भरतमूर्च्छा गुहवृत्तान्तकथनं च

In the previous sarga Guha had described Lakṣmaṇa's night watch and lament; this sarga shows what became of Bharata on hearing it. Hearing Guha's deeply painful words, Bharata sank into brooding over the very thing he had heard. The poet first describes him — delicate yet of great strength, lion-shouldered and long-armed, his eyes wide as white lotuses, young and handsome to look at — and having drawn this picture of strength and beauty, he shows his fall. Bharata held himself steady for a moment, then, utterly cast down, suddenly sank to the ground like an elephant pierced in the heart by goads; he who was strong as an elephant fell like one struck by the hook. Seeing Bharata faint, Guha went pale and stood shaken like a tree in an earthquake. Śatrughna, who sat close by, took him in his arms and wept aloud, himself senseless and worn with grief. Notice how the grief spreads step by step: first the speaker Guha is stunned, then the listener Bharata falls, then Guha is shaken at the sight, then Śatrughna faints. The wave of one man's words washes over them all, and in this sarga Vālmīki shows grief passing from one to another.

Then all Bharata's mothers came hurrying there, thin from fasting, wretched and worn by the loss of their husband. Weeping, they gathered round him where he lay on the ground, and Kausalyā, sick at heart, came up to him and took him in her arms. As a loving cow holds her calf, that ascetic woman held him close, and weeping, lost in grief, she questioned him. “My son, I hope no sickness is troubling your body? The life of this royal house now depends on you alone. It is the sight of you that keeps me alive, now that Rāma has gone with his brother and King Daśaratha is dead; today you alone are our protector. Have you heard some bad news about Lakṣmaṇa, my son, or about the son of a mother who has only one, who has gone to the forest with his wife?” Here Kausalyā's motherly love goes beyond even her own grief: bereft of son and husband, she sets out to comfort her co-wife's son. The mother with only one son is Kausalyā herself, not Sumitrā. Note the order of her questions: first Bharata's health, then the life of the royal house, and last news of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa — what a mother's heart fears most, she asks last. The image of the cow and her calf shows how unfeigned her tenderness was.

The illustrious Bharata collected himself for a moment and, still weeping, comforted Kausalyā, then said to Guha: “Where did my brother spend the night, and Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa? On what bed did he sleep, and what did he eat? Tell me, Guha.” These questions echo those Daśaratha had asked in earlier sargas: what the father asked Sumantra, the son now asks Guha. Glad to answer — for it gave him the chance to speak of his dear friend — Guha, lord of the Niṣādas, told Bharata how he had treated his beloved and kindly guest. “I brought Rāma food of every kind, delicacies and many sorts of fruit in plenty. Rāma, whose valour is true, acknowledged it all with praise but would not accept it, remembering the duty of a kṣatriya. ‘We must never take, my friend, but always give’ — with these words that great-souled man won us all over.” In that one sentence both Rāma's warrior's code and his warmth of friendship shine out.

Guha told the rest: “Rāghava drank only the water that great-souled Lakṣmaṇa had brought, and with Sītā kept a fast that night. Lakṣmaṇa took the water that was left and did the same, and the three of them, silent and collected, worshipped the evening twilight together. Afterwards Saumitri himself quickly brought kuśa grass and made a fine bed for Rāghava. Rāma lay down on it with Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa washed the feet of them both and then withdrew.” Then he pointed with his hand: “This is that very root of the iṅgudī tree, and this is the very grass on which Rāma and Sītā lay that night.” This is the most moving moment of the sarga: the report becomes a scene before their eyes, and grief moves from memory to sight. By saying “this is that very…” twice, the poet makes it present, and in the next sarga Bharata will lament on seeing that very bed of grass. Rāma's conduct is described with care as well: water alone for food, silence, the twilight worship, a bed of kuśa on the ground — the vows of ascetics, kept by a prince on his very first night.

The last two verses paint a picture of the night's watch. Wearing his gauntlet and finger-guards, with two quivers full of arrows strapped to his back and his great bow strung and ready, Lakṣmaṇa, the scourge of his enemies, stood all night long doing nothing but circling round Rāma — no sleep, no rest, only watching. “And I too, with my best arrows and bow, took my stand where Lakṣmaṇa was,” said Guha, telling of his own vigil, “and with my tireless kinsmen, bows in hand, I kept guard that night over him who is the peer of great Indra.” The sarga ends not with lament or question but with this picture of two watchful archers, and Guha's account stops where his own service ended. To call Rāma the peer of Indra shows his greatness in Guha's eyes: the one being guarded was in truth equal to Indra, yet the Niṣādas guarded him — and that is the paradox of devotion.