कैकेय्या भरताय दशरथमरणनिवेदनम्

In the previous sarga Bharata, having seen Ayodhyā almost deserted, entered his father's house with his head bowed. Now, not finding his father in his father's apartments, he went to see his mother in hers. When Kaikeyī saw her son home from abroad she sprang up in delight from her golden seat. The righteous Bharata, entering that house of his, now stripped of its beauty, clasped his mother's auspicious feet. She kissed her illustrious son on the head, embraced him, set him on her lap and began to question him. “How many nights is it since you left your grandfather's house? Aren't you tired from the road, driving here so fast? Is your grandfather well, and your uncle Yudhājit? Tell me everything, my son, about the pleasures of your stay.” The poet sets up a sharp contrast: the whole city is sunk in grief, and the one house where there is joy is Kaikeyī's. The mother who takes her son on her lap and questions him so tenderly will in a moment tell him that his father is dead. That the house is stripped of its beauty is telling too — its outward splendour has gone because wrong has entered within. Yet Bharata clasps his mother's feet as always; his humility is still unbroken. The poet shows Kaikeyī's delight in every gesture — she leaves her seat, springs up, kisses his head, takes him on her lap — all signs of a mother's love, but their root is not love so much as the success of her greed for the kingdom: the son she means to make king is standing before her.

So affectionately questioned, the lotus-eyed prince told his mother everything. “Tonight is my seventh since I left grandfather's house. Mother, your father is well, and so is my uncle Yudhājit. The king gave me so much wealth and so many jewels that the convoy grew weary on the road under their weight, so I came on ahead. I was hurried here by the messengers who brought the king's word. Now let my mother tell me what I want to ask. This gold-adorned couch of yours is empty, and the people of the House of Ikṣvāku do not look glad to me. The king is usually here in my mother's rooms; today I do not see him, though I came here hoping to. I want to clasp my father's feet — tell me, since I ask, where he is. Or is he in the rooms of my eldest mother, Kausalyā?” This string of questions is deeply moving: Bharata sees the empty couch and the unhappy faces and still does not imagine the truth; he only asks where his father is. The reader knows everything, so every word pierces like a dart. “The king is usually here in my mother's apartments” also recalls Daśaratha's partiality for Kaikeyī, the partiality that was the root of the whole disaster. Bharata's humility shows even here: he does not command but asks his mother to tell him. Nor does he boast of the wealth and jewels; he says only that their weight tired the convoy, and he has left them behind on the road. Once more the poet hints that wealth is being pressed on the one man who has no greed for it.

To him who did not know, Kaikeyī, who knew, deluded by greed for the kingdom, answered with something dreadful, spoken as though it were kind: “Your father has gone the way all creatures go. That great-souled, glorious king, constant in sacrifice, the refuge of the good, has gone to heaven.” The poet shows plainly the two faces of her speech: the words are sweet, the meaning strikes like a thunderbolt, and the single phrase “as though it were kind” sums up her nature. The contrast of “he who did not know” and “she who knew” measures the distance between them, and by saying “deluded by greed for the kingdom” the poet gives his own verdict, leaving no room for doubt. Even her praise of Daśaratha as a sacrificer and the refuge of the good only makes her cruelty sharper. Hearing her words, Bharata — pure and born of a righteous line — fell suddenly to the ground, struck down by grief for his father. Crying “Alas, I am undone!” in a piteous voice, the mighty-armed hero flung out his arms and collapsed. The fall is described twice, and so the force of his grief seems doubled. Then, wrapped in sorrow and stricken by his father's death, the great-spirited prince lamented, his mind wandering and confused.

“This bed of my father's used to shine so beautifully, like the clear night sky with its moon when the rains are over. Today it does not shine at all without that wise man — like the sky without the moon, like the sea dried up.” Choking back his tears and tormented within, that best of conquerors covered his handsome face with his cloth; the one who was first among victors now hides his face. He lay fallen on the ground, stricken, godlike, like the trunk of a sāla tree felled by an axe in the forest. His mother raised up her grief-worn son, who was like an elephant, like the sun and the moon, and said: “Get up, get up! Why are you lying there, illustrious king? Good men like you, honoured in the assembly, do not grieve. Your mind, wise one, given to charity and sacrifice, guided by good conduct, sacred learning and austerity, shines like the sun's radiance in its own house.” Even in his grief she praises him and calls him “king”, and that reveals her purpose: what she wants is not to ease his sorrow but to have him accept the kingdom. In her eyes her son's grief is only an obstacle to his consecration. Count the images in this one passage: the bed once like a moonlit sky, now like a moonless sky and a sea without water; the fallen Bharata like a sāla trunk cut down by an axe; the son like an elephant, like sun and moon. With five comparisons the poet spreads the grief wide.

After weeping a long while and rolling on the ground, Bharata, wrapped in many sorrows, answered his mother. “I set out joyfully on the journey thinking that the king was going to consecrate Rāma, or else perform a sacrifice. But it has turned out otherwise, and my heart is torn apart, because I do not see my father, who was always intent on what was dear and good for us. Mother, what illness took the king while I was away? Fortunate are Rāma and the others, who gave father his last rites with their own hands. Surely the great and glorious king does not know that I have come; otherwise he would have bent down at once and kissed me on the head. Where is that hand of my father's, whose deeds never wearied him, so pleasant to the touch, that used to brush the dust off me again and again?” Here the poet shows Bharata's grief through memory: he remembers his father's bed, the touch of his hand, the kiss on his head — all marks of a son's early childhood. “Fortunate are Rāma and the others” is heart-rending, for he believes Rāma is in Ayodhyā and performed their father's funeral; the truth is quite different, and he will soon hear it. In “while I was away” lies a son's pain that, had he come in time, he would have seen his father at the end. And by asking what illness it was he shows he thinks the death a natural one; his mother's deed has not even entered his imagination.

“Tell Rāma at once that I have come — Rāma, whose deeds never falter, who is my brother, my father and my kinsman, whose servant I am held to be. To a man who knows the dharma of the noble, the eldest brother is a father. I will clasp his feet; he is my refuge now. And noble lady, what did my father say — that righteous king who knew dharma, greatly blessed, firm in his vows, true in his valour? I want to hear his last good message for me.” He quotes the rule of dharma that the eldest brother is a father, and his words — Rāma is my brother, father and kinsman, and I am his servant — are almost the watchword of Bharata's character in this kāṇḍa; he will say the same again and again. He still does not know that Rāma has gone to the forest; he only seeks his elder brother's protection. So questioned, Kaikeyī told him the truth. “Crying ‘Rāma!’ and ‘Alas, Sītā! Alas, Lakṣmaṇa!’ that great-souled king, wisest of the wise, went to the other world. Caught in the noose of time like a great elephant, your father spoke these last words: ‘Those men will have their wish who see Rāma come back with Sītā, and mighty-armed Lakṣmaṇa returned.’” In reporting his father's last words she hints at the hidden truth, for “who see Rāma come back” itself implies that he is gone. Such is the poet's craft: the truth comes out step by step, not all at once. And when Kaikeyī reports the king's dying words she does speak the truth — but that truth brings her no honour; it is the very evidence of her crime.

Hearing that, Bharata sank at this second piece of bad news. With a fallen face he asked his mother again: “Where is he now, that righteous one who is Kausalyā's joy, who has gone away with his brother Lakṣmaṇa and with Sītā?” Asked this, she set about telling him plainly, uttering the painful news as though she were announcing something welcome — the news that would break her son's heart she told eagerly, as if it were good. “That prince, my son, has gone in bark garments to the great forest of the Daṇḍakas with Vaidehī, and Lakṣmaṇa has followed him.” At that Bharata was appalled. Fearing for his brother's good name, and prompted by the greatness of his line, he began to ask: “Has Rāma taken any brahmin's wealth? Has he harmed any innocent man, rich or poor? Has the prince coveted another man's wife? Why has my brother Rāma been banished to the Daṇḍaka forest?” These questions reveal Bharata's character: he does not suspect Rāma but searches for the cause of the banishment, believing that in Ikṣvāku's line no one could be banished without cause; the questions spring not from doubt but from pride in the dharma of his house. His three questions name three great sins — stealing a brahmin's wealth, harming the innocent, and violating another's wife — which in his view were the only crimes for which a royal prince could be exiled.

Then his fickle mother, in her woman's way, began to tell exactly what she had done. Delighted with herself and vainly thinking herself wise, Kaikeyī answered the great-souled Bharata: “Rāma has taken no brahmin's wealth from anyone; he has harmed no innocent man, rich or poor; Rāma does not so much as look at another man's wife. But I, my son, as soon as I heard of Rāma's consecration, asked your father for the kingdom and for Rāma's banishment. Holding to his own rule, your father did just that, and Rāma was sent away with Saumitri and Sītā. And not seeing that beloved son, the glorious king, worn down by grief for him, died. Now, you who know dharma, take up the kingship; it was for your sake that I did all this. Do not grieve, do not be distressed; take courage, my child. This city and this untroubled kingdom are yours. So, my son, with Vasiṣṭha and the other great brahmins who know the rites, quickly and duly perform the funeral of that undaunted king, and have yourself consecrated over the earth.” Her answer falls into three parts: first she grants Rāma's innocence, then she tells her own deed, and last she claims its reward. That order shows how deep her delusion ran: she knew Rāma was blameless, and still she had him banished. The poet's word for her, “vainly thinking herself wise”, is decisive: she thought herself a shrewd politician, when in truth she had brought ruin on her own son. Her boast, “it was for your sake that I did all this”, is the hardest of all for Bharata to bear, and in the next sarga, hearing it, he will burst out in fury and denounce his mother. Bharata has not yet said a word, and his very silence foreshadows that anger. So this sarga marks a great turning in the story: from here on Bharata's character stands at its centre.