When Vāli fell in battle, his wife and his kin were overcome with inconsolable grief. Tara, his queen, was seized by the overwhelming force of sorrow, as if she were drowning in a great ocean of despair. Sugrīva, Vāli’s younger brother, swift in action but now tormented by the unparalleled loss of his brother, witnessed her suffering and was himself plunged into the depths of anguish. Tears streaming down his face, Sugrīva’s mind faltered for a moment. With heavy steps, he approached Rāma, who stood surrounded by his companions, his mighty bow and arrows at his side, his form marked with the signs of greatness. Sugrīva addressed Rāma with a heart weighed down by remorse: “O king, you have fulfilled your promise, and the deed has borne its result. But now, O son of the king, my mind is turned away from all pleasures—for with Vāli’s death, my life too has ended.” He spoke of the kingdom, now echoing with the bitter laments of Tara, who wept openly in the city, and of Angada, Vāli’s son, whose fate was uncertain. “O Rāma, with the king slain and Angada lost in doubt, my mind finds no joy in the kingdom. In my anger and outrage, I once permitted my brother’s death. Now, with the leader of the monkeys gone, I am consumed by suffering.” Sugrīva confessed that he now wished only to dwell in seclusion on the summit of Ṛṣyamūka, far from the world and its temptations, for even the slaying of his brother brought him no heavenly reward. “I never wished you harm, nor did I act against you—this, the great-souled Rāma told me, and his words are true. But how could a brother ever desire the death of his own brother, one so virtuous, even for the sake of a kingdom?” He lamented, “I never truly considered killing him; that would have been a betrayal of my own nature. Yet, blinded by a misguided mind, I committed this fatal sin. Like a broken branch, I fell and mourned, but Vāli comforted me, telling me not to grieve further. In him, there was brotherhood, nobility, and righteousness; in me, only anger and desire.” Sugrīva compared his sin to that of Indra, who bore the guilt of slaying Tvaṣṭṛ’s son—a burden so great that the earth, the waters, the trees, and the women each took a share of it. “But who,” he asked, “could bear the sin of a brother who slays his own kin? I am unworthy of honor, succession, or the kingdom, having committed such an unrighteous act.” Overwhelmed by sorrow, Sugrīva likened his grief to a torrent flooding a hollow. “Having struck down my own brother, I am assailed by this burning grief, this disease of sin, like a maddened elephant attacking a riverbank. This unbearable burden has destroyed my noble nature, leaving me pale and scorched, like gold in the fire. Because of me, the entire clan of monkey chiefs is afflicted, and even Angada’s life, I fear, is now only half, consumed by grief.” He lamented the loss of such a son as Angada, and the impossibility of finding a brother as dear as Vāli. “Today, Angada will not survive, and his mother will live only to protect him. But without her son, stricken by grief, she too will not endure. Therefore, I will enter the blazing fire, seeking reunion with my brother and my son. The foremost monkeys will continue to search for Sītā, ever devoted to your command, O Rāma. Your task will be accomplished, but know me as the destroyer of my lineage, unworthy to live.” As Sugrīva’s grief poured forth, Rāma, patient and steadfast as the earth, protector of the world, observed Tara, who was being gently raised by the ministers and chief counselors from her husband’s side. Though utterly dejected, she clung to Vāli’s body, her spirit broken. As she was led away, Tara caught sight of Rāma, radiant with his bow and arrows, shining with the splendor of the sun. With eyes beautiful as a deer’s and a kingly bearing, Rāma was recognized by her as a foremost among men. Tara, overwhelmed by grief, approached him—he who was like Indra, mighty and difficult to face. Though her body was shaken by sorrow, her spirit remained pure. Standing before Rāma, Tara spoke with wisdom and pain: “You are immeasurable, difficult to oppose, self-controlled, supremely righteous, your fame undiminished. You are discerning, patient as the earth, and your eyes are bloodshot like those wounded in battle. Armed with bow and arrows, you are mighty and well-built; though you appear in human form, you possess a divine body.” She pleaded, “With the very arrow by which you slew my beloved, strike me as well. Slain, I will go to his side, for Vāli will find no joy without me, O hero. Even in heaven, Vāli will know grief and pallor without me, just as you, separated from Sītā, would find no joy on the beautiful slopes of the mountains. You know, O prince, the pain of being deprived of one’s beloved—knowing this, slay me, so that Vāli may not suffer my absence.” Tara continued, “If you think, O great soul, that killing a woman is a sin, know that I am his own; so strike me, for in this case, the slaying of a woman would not apply to you. According to the scriptures and the Vedas, a man’s wives are not separate from himself; among the wise, no gift is greater than the giving of a wife. Thus, by giving me, his beloved, to him, you will act righteously, and not incur sin from my death.” Finally, Tara, her heart broken, said, “But you should not kill me—afflicted, helpless, and being led away in this state. O king, I will not live long without that wise bull among the monkeys, who once roamed the groves of Matanga, adorned with golden garlands.” Thus, in the shadow of Vāli’s fall, grief and lamentation filled the air, as Tara and Sugrīva poured out their hearts before Rāma, each seeking solace in the face of unbearable loss.