As the dust of battle settled, I wiped your body, which was covered with the grime and blood of conflict, just as streams tinged with copper and red ochre flow down from a mountain. Tears streamed from her eyes as she beheld the valiant one—her husband—struck down by weapons, his entire form stained with blood. Overcome by grief at the sight of her slain husband, she drenched him with her sorrow. Turning to her son, Angada, whose eyes shone tawny with emotion, Tārā spoke in a trembling voice, “Behold, my son, the dreadful final state of your father.” She urged Angada, “Pay your respects to the king, your father, who is worthy of all honor.” At her words, Angada rose and gently took hold of his father’s feet. Embracing Vāli with his strong, rounded arms, he whispered, “It is I, Angada. As you once did, honor Angada now as he bows before you.” Tārā’s voice broke as she lamented, “Why do you not say, ‘May you live long, my son’? I, with my son beside me, serve you, though your consciousness has departed, struck down suddenly as a cow with her calf is felled by a bull.” She mourned, “Having performed the sacrificial battle, purified by the waters of Rāma’s weapons, and bathed in the concluding rite, how can you be without me, your wife?” She searched his form, longing to see the beloved golden garland, a gift from the king of the gods, which had pleased him so in battle, and wondered why it was not there. Yet, even in death, the glory of kingship did not abandon the dignified Vāli, just as the radiance of the sun does not leave the mountain king at sunset. “My words have not been heeded by you, nor could I restrain you,” Tārā wept. “I am slain, along with my son, by your death in battle; with you, all prosperity departs from me as well.” Now begins the next chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, the twenty-fourth of the Kiṣkindhā section. Overwhelmed by the immense tide of grief, Tārā was swiftly overtaken by sorrow. Witnessing her anguish, Vāli’s younger brother, Sugrīva, swift to act, was tormented by the unparalleled loss of his brother. His face wet with tears, his mind for a moment disheartened, the thoughtful Sugrīva slowly approached Rāma, who stood surrounded by his attendants, deeply afflicted. When Sugrīva reached Rāma, who held a bow and arrows like deadly serpents and whose limbs bore the marks of greatness, he addressed Rāghava: “As you promised, O king, you have acted, and the deed has yielded its result. Now, O son of kings, my mind is withdrawn from all pleasures, for my life is as good as ended.” “With this queen weeping bitterly, lamenting loudly in the city, tormented by grief, the king slain, and Angada lost in doubt, O Rāma, I find no delight in the kingdom. Out of anger, intolerance, and excessive outrage, I once permitted my brother’s death. Now, with the leader of the monkeys slain, O best of Ikṣvākus, I suffer intensely.” “I think it better now to dwell at the mountain’s summit, to live in Ṛṣyamūka as I may, according to my own nature; for even by killing him, I have no share in heaven. 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.” “How could a brother ever desire the death of his own brother, who possesses such virtues, even considering the pains of kingship and being swayed by desire? Truly, I did not consider killing him, for it would have violated my own greatness; but because of my misguided mind, I committed this fatal sin.” “Broken like a branch from a tree, I lay for a moment in sorrow; then he comforted me, saying, ‘You must not do this again.’ He upheld brotherhood, nobility, and righteousness; I displayed anger, desire, and baseness. This act is unthinkable, to be avoided and not wished for, and to be examined by oneself. 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 my sin, or wish to follow the path of the monkey who killed his brother? I am not worthy of honor from the people, nor of succession, much less the kingdom, O Rāghava, after such an unrighteous and family-destroying deed.” “I am the doer of a sinful, contemptible, and base act, condemned by the world; great sorrow overwhelms me, like a torrent rushing into a hollow. Having struck down my own brother, with my hands, eyes, and head stained by this burning grief, this disease of sin assails me like a maddened elephant attacks a riverbank. Alas, this unbearable sin, O best of men, has destroyed my noble nature within; like gold, pale and burning in the fire, so am I, O Rāghava.” “Because of me, O Rāghava, this whole clan of mighty monkey chiefs is afflicted; and I think even Angada’s life now remains only half, consumed by grief and sorrow. A son may be easily found, a good and obedient one; but where could there be a son like Angada? Nor, O hero, is there any land where one could have a brother so close.” “Today, the heroic Angada will not live; his mother will survive only for his protection. But without her son, stricken with grief, she surely will not live—this I know for certain. Therefore, I shall enter the blazing fire, wishing for the company of my brother and my son; these foremost monkeys will search for Sītā, ever revolving around your command. Your task will surely be accomplished, O prince, even after I am gone; but know me, who have committed this offense and am unworthy to live, as the destroyer of my lineage, O Rāma.” At that moment, as Sugrīva looked again and again, Rāma—patient as the earth and protector of the world—saw Tārā, plunged in grief and weeping, and became anxious. The ministers and chief counselors, seeing Tārā, beautiful-eyed and queen of the monkey-lion, embracing her husband’s lifeless form, gently raised her, though her spirit was utterly dejected. As she was being lifted and led away from her husband’s side, Tārā, struggling, saw Rāma, holding his bow and arrows, shining with his own splendor like the blazing sun. He, whose eyes were beautiful like those of a deer, whose body bore all the marks of a great king, and who had never before been seen, was recognized by Kakutstha as a foremost among men. Overwhelmed with grief, Tārā quickly approached that one who was like Indra, difficult to face, and of great might. Coming before him, her spirit pure though her body trembled with sorrow, the wise Tārā spoke to Rāma, who had attained his aim through prowess in battle.