his eyes saw nothing of the world around him. His soul ached, torn apart by the weight of his own promise. Night and day, he called out only one name — “Rama… my Rama…”
Kaushalya sat by his side, her face pale, her heart hollow. “O King, call upon your Rama, and he shall return.”
But Dasharatha wept bitterly. “No, Kaushalya. I have sent away the very breath of my life. My Rama walks the forests while I, a father, lie helpless. My sin cannot be undone.”
Then, with a trembling voice, he whispered his deepest sorrow. “Long ago, when I was young and proud, I once killed a boy by mistake — the son of a blind hermit. The father cursed me: ‘You too shall die of grief, longing for your son.’ That curse now comes true.”
His eyes closed, his breath grew faint, and with Rama’s name upon his lips, King Dasharatha — the mighty ruler of Ayodhya — breathed his last. The earth itself seemed to mourn, and the skies wept gentle rains for the fallen king.
Far away, in the land of Kekaya, news of the king’s death and Rama’s exile reached Bharata. Shocked and heartbroken, Bharata fell to his knees. “What madness is this? How could my mother, Kaikeyi, demand such cruel boons? How could my father die with such sorrow?”
Without a moment’s delay, Bharata and his brother Shatrughna rushed back to Ayodhya. But the city they returned to was not the one they had left. Ayodhya stood silent, its people draped in white, the palace cold and empty.
Bharata rushed to his mother’s chamber, his eyes blazing with anger and grief. “O Mother, what have you done? Where is Rama? Where is my father?”
Kaikeyi, proud of her scheme, smiled and spoke, “O my son, rejoice! I have secured the throne for you. Rama has been sent to the forest, and you shall be king.”
But Bharata recoiled as if struck by lightning. “You call this a gift? You have robbed me of my father, and exiled my noble brother! Shame upon me, to be born of such a heart.”
His voice thundered through the palace halls. “I shall never wear the crown stolen from Rama. You sought a kingdom, Mother, but I seek only my brother.”
The people of Ayodhya wept with joy at Bharata’s words. Hope returned to their hearts, for they knew — the blood of Dasharatha still ran pure and noble in Bharata’s veins.
Bharata ordered preparations at once. “We ride to the forest, to Chitrakoot. I shall fall at Rama’s feet and beg him to return. Only he is worthy of this throne.”
Thus, with a heavy heart and a soul burning with purpose, Bharata set out — the sacred sandals of his father tied to his chariot — ready to right the wrongs that had torn apart their world.
The journey to Chitrakoot began — a path paved not with desire, but with repentance, love, and the hope of a kingdom reunited.