Vali, the mighty son of Indra, adorned with a golden garland, broad-chested and strong-armed, his face radiant and his eyes fierce as a lion's, now lay fallen upon the earth. His once-glorious form was stilled, like a fire whose flames had died away. Rama, accompanied by his devoted brother Lakshmana, beheld the fallen hero and approached him with gentle steps, full of respect for the vanquished king. As Rama and Lakshmana, both renowned for their valor, drew near, Vali saw them. Though his strength was spent and his senses dimmed, like a demon defeated, Vali's spirit remained unbroken. He spoke to Rama—his words sharp, yet not bereft of courtesy or righteousness. With pride in his prowess and the heat of battle still in his heart, Vali questioned Rama, his voice edged with pain and reason. "You, famed and pleasing to the eye, son of the lord of men," Vali began, "what virtue have you gained by slaying one who was turned away? I, enraged in battle, have met my end at your hands. The world praises you as compassionate, steadfast in your vows, and a keeper of agreements. All beings speak of your fame, Rama, as one who upholds self-control, patience, righteousness, fortitude, truth, and valor—the virtues of kings. It is also said that a king must punish wrongdoers." Vali continued, "Because of your reputation and noble lineage, I was restrained by Tara’s wise counsel, yet I went forth to meet Sugriva. I never thought you would strike me, especially when I was unprepared and distracted by another. Such a thought never crossed my mind, for I did not see you. Now, I see a contradiction in you, Rama: you are famed as a banner of righteousness, yet your deed is unrighteous; you are like a well covered with grass, hiding danger beneath a fair surface." His voice grew more sorrowful and accusing. "You appear virtuous, but your actions are hidden like fire, and I cannot recognize the true you, concealed by a pretense of dharma. I have never wronged you in your kingdom or city. I am a forest-dweller, living on fruits and roots, not fighting you, but engaged with another. Why then have you slain me, innocent of any offense against you? You, son of the lord of men, bear all the marks of righteousness, visible to all. What man born in a warrior’s line, learned and free of doubt, would commit such a cruel act, hiding behind the signs of virtue?" Vali’s words pressed on. "You are born in the Raghava lineage, renowned for upholding righteousness. Why then do you, who appear so noble, act in a manner unworthy of your heritage? Conciliation, generosity, forbearance, righteousness, truth, steadfastness, and valor—these are the virtues of kings, as is punishing the wicked. But we are forest-dwellers, Rama, living on roots, fruits, and meat. This is our way, while you are a prince among men. What greed could you have for my forest fruits? Land, gold, women, and causes for conflict—these are the desires of men, but not here." He reasoned further, "A king’s duties are discipline, self-restraint, punishment, and favor—royal conduct is not tainted by desire. Yet you are led by desire, quick to anger, unstable, and devoted to the bow and arrow. You do not respect righteousness, nor is your mind fixed on wealth; ruled by your senses and desires, you are swayed, O lord of men. Having killed me, though I am without fault, what will you say among the virtuous, having committed such a shameful deed?" Vali’s voice grew heavy with the weight of condemnation. "A king-slayer, a brahmin-killer, a slayer of cows, a thief, one intent on killing living beings, an atheist, and one who violates another’s wife—all these go to hell. Tale-bearers, misers, betrayers of friends, those who violate the teacher’s bed—these evil-hearted ones go to ruin, there is no doubt. My skin, hair, and bones are not to be accepted by the virtuous, nor is my flesh to be eaten by the righteous like you. Five creatures with five claws are permitted as food for brahmins and kshatriyas, O Raghava: the porcupine, the hedgehog, the iguana, the hare, and the tortoise. Wise men do not touch my skin or bones, nor do they eat my flesh—yet I, a five-clawed being, have been slain." A sense of regret colored Vali’s words. "Tara, ever wise and true, warned me for my own good, but overcome by delusion, I have fallen under the sway of fate. With you as protector, O Kakutstha, the earth is not truly protected—like a virtuous woman with an unworthy husband. Deceitful, treacherous, base, and falsely humble in mind—how could you, a sinner, be born of the great-souled Dasharatha? Having broken the bounds of good conduct, transgressing the righteousness of the virtuous, and having cast aside the goad of dharma, I am slain by Rama, the elephant among men." He pressed his challenge further. "If, after doing such an improper and inauspicious act, condemned by the virtuous, you speak of it among the good, what will you say? This display of valor you have shown against us, who are neutral—I do not see you showing such courage against those who have truly wronged you. If you had fought me openly in battle, O prince, you would see the god Vaivasvata today, slain by me in combat. But I, formidable as I am, have been killed by you while unseen, just as a man under the sway of evil is struck by a serpent while asleep." Vali’s tone softened, tinged with regret and sorrow. "If, out of affection for Sugriva, you have killed me, you should have told me your purpose. In a single day, I would have brought back Maithilī for you. I would have bound that wicked Rākṣasa, the abductor of your wife, around the neck and delivered Rāvaṇa to you alive on the battlefield. Even if Maithilī were hidden in the waters of the ocean or in the netherworld, at your command I would have brought her back to you, like a white she-mule." Thus, as Vali lay fallen, his words—full of pain, accusation, reason, and regret—flowed forth to Rama, questioning the prince’s righteousness and the justice of his actions, even as his own life ebbed away.