भरतसेनायाः चित्रकूटदर्शनम्

At the end of the previous sarga Bharata's army, with Bharadvāja's leave, had entered the great forest, and this sarga begins with the effect of that entry. Harried by that vast marching host with its banners, the forest elephants, rutting leaders of their herds, fled with their herds; even such mighty beasts, which roam the forest without fear, ran from the army's noise. Bears, spotted antelope and ruru deer were seen on every side, in the forest tracts, on the hills and by the rivers. The righteous son of Daśaratha journeyed on in high spirits, surrounded by his vast and clamorous fourfold army. Like the flood of the ocean, the army of great-souled Bharata covered the earth as a raincloud covers the sky in the rains. Spread wide with its streams of horses and its mighty elephants, it stayed for a long time beyond the reach of sight — its very size was what kept it from being seen whole. The poet joins two images, cloud and ocean, the one for its breadth and the other for its deep roar.

When he had gone a long way and his animals were worn out, illustrious Bharata spoke to Vasiṣṭha, the best of his counsellors — the one to address, as the leader of the journey. “From the look of this country and from what I have heard, it is plain that we have reached the region Bharadvāja spoke of.” What he had heard and what he now saw agreed, and on those two proofs he was sure. Then he counted the signs himself: “This is Mount Citrakūṭa, and this the river Mandākinī, and that forest shining in the distance is dark as a raincloud.” The three signs the sage had named in the last sarga — forest, river and mountain — now came before his eyes one after another, and everyone felt that the end of the road was near. Bharata's words ring with eagerness: at the end of a long road, the goal was in sight.

Then Bharata began, with delight, to describe what he saw. “The lovely tablelands of Citrakūṭa are even now being trampled by my elephants, huge as mountains” — he looks with wonder at the size of his own army. “These trees are shedding their blossoms on the slopes as dark rainclouds release their water when the hot season ends.” Then he turned to Śatrughna, who had come with him from their uncle's house and was his one companion here: “Look, Śatrughna, at this part of the mountain where kinnaras roam, thronged on every side with horses as the sea is with sea-monsters. These herds of deer, driven on and running fast, shine like banks of cloud blown by the wind across an autumn sky. These trees wear fragrant garlands of flowers on their heads, like men of the south carrying shields bright as clouds.” Each image does two things, showing the beauty of the forest and hinting at the army's movement, and nearly all of them are images of clouds. There is joy in his description, but beneath it lies his longing to see his brother.

“This forest was silent and fearful to look at, but now it seems to me as crowded with people as Ayodhyā itself.” That comparison is the heart of the sarga: the forest once dreadful for its emptiness is now full of people like a city. “The dust the hooves have raised hangs over the sky, and the wind carries it quickly away, as though to do me a kindness” — even the wind is pictured serving the prince, and in that fancy the poet shows how Bharata's mind had cleared: the man who had set out in grief now saw even the wind as friendly. “Look, Śatrughna, at these chariots in the wood, yoked with horses and driven by the best charioteers, racing along. And look at these peacocks, lovely to see, startled into flight, and the other birds, making for the hill that is their home.” Even the frightened peacocks are described as lovely, and the poet finds beauty in their fear.

“Blameless one, this country seems to me delightful beyond measure; plainly it is a home of ascetics and a road to heaven.” Bharata's way of seeing changes here: he looks now not as the leader of an army but almost as a pilgrim, and in speaking of a road to heaven he may also be thinking of his father's passing. “Many deer with their does, and spotted antelope, are to be seen in the wood, lovely in form, as though painted over with flowers.” Deer in pairs are themselves a sign: where there is a grove of penance, there is freedom from fear. Then he gave his order: “Good — let the troops go forward and search the forest well, so that those two tigers among men, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, may be found.” That opening “good” shows a gentle command, less the word of a general than a brother's plea. So the sarga turns from description to action.

Hearing Bharata's words, brave men took up their weapons and entered the forest, and soon they saw a column of smoke. Smoke is the sign here: where there is fire there are people, and where there is a sacrificial fire there are ascetics. Seeing the smoke, they came back to Bharata and said: “Where there are no people there is no fire; plainly the two Rāghavas are here.” But they voiced a doubt of their own: “And if those two tigers among men, the princes who scourge their enemies, are not here, then plainly there are other ascetics here like Rāma.” Their caution shows the soldiers' good sense: they made an inference, not a claim of certainty. And “like Rāma” hints at Rāma's ascetic form — he would now look not like a prince but like a hermit. From the sight of the smoke the sarga quickens: description is over, the search has begun, and its result is in view.

Hearing their words, which good men would approve, Bharata, the crusher of enemy armies, said to all the troops: “Stay here and be ready; no one is to go on ahead. I will go myself, with only Sumantra and Dhṛti.” This order shows his humility: the man who had come with hundreds of thousands wished to go to his brother with only two companions, judging it unfitting to approach his brother's hermitage with an army. At his word the troops halted all around, and Bharata fixed his eyes on the place where the smoke was rising. The army Bharata had halted, looking at the ground ahead, was glad all the same, for it knew that the meeting with beloved Rāma would not be long in coming — the first joy at the end of a journey of grief. “Not long in coming” points to the sargas ahead: the meeting is near, but it has not yet happened.