As Vāli lay grievously wounded, he turned to Sugrīva and spoke with earnest affection. He pointed to Angada, his own glorious son born of Tara, declaring that this radiant youth, equal in valor to Sugrīva himself, would stand at the forefront in the destruction of the demons. Vāli assured Sugrīva that Angada would perform deeds worthy of his lineage, displaying strength and courage in battle. He also spoke of the daughter of Sushena, praising her as a woman accomplished in every way, well-versed in subtle matters of wealth and skilled in reading all kinds of omens. Then, with the gravity of one nearing the end, Vāli urged Sugrīva to fulfill his duty to Raghava without hesitation, warning that failure in this would be unrighteous and would bring dishonor upon him. He instructed Sugrīva to place upon himself the divine golden garland, a symbol of great fortune, and told him it should be relinquished only after Vāli’s death. Hearing these words, Sugrīva’s heart was overcome by sorrow; his joy abandoned him, and he was as the moon eclipsed by a dark planet. Yet, calmed by Vāli’s words and acting with attentive reverence, Sugrīva accepted the golden garland with Vāli’s permission. With the garland bestowed and his son Angada standing nearby, Vāli, now resolved to depart from this world, spoke affectionately to Angada. He counseled his son to accept the changing place and time, to endure both happiness and sorrow, and to be obedient to Sugrīva. Vāli reminded Angada that although he had always been cherished by his father, Sugrīva might not hold him in the same regard, and thus Angada must act wisely. He advised his son to avoid both excessive affection and complete indifference, for both are great faults; instead, Angada should maintain a balanced view in all things. Having thus spoken, Vāli’s strength at last failed him. His eyes rolled, his body pierced by many arrows, his dreadful teeth exposed in a final grimace, and his life departed. A great wail arose among the vanaras as their mighty leader fell. All the foremost monkeys and bears lamented the loss of Vāli. Now the city of Kiṣkindhā stood empty, its gardens, mountains, and forests deserted, for their lord had ascended to heaven. With the tiger among monkeys slain, the vanaras lost their brilliance; it was he whose speed once shook the forests and woods. The vanaras mourned, wondering who would now bind clusters of flowers as Vāli had, or who could accomplish the mighty deeds he had performed—such as fighting the noble Gandharva. They remembered how, for fifteen long years, Vāli had battled the powerful Golabha, neither day nor night ceasing, and how in the sixteenth year, Vāli had slain that unruly foe. Now, the fierce one who had been a terror to all had himself fallen. The monkeys, robbed of their heroic leader, found no comfort in the lion-filled forests, just as cows grieve when their bull is killed. Tara, plunged into the depths of grief, saw the face of her fallen husband and collapsed to the ground, embracing Vāli as a vine clings to a felled tree. As the next chapter begins, Tara, renowned throughout the world, approached her husband’s lifeless face and spoke to him. She cried out in sorrow, reproaching him for disregarding her warnings and now lying in distress upon the sorrow-laden earth. She lamented that the earth seemed dearer to him than she was, for he now embraced it and not her, giving her no reply. Tara bewailed the workings of fate, which had delivered Vāli into Sugrīva’s power. Now only Sugrīva stood mighty, while the foremost of bears and monkeys, strong as they were, could only attend upon Vāli’s lifeless form, their lamentations and Angada’s grief unbearable to witness. She wondered why, even after hearing her words, Vāli did not awaken. This was the very hero’s bed, where he had once struck down his enemies, and now he himself lay slain in battle. Tara grieved that her noble, pure-souled, battle-loving husband had left her alone and helpless. She lamented the fate of a maiden given to a warrior, for now she was a widow, her honor shattered and her eternal path broken. Overwhelmed by grief, Tara compared her suffering to being plunged into a vast, unfathomable ocean of sorrow, marveling that her heart did not break into a hundred pieces after seeing her beloved husband slain. Vāli had been both friend and husband to her, the dearest companion of her soul. She mourned that, though a woman might have children, without her husband she was still called a widow; even if she possessed wealth and grain, she was still marked by loss. Tara gazed upon Vāli lying in a pool of blood that had sprung from his own body, his resting place now like a bed infested with worms and insects, his body covered in dust and blood. She confessed her inability to embrace him, the bull among monkeys, and acknowledged that Sugrīva had now achieved his purpose in this dreadful feud. By a single arrow released by Rāma, Sugrīva’s fear had been removed, as the arrow pierced Vāli’s heart and body. Tara recounted how, as she watched her husband depart from this world, she tried in vain to hold him back. Then Nīla drew out the arrow that had lodged in Vāli’s body, its radiance shining forth like a blazing serpent drawn from a mountain cave. As the arrow was removed, streams of blood flowed from all his wounds, just as the sun’s rays are blocked at sunset. Thus, Tara wept over her beloved, slain in battle, and the vanaras mourned the passing of their mighty lord.