As Vāli lay wounded and near death, he turned to Sugrīva with heartfelt words. “You must be a father to my son, Angada; be his giver and complete protector in every way, granting him safety in dangers just as I did, O lord of monkeys.” Vāli spoke of Angada’s valor, declaring, “This glorious son of Tara, equal to you in courage, will stand at the forefront in the destruction of demons. He will perform deeds befitting him, displaying strength and bravery in battle.” Vāli also praised the daughter of Sushena, noting her mastery of subtle matters of wealth and omens, and her thorough accomplishments. Then Vāli urged Sugrīva, “You must carry out your duty towards Raghava without hesitation; to fail would be unrighteous, and you would be harmed by being considered unworthy.” He instructed Sugrīva to place the divine golden garland upon himself, saying, “Great fortune abides in it, and it should only be relinquished after my death.” Touched by brotherly affection, Sugrīva’s joy faded and sorrow overcame him, like the moon seized by a planet. Calmed by Vāli’s words, Sugrīva attentively took the golden garland with permission. As he gave the garland and saw his son standing there, Vāli, resolved for the afterlife, spoke affectionately to Angada: “Now embrace place and time, enduring both pleasant and unpleasant; bear happiness and sorrow in their season, and be obedient to Sugrīva. Just as you have always been cherished by me, so Sugrīva will not regard you as highly while you remain with him.” Vāli advised, “You should neither show excessive affection nor complete indifference; both are great faults, so maintain a balanced view.” Having spoken thus, Vāli’s eyes rolled, his body pierced by arrows, his dreadful teeth exposed, and his life departed. The vanaras, their leader slain, cried out in anguish, lamenting the loss of their foremost monkey. Now, Kishkindha was empty, for the lord of monkeys had gone to heaven; gardens, mountains, and forests were deserted. With the tiger among monkeys slain, the vanaras lost their brilliance; Vāli’s great speed had once shaken the forests and woods. They wondered who would now bind clusters of flowers, who would accomplish such feats, who had fought the noble Gandharva in battle. Against Golabha, the mighty-armed one, for fifteen years, neither by night nor by day did the battle cease; in the sixteenth year, Golabha was slain. Vāli, fierce with fangs and a terror to all, had killed that unruly one—how had he now fallen? With their heroic leader slain, the monkeys found no comfort, wandering the lion-filled woods like cows bereft of their bull. Tara, plunged into an ocean of grief, saw the face of her dead husband and fell to the ground, embracing Vāli like a vine clinging to a felled tree. Then Tara, renowned in the world, approached the face of the monkey king, her husband, and spoke to the dead. “You lie in distress, having disregarded my words, O hero, on this earth heaped with sorrow. Surely, O king of monkeys, the earth is dearer to you than I am; for you lie there embracing her and do not speak to me. Fate has truly brought you under Sugrīva’s power; Sugrīva alone is now mighty, O hero who delighted in daring deeds. The foremost of bears and monkeys attend upon you; their lamentations and Angada’s grief are hard to bear.” She continued, “Even after hearing my words, why do you not awaken? This is that very hero’s bed—there you lie, slain in battle. Here, where once you struck down your enemies, they now lie dead; O pure-souled, noble-born, lover of battle, dearest to me. Leaving me alone and helpless, you have gone, O bestower of honor; the wise should never give a maiden to a warrior. See me now, the wife of a hero, suddenly made a widow; my honor is shattered, and my eternal path is broken. I am plunged into the vast, unfathomable ocean of grief; surely my heart is made of stone, so hard and unyielding.” With deep sorrow, Tara lamented, “Having seen my husband slain, why has my heart not burst into a hundred pieces today? Both my friend and my husband by nature, dearest to me. Struck down in battle, the heroic one has met his end; a woman without her husband, even if she has children, is still called a widow. Even if she is rich in wealth and grain, people call her a widow; O hero, you lie in a pool of blood that has sprung from your own body. Like a bed infested with worms and insects, so is your own resting place; your body is covered all over with dust and blood. I am unable to embrace you with my arms, O bull among monkeys; today Sugrīva has achieved his purpose in this most dreadful feud.” She recalled, “By a single arrow released by Rama, Sugrīva’s fear was taken away; as that arrow pierced your heart and touched your body. As I gazed upon you, now departed, I tried to hold you back; then Nīla drew out the arrow that had lodged in your body. Like a blazing serpent drawn from a mountain cave, even as the arrow was being pulled out, its radiance shone forth.” Thus, in the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, in the Kishkindha Kanda, the twenty-third chapter, Tara’s grief and the sorrow of the monkeys were laid bare, mourning the passing of their great king, Vāli.