भरतस्य रामशय्यादर्शनविलापः

In the previous sarga Guha had told Bharata in careful detail everything Rāma had done at Śṛṅgaverapura — how he refused Guha's hospitality, how he fasted on water alone, how Lakṣmaṇa himself brought kuśa grass and made a bed. Guha had hidden nothing, and every detail sharpened Bharata's pain. Having heard it all, Bharata went with the ministers to the foot of that same iṅgudī tree and saw Rāma's bed with his own eyes. This is the seed of the sarga: from the sight comes lament, and from lament a vow. He said to all the mothers, “It was here that the great-souled one lay through the night on the ground; this is the grass his limbs pressed down.” Then he recalled the greatness of the line: “Rāma, born on earth of Daśaratha — of a family of great kings, greatly fortunate and wise — does not deserve to sleep like this. That tiger among men, used to lying on piles of fine coverlets spread with antelope skin — how can he lie on the bare earth?” This contrast will be drawn out again and again in the verses that follow.

Then Bharata described Rāma's former life, so that the harshness of his present state stood out more sharply. “He always lived in the upper storeys of palaces, in airy chambers and galleries with floors of gold and silver, bright with the finest coverlets, gay with heaps of flowers, fragrant with sandal and aloe, gleaming like white clouds and loud with flocks of parrots; in the choicest mansions, cool and sweet-smelling, their walls worked with gold, lofty as Meru. Having lived in such places, how can he lie here? He was always woken by song and music, by the chime of fine ornaments and the beat of drums, and at the proper hour many bards, heralds and panegyrists praised that scourge of his enemies with fitting songs and hymns.” All this shows the splendour of Daśaratha's capital; now there is no one to wake him and his bed is only grass. The poet orders the description skilfully — first the place, then its beauty, its scent, its sounds, and last the manner of his waking — so that the old comforts are recalled through the senses, and the roughness of the grass bed shows for itself. In these verses Bharata does not blame Rāma, nor does he mention Kaikeyī; he simply sets side by side what was and what is.

The sight was so unbearable that Bharata began to doubt his own mind. “This is not to be believed; it does not seem true to me. Surely my mind is clouded — I think this is a dream.” When grief passes its limit, the mind refuses the truth itself. Then he named the cause: “There is surely no divine power stronger than Time, if Rāma, son of Daśaratha, must lie on the ground like this, and with him the lovely daughter of the king of Videha, Daśaratha's beloved daughter-in-law, has also slept on the earth.” The mention of Sītā doubles the grief: not only his brother but a royal bride had lain on the ground. Then he pointed at the bed itself: “This is my brother's bed; this is the fair spot where he turned in his sleep; on this hard ground all the grass has been crushed by their limbs.” The comfort of thinking it a dream lasts only a moment, for at once he describes the bed as though touching it; so he passes from lament in general to looking at particulars, and next he will find the traces of Sītā on the bed.

Bharata examined the bed closely. “I think the fair Sītā slept on this bed still wearing her ornaments, for here and there flecks of gold are clinging to it. And it is plain that Sītā's upper garment caught here, for these silken threads are clinging and glinting.” These two signs were the evidence for his inference. Here Vālmīki's eye is especially keen: the lament is not only feeling but rests on evidence, and Bharata reasons from what he sees, which makes the grief all the more real. Then he praised Sītā's steadfastness: “I think a husband's bed is a happy bed, since that young ascetic, tender and true, the princess of Mithilā, does not feel it as hardship.” At last his gaze fell on himself: “Alas, I am undone, I am a cruel wretch! It is because of me that Rāghava and his wife lie on such a bed, like people with no one to protect them.” Here lament turns into self-reproach, and that self-reproach becomes the root of his vow.

Bharata spoke again of Rāma's greatness. “Born in a line of universal sovereigns, bringing happiness to all the world, doing what everyone holds dear, he gave up a kingdom dear and unsurpassed. How can Rāghava — dark as a blue lotus, red-eyed, lovely to look at, born for happiness and undeserving of sorrow — lie on the ground?” Then he thought of the two who had gone with Rāma: “Blessed indeed and greatly fortunate is Lakṣmaṇa of the auspicious marks, who stays by his brother Rāma in this hard time. Vaidehī too has gained her aim, following her husband into the forest.” His own lot he saw otherwise: “But all of us, bereft of that great soul, are left in doubt.” Here lay the root of his pain: others had won Rāma's company, and he alone stood far from him. With “blessed” and “has gained her aim” he praises the others' fortune and confesses his own deprivation. His doubt is twofold — doubt whether they can live, and doubt whether they will ever win Rāma's favour — and this state leads him at last to his vow.

From here Bharata's thoughts moved from the bed to the kingdom. “With Daśaratha gone to heaven and Rāma in the forest, the earth seems empty to me, like a ship without a helmsman.” Yet he also voiced a wonder: “Still, no one covets this earth even in thought, guarded as it is by the might of his arms, though he lives in the forest.” Then he described Ayodhyā as it now stood: “The capital's defences are unmanned, its horses and elephants untethered, its city gates unbarred; it is unguarded, its army dispirited, its numbers thin, its position weak and its cover gone — and still the enemy will not touch it, as men will not touch poisoned food.” With this image he shows that Rāma's name alone was its protection, not armies or ramparts. The comparison is sharp: the food is there to see and easy to take, but to touch it is death; so Ayodhyā looks unguarded but is untouchable for fear of Rāma. By this Bharata implies that the kingdom's true protector is the one now living in the forest.

At last the lament took the form of resolve. “From this day on I too will sleep on the ground or on grass, living always on fruit and roots and wearing matted hair and bark. For the rest of his term I will live happily in the forest in his place, and so my noble brother's promise will not be broken.” The reasoning is subtle: the promise is kept, but Bharata takes the exile on himself. “Śatrughna will stay with me while I live there for my brother's sake, and my noble brother, with Lakṣmaṇa, will rule Ayodhyā; the brahmins will consecrate Kākutstha in Ayodhyā. May the gods make this wish of mine come true.” Then he voiced a doubt: “If, even when I entreat him myself with bowed head and in every way, he will not consent, then I will follow Rāghava and live long in the forest; he who roams the woods cannot turn me away.” With this resolve the sarga ends. Bharata's three choices are set out in turn — living in the forest himself, Rāma ruling in Ayodhyā, and last following Rāma — and they make it plain that what he wanted was not the kingdom but to be near Rāma.