Tārā, the devoted wife of the mighty Vāli, stood stricken with grief. Her world had shattered in an instant—once the wife of a hero, now suddenly made a widow. Her honor felt broken, her eternal path sundered. Overwhelmed by the vast, unfathomable ocean of sorrow, she wondered at her own heart—how could it be so hard and unyielding, not breaking apart at the sight of her beloved husband slain? Vāli had been more than her husband; he was her dearest friend, the one closest to her soul. Now, struck down in battle, he lay lifeless before her. Though she had a son, Angada, she lamented that a woman without her husband is still called a widow, no matter her children, wealth, or stores of grain. Her eyes fell upon Vāli’s body, lying in a pool of blood that had sprung from his own wounds. His resting place was like a bed infested with worms and insects, his noble form covered in dust and blood. She longed to embrace him, the bull among the monkeys, but could not. Today, she thought, Sugrīva had achieved his purpose in this dreadful feud. By a single arrow released by Rāma, Sugrīva’s fear had been dispelled, and that arrow had pierced Vāli’s heart, ending his life. Tārā recalled how, as she gazed upon her fallen husband, she had tried to hold him back from the brink of death. But Nīla, one of the monkey chiefs, had drawn out the arrow from Vāli’s body—a blazing shaft, radiant as it emerged, like a serpent drawn from a mountain cave. As the arrow was pulled free, streams of blood, like coppery rivers flowing from a mountain, poured from his wounds. She wiped his body, covered with the dust and gore of battle, her tears streaming down as she wept for the valiant one who had been struck down. Turning to her son Angada, whose eyes were tawny with sorrow, Tārā spoke, her voice trembling: “Behold, my son, the dreadful final condition of your father.” She urged Angada to pay his respects to his father, the king, who was worthy of honor even in death. Angada rose, took hold of his father’s feet, and embraced him with his strong, rounded arms. “It is I, Angada,” he cried, longing for acknowledgment from his silent father. “As you used to, honor Angada now as he pays his respects to you. Say, ‘May you live long, my son’—why do you not speak?” Tārā, with her son beside her, served Vāli even in his final moments, though his consciousness had departed, struck down suddenly, as a cow might be snatched away from her calf by a lion. She thought of the great sacrificial battle Vāli had performed, the waters of Rāma’s weapons as the ritual libation, and the concluding rite now complete. How could he be gone, leaving her behind? She searched for the golden garland, the beloved gift from the king of gods, once glowing upon him in battle, but now absent. Yet even in death, the glory of kingship did not abandon Vāli, just as the sun’s radiance lingers on the mountain at sunset. Tārā lamented that her words had not been heeded, nor could she restrain him from his fate. She felt slain by his death, along with their son; with Vāli’s passing, all prosperity seemed to depart from her as well. As the tide of grief swept over Tārā, Vāli’s younger brother Sugrīva, swift of action, was himself tormented by the death of his brother—a loss without equal. His face wet with tears, his mind weighed down, Sugrīva approached Rāma, who stood surrounded by his attendants, bow and arrows in hand, his limbs marked with greatness. Standing before Rāma, Sugrīva spoke with a heavy heart: “O king, you have fulfilled your promise, and the deed has been done. But now, my mind is withdrawn from all pleasures, for my life feels ended. This queen weeps bitterly, lamenting in the city; grief torments her, the king is slain, and Angada is left in doubt. O Rāma, I find no delight in the kingdom.” He confessed that, out of anger and outrage, he had permitted his brother’s death, but now, with the leader of the monkeys slain, he suffered intensely. Sugrīva wished only to dwell on the mountain’s summit, to live out his days in Ṛṣyamūka, for not even the gain of heaven could console him after this act. He explained that he had never wished to harm Rāma, nor had he acted against him, and the wise Rāma had told him as much. Still, Sugrīva questioned how a brother could ever desire the death of his own sibling, especially one so virtuous, even for the sake of a kingdom. He had not truly considered killing Vāli, for it was against his own nature, but his misguided mind had led him to this fatal transgression. For a moment, Sugrīva was broken, like a branch torn from a tree. But Vāli himself had comforted him, urging him not to grieve in this way. Vāli had upheld brotherhood, nobility, and righteousness, while Sugrīva had given in to anger, desire, and baseness. Sugrīva lamented his deed, calling it unthinkable, to be avoided and examined by oneself. He compared his sin to that of Indra, who bore the burden of slaying Tvaṣṭṛ’s son—a burden so great that the earth, waters, trees, and women each took a share of Indra’s guilt. Yet, Sugrīva wondered, who could bear the sin of a brother killing his brother? Who would wish to follow such a path? He declared himself unworthy of honor, succession, or the kingdom, having committed such an unrighteous act. Sorrow overwhelmed him, like a torrent pouring into a hollow. With his own hands, he had struck down his brother; now, grief and guilt, like a raging disease, assailed him. He felt his noble nature destroyed by this unbearable sin, his spirit burning and pale, like gold in the fire. Thus, in the aftermath of Vāli’s death, Tārā and Sugrīva, along with young Angada, were left to bear the weight of sorrow and the consequences of actions that could never be undone.