Sugrīva, standing before Rāma, spoke with concern and candor. “Here, O Rāghava, it is impossible to discern whose strength is greater—yours or Vāli’s. The difference between something fresh and something dried is truly immense. That is my very doubt, dear friend: if you were to split a single sāl tree, then the difference between strength and weakness would become clear. Therefore, string your bow, stretching it like an elephant’s trunk; draw it fully to your ear and let loose a mighty arrow. If you shoot this sāl tree, there is no doubt it will be pierced. Enough of deliberation, my dear—certainly do this, O king, for I have pledged you. Just as you are foremost among the radiant, as Himālaya is among great mountains, and as the lion is chief among four-legged beasts, so are you the best among men in valor.” Now begins the twelfth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa. Hearing Sugrīva’s well-spoken words, Rāma, resplendent and resolute, took up his bow to inspire confidence in his friend. The giver of honor grasped his formidable bow and a single arrow, and, aiming at the sāl tree, released the shaft. Its sound filled all directions. The arrow, adorned with gold and released with great force, pierced through not just one but seven sāl trees, then through the mountain slope, and entered the earth itself. In a mere moment, that swift arrow, having accomplished its astonishing task, emerged from the earth and returned into Rāma’s quiver. Witnessing the seven sāl trees split asunder by the force of Rāma’s arrow, Sugrīva, the foremost of monkeys, was filled with utter wonder. Overjoyed, his ornaments swinging, Sugrīva bowed low to the earth, joining his palms in reverence to Rāghava. Delighted by this marvelous deed, he spoke joyfully to Rāma, the knower of righteousness and master of all weapons, who stood there as a true hero. “O best of men,” Sugrīva exclaimed, “with your arrows, you could defeat even all the gods together with Indra in battle—what need to speak of Vāli, O lord? O descendant of Kakutstha, you who split seven great sāl trees, the mountain, and the earth with a single arrow—who could possibly stand before you in battle? Today, my sorrow is gone, and my joy is supreme, for I have found you, my friend, equal to Mahendra and Varuṇa. Today itself, for the sake of your dear friend, O descendant of Kakutstha, slay that enemy who appears as a brother—Vāli. With joined palms, I beseech you.” Rāma then spoke: “Let us now proceed swiftly to Kiṣkindhā; you go ahead. Upon arrival, summon Sugrīva and Vāli, who bears the scent of brotherhood.” Without delay, all of them hurried to Kiṣkindhā, the city of Vāli, and, concealing themselves with trees, stood in the dense forest. For the purpose of calling Vāli, Sugrīva let out a dreadful roar, so forceful and intense that it split the sky with its speed. Hearing his brother’s thunderous call, Vāli, mighty and enraged, leapt out, fiercely agitated, like the sun rising from the western horizon. At once, a tumultuous battle erupted between Vāli and Sugrīva, fierce in the sky, like the dreadful clash of Mercury and Mars. With blows like slaps and belts, and fists as hard as thunderbolts, the two brothers, overcome by wrath, struck each other mightily. Rāma, holding his bow, watched them both intently. Both heroes were so alike, as if they were the twin Ashvins among the gods. Because Rāghava could not distinguish Sugrīva from Vāli, he refrained from releasing his deadly arrow. Meanwhile, Sugrīva was defeated by Vāli and, unable to see Rāghava for support, fled toward Rishyamūka. Exhausted, his body drenched in blood and battered by blows, he was pursued by Vāli in anger and entered the great forest. Seeing Sugrīva enter the forest, Vāli, mindful of the curse upon him, declared, “You are freed,” and withdrew, mighty as he was. Rāghava, together with his brother and Hanuman, went to that very forest where Sugrīva had taken refuge. Seeing Rāma arrive with Lakṣmaṇa, Sugrīva, ashamed and dejected, gazed at the earth and spoke these words: “Having called me, shown your prowess, and promised to slay the enemy, what have you now accomplished? At this very moment, you must tell me the truth, O Rāghava: why did you not slay Vāli? Otherwise, I will not remain here.” As great-souled Sugrīva spoke, his voice full of sorrow and distress, Rāghava replied gently: “Sugrīva, listen, dear friend, and set your anger aside. I shall explain the reason why I did not release my arrow. In ornament, attire, stature, and gait, you and Vāli, O Sugrīva, are so alike. In voice, radiance, glance, valor, and speech, O monkey, I could discern no distinction between you two. Therefore, O foremost of monkeys, bewildered by your resemblance, I did not release the swift arrow that destroys enemies. Because of your similarity, I hesitated to let loose the dreadful arrow that ends life, lest it strike the root of both of you. If you, O hero, had perished through my ignorance, then my folly and childishness would be exposed, O lord of monkeys. To slay one who has been granted safety is a great and wondrous sin; and I, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā of noble complexion—” Thus, Rāma reassured Sugrīva, explaining his restraint and his unwavering commitment to righteousness and friendship.