Tāra, overwhelmed by an ocean of grief, beheld the lifeless face of her husband Vāli. In her agony, she threw herself to the ground, embracing his great fallen form as a tender vine clings to a mighty tree laid low. Renowned throughout the world for her wisdom and devotion, Tāra approached the face of the monkey king, her beloved, and poured out her sorrow to the one who could no longer hear. “You lie here in distress, O hero, having disregarded my warnings, upon this earth now heaped with sorrow,” she lamented. “Surely, O king of the monkeys, the earth is dearer to you than I am, for you embrace her and do not speak to me. Alas, fate has truly brought you under Sugrīva’s power; now Sugrīva alone is mighty, O you who delighted in daring deeds. The foremost of bears and monkeys, strong as they are, attend you in your final hour, their lamentations and Aṅgada’s grief almost unbearable to witness. “Even after hearing my words, why do you not awaken? This is the very bed of the hero—here you lie, slain in battle. Where you once struck down your enemies, now you rest among the fallen, 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 shattered, my eternal path broken. “I am plunged into a vast, unfathomable ocean of grief; surely my heart is made of stone, so hard and unyielding. Having seen my husband slain, why has my heart not burst into a hundred pieces today? You were both my friend and my beloved. 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 sprung from your own body. “Your resting place is like a bed infested with worms and insects; your body is covered 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. By a single arrow released by Rāma, 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, the arrow shone with radiance as it was pulled free. Just as the sun’s rays are blocked at sunset, so streams of blood flowed from all your wounds. Like streams tinged with copper and red ochre flowing from a mountain, I wiped your body, covered with the dust of battle. With tears streaming from my eyes, I drenched the valiant one, struck down by weapons, whose whole body was stained with blood, seeing my husband slain.” Turning to her son, Tāra addressed Aṅgada, whose eyes were tawny with sorrow: “Behold, my son, the dreadful final condition of your father. Pay your respects to the king, your father, who is worthy of honor.” Thus spoken to, Aṅgada rose and took hold of his father’s feet, embracing him with his strong, rounded arms. He cried, “It is I, Angada. As you used to, honor Angada now as he pays his respects to you. ‘May you live long, my son’—why do you not speak? I, with my son as companion, serve you, though your consciousness has departed, struck down suddenly as a cow with her calf by a lion. “Having performed the sacrificial battle, with the waters of Rāma’s weapons, and bathed in the concluding rite, how can you be without me, your wife? The beloved golden garland, given to you by the king of gods, pleased in battle—why do I not see it here on you? The glory of kingship does not abandon you, even though your life has departed, O dignified one, like the radiance of the sun upon the mountain king. My words have not been heeded by you, nor am I able to restrain you. I am slain, with my son, by your death in battle; together with you, prosperity departs from me as well.” Tāra, overtaken by the irresistible force of her grief, was swiftly overwhelmed. Witnessing her agony and the unparalleled death of his brother Vāli, Sugrīva, swift of action, was tormented. With a face full of tears and his mind disheartened, the thoughtful Sugrīva slowly approached Rāma, who stood surrounded by his attendants, his bow and arrows like deadly serpents, his limbs marked with signs of greatness. Standing before Rāma, Sugrīva spoke: “As promised, O king, you have acted, and the deed has yielded its result. Now, O son of the king, my mind is withdrawn from pleasures, for my life is ended. With this queen weeping bitterly, loudly lamenting in the city, tormented by grief, with the king slain and Angada in doubt, O Rāma, my mind finds no delight in the kingdom. Out of anger, intolerance, and excessive outrage, my brother’s death was previously permitted by me. Now, with the leader of the monkeys slain, O best of Ikṣvākus, I suffer intensely. “I now think it better to dwell at the mountain’s summit, to live long in Ṛṣyamūka, as I may, according to my own nature; for even by killing him, the gain of heaven is not mine. I did not wish to harm you, nor did I act against you—this the great-souled, wise one told me. That word of Rāma is fitting, and so too is my action.” Thus, in the shadow of Vāli’s death, grief and duty, loss and destiny, intertwined the fates of Tāra, Angada, Sugrīva, and all the vanaras, as the great story of the Rāmāyaṇa unfolded.