Tārā, overcome by the vast and unfathomable ocean of grief, poured out her sorrow beside the fallen Vāli. Her heart, seemingly made of stone, did not shatter despite the agony of seeing her beloved husband slain before her eyes. She wondered how her heart had not burst into a hundred pieces, for Vāli was not only her husband but her closest friend, dearest to her by nature. Now struck down in battle, the heroic Vāli had met his end. Tārā lamented that a woman without her husband, even if blessed with children, is still called a widow. Even wealth and abundance could not erase that name. Her grief deepened as she saw her husband lying in a pool of blood, sprung from his own wounds, his body covered in dust and gore. His resting place was like a bed infested with worms and insects, and she could not embrace him with her arms, though she longed to do so. She realized that Sugrīva had achieved his purpose in this dreadful feud, his fears dispelled by a single arrow released by Rāma, which pierced Vāli’s heart and touched his body. As she gazed upon Vāli, now departed, she tried in vain to hold him back, but Nīla drew out the arrow lodged within him. The arrow, shining like a blazing serpent drawn from a mountain cave, radiated brilliantly as it was pulled out. Blood streamed from Vāli’s wounds, like the sun’s rays blocked at sunset, flowing as copper-tinged streams from a mountain. Tārā wiped his dust-covered body, and with tears streaming from her eyes, she drenched the valiant one, slain by weapons, his whole body stained with blood. Turning to her son Angada, whose eyes were tawny, Tārā spoke: “Behold, son, the dreadful final condition of your father.” She urged Angada to pay respects to the king, his father, who was worthy of honor. Angada rose and took hold of Vāli’s feet, embracing him with his strong, rounded arms, and said, “It is I, Angada.” He pleaded with his father, as he used to, to honor Angada now as he paid his respects. Tārā, with her son as companion, continued to serve Vāli, though his consciousness had departed, struck down suddenly as a cow with her calf is struck by a bull. She lamented that Vāli had performed the sacrificial battle, bathed in the waters of Rāma’s weapons as the concluding rite, yet now he was without her, his wife. She searched for the beloved golden garland, given to him by the king of gods, which had pleased him in battle—but it was nowhere to be seen. Yet, even in death, the glory of kingship did not abandon Vāli, like the radiance of the sun upon the mountain king. Her words had not been heeded, nor could she restrain him. She felt herself slain, along with her son, by Vāli’s death in battle. With him, prosperity departed from her as well. As this ocean of grief overtook Tārā, Vāli’s younger brother Sugrīva was tormented by the unparalleled loss. His face full of tears, his mind disheartened, Sugrīva slowly approached Rāma, surrounded by his attendants, deeply afflicted. Standing before Rāma, who held a bow and arrows like deadly serpents, whose limbs bore signs of greatness, Sugrīva addressed him. “O king, as promised, 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 permitted by me. Now, with the leader of the monkeys slain, O best of Ikṣvākus, I suffer intensely.” Sugrīva confessed that he now wished to dwell at the mountain’s summit, to live long in Ṛṣyamūka according to his nature, for even by killing Vāli, the gain of heaven was not his. He had not wished to harm Rāma nor acted against him, as the wise, great-souled one had told him. Rāma’s word was fitting, as was Sugrīva’s action, but he lamented, “How could a brother ever desire the death of his own brother, who possesses such great virtues, even when considering the pain of the kingdom, while being swayed by desire?” Sugrīva admitted he had not considered killing Vāli, for it would have violated his own greatness, but through the fault of his misguided mind, he committed this fatal transgression. Broken like a branch of a tree, he lay for a moment, lamenting, until Vāli comforted him and said, “You must not do this again.” By Vāli, brotherhood, nobility, and righteousness were upheld; by Sugrīva, anger, desire, and baseness were displayed. This act was unthinkable, to be avoided and examined by oneself. Sugrīva confessed to Rāma, “I have incurred this sin, O friend, by killing my brother, just as Indra did by slaying Tvaṣṭṛ’s son. The earth, the waters, the trees, and the women all accepted Indra’s sin; but who could bear this sin of mine, or wish to follow the path of the monkey who killed his brother?” He declared himself unworthy of honor from the people, of succession, and much less the kingdom, after committing such an unrighteous and family-destroying deed. He was the doer of a sinful, contemptible, and base act, condemned by the world. Great sorrow overwhelmed him like a torrent rushing into a hollow. Having struck down his own brother, Sugrīva’s hands, eyes, and head were stained by burning grief, this disease of sin assailing him like a maddened elephant at a riverbank. Sugrīva lamented, “Alas, this unbearable sin, O best of men, has destroyed my noble nature within; like gold, pale and burning in the fire, so too am I, O Rāghava. Because of me, O Rāghava, this whole clan of mighty monkey chiefs is afflicted; and I think that even Angada’s life now remains only half, consumed by grief and sorrow.” Thus, the city was plunged into mourning, and both Tārā and Sugrīva poured forth their grief, each bearing the heavy burden of loss and regret, as the mighty Vāli lay fallen, his glory undiminished even in death.