भरतस्य ससैन्यं गङ्गातीरगमनम्

In the previous sarga Bharata had refused the kingdom in the assembly and ordered the march to bring Rāma back, and through the night the whole city had been yoking its vehicles. Now, at dawn, the journey begins. Rising at daybreak, Bharata mounted his finest chariot and set out in haste, longing to see Rāma. The poet gives the journey a single aim — not the kingdom, not victory, only the sight of Rāma. Ahead of him went all the counsellors and priests in horse-drawn chariots like the chariot of the sun, an image that joins the light of dawn with the brilliance of the chariots. Then the poet counts the army. Nine thousand elephants, harnessed as the rules prescribe, followed Bharata, the delight of the Ikṣvāku line; sixty thousand chariots and bowmen with weapons of every kind followed the glorious prince; and a hundred thousand horses with their riders did the same. The numbers show the royal grandeur of the journey, but the army went not to fight but to plead. The refrain “followed the glorious prince as he went” comes back in verse after verse, not as a flaw but like a beat in the counting, fixing the endlessness of the host in the listener's ear.

After the army the poet shows the three queen-mothers. Kaikeyī, Sumitrā and illustrious Kausalyā, glad that Rāma was to be brought back, went in a splendid carriage. That Kaikeyī is named first is a quiet irony: the woman who had Rāma banished now travels in the procession to bring him home. Companies of noble men set out to see Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, and as they went they told many wonderful stories about him with glad hearts. The poet quotes them: “When shall we see Rāma, dark as a rain cloud, mighty-armed, unshaken in courage, firm in his vows, who takes away the sorrow of the world? The mere sight of Rāghava will drive away our grief, as the rising sun drives away the darkness of the whole world.” The sight of Rāma is the sunrise, and grief the darkness; no remedy is needed, the sight alone will do it. Talking happily in this way and embracing one another in their delight, the townspeople went on. That embracing carries the feeling of the whole passage: Rāma has not yet been seen, yet on the mere hope of his coming the citizens hug each other. The Ayodhyā that earlier sargas showed weeping is now full of joy; but this joy rests only on hope, not fulfilment, and it should be read knowing that the hope will be broken in the sargas to come.

Then the poet counts the whole population of Ayodhyā. All the other men of standing, the merchants and all the good people of the realm went joyfully to meet Rāma. Then four verses are filled with nothing but the names of trades: jewellers of every kind, fine potters, master weavers, makers of weapons, workers in peacock feathers, sawyers, borers, decorators, ivory-carvers, plasterers, perfume-dealers, famous goldsmiths, blanket-makers, attendants who bathe men in warm water, physicians, fumigators, distillers, washermen, tailors, headmen of villages and of cowherd settlements, actors with their women, and fishermen. Last, thousands of brahmins, composed in mind, learned in the Veda and honoured for their conduct, followed Bharata in ox-carts. The list is not mere ornament: every trade, every class, every craft of Ayodhyā had come together for Rāma's sake. The banishment was not the grief of the royal house alone but of the whole city, and this list establishes it. These verses are also like a dictionary of the crafts of ancient India, and many of these names are rarely found anywhere else.

All of them were well dressed, in clean clothes, anointed with polished coppery unguents, and they followed Bharata slowly in vehicles of every kind; though they were eager, the journey was unhurried and humble, for it was a journey of entreaty. The rejoicing army followed Kaikeyī's son Bharata, who loved his brother and was going to bring him home. Having travelled a long road with chariots, carriages, horses and elephants, they reached the Gaṅgā near Śṛṅgaverapura. There Rāma's friend, the hero Guha, lived among his kinsmen, guarding that country with unflagging care. The poet mentions him here in advance, preparing the ground for the next sarga, so that Guha's suspicion will not come as a surprise to the reader. On the bank of the Gaṅgā, adorned with ruddy geese, the army that followed Bharata came to a halt. Even the geese are fitting, for they are the birds of separation, and the separation of Bharata and Rāma is the subject of this kāṇḍa.

Looking at his army, settled and at rest, and at the Gaṅgā with her auspicious waters, Bharata, skilled in speech, said to all his counsellors: “Quarter my troops all around as each of them pleases. When we have rested, we will cross this river that runs to the sea tomorrow. But first I want to go down into the river and offer water for the good of the departed king in the world beyond.” This reminds us that Bharata was not only seeking his brother but was still his father's son, and the offering to his father remained to be made. When he had spoken, the ministers said, “So be it,” and carefully quartered the men in separate groups as each preferred. Having settled his host, splendid with all its equipment, along the great river Gaṅgā, Bharata stayed there, his mind on the return of great-souled Rāma. The army encamped, the river before them, Guha's realm on the far side — with these three the poet sets the stage for the next sarga. Two concerns lived together in Bharata's mind: the offering to his father, which was duty, and the return of his brother, which was longing.