Though heaven itself and dominion over the earth could have been mine by following your counsel, I, disregarding even Tāra’s earnest pleas, willfully sought my own end at your hands. Thus did I, Vāli, enter single combat with my brother Sugrīva. Having spoken these words to Rāma, the mighty lord of the monkeys fell silent. Rāma, whose words were ever in harmony with dharma and approved by the virtuous, then sought to comfort Vāli, whose understanding remained clear even in that fateful hour. “Do not be troubled by this, O monkey,” Rāma said gently. “Let there be no grief from you for us, nor for yourself, noble Vāli. In this matter, we have acted with firm resolve, upholding dharma. He who punishes the guilty and the one who is punished—both, having fulfilled the purpose of their actions, need not grieve. By receiving your due punishment, you are freed from sin and have returned to your own righteous nature, treading the path of justice. Cast aside grief, delusion, and the fear that lingers in your heart, for, foremost among monkeys, none can transgress the order that has been ordained. As Angada is ever devoted to you, O lord of the monkeys, so too must Sugrīva be devoted to me—of this, there is no doubt.” Hearing these sweet, thoughtful, and righteous words from the great-souled Rāma, Vāli, the monkey warrior skilled in battle, spoke again, his words carefully chosen: “When, wounded by arrows, I spoke to you in ignorance, O lord—whose might rivals Indra’s and whose valor is terrifying—you have now been appeased. Forgive me, O king.” Now, let the next chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa, be heard. The mighty monkey king, Vāli, lay wounded by arrows. Though addressed with words of reason, he gave no reply. His limbs, battered by stones and struck by trees, were now overwhelmed by Rāma’s arrows; at the end of his life, he lost consciousness. Tāra, hearing that her husband—the tiger among monkeys—had been slain in battle by Rāma’s arrow, was overcome with grief. With her son by her side, she rushed out from the mountain cave, her heart shattered by the cruel news of her beloved’s death. The mighty monkeys who served Angada, seeing Rāma standing with his bow, were seized with terror and fled in all directions. Tāra saw the frightened monkeys scattering like deer whose leader has been killed. Approaching those sorrowful ones, she, herself stricken with grief, addressed the monkeys who fled in fear of Rāma, their ranks broken by arrows. “You who were the foremost followers of the lion among kings—why do you abandon him now, fleeing in terror and distress?” she cried. “If, for the sake of the kingdom, a brother has been struck down by his own brother, with Rāma’s far-flying arrows—” Hearing the words of the monkey’s wife, the monkeys, who could assume any form they wished, spoke to her with timely and appropriate words: “Return while your son still lives; protect Angada. Death, in the form of Rāma, has slain Vāli and is carrying him away. Though he hurled trees and massive rocks, Vāli was struck down by arrows as hard as thunderbolts, as if felled by Indra’s own weapon. Our entire army has been overcome and scattered, now that the tiger among monkeys, radiant as Indra, has been slain. Let the city be protected by heroes, and let Angada be installed as prince; the monkeys will serve Vāli’s son, who stands in his father’s place. Or, O lovely-faced one, if you wish to dwell elsewhere, let the monkeys quickly enter the fortresses even today. Here dwell forest-roaming ones, both with and without wives; from those greedy and deceitful ones, we have great fear.” Hearing these words, Tāra, standing very near, replied in a manner befitting herself: “What use have I for a son, or even for the kingdom itself, when my husband, the lion among monkeys, the greatly fortunate one, is lost?” Having spoken thus, she ran off, weeping, overcome by grief, striking her head and chest with her arms in her sorrow. As she went, she saw her husband fallen on the ground—the slayer of the lords of demons, who never turned from battle. He who once hurled great mountains as Indra does his thunderbolts now lay seized by a mighty wind, roaring like a mass of great clouds. Equal in valor to Indra, now fallen like a spent rain cloud, he—the terrible one among those who roar, the hero struck down by a hero—was like a lion among beasts felled by a tiger for the sake of flesh. Once honored by all the world, with banners and platforms, he now seemed like a shrine destroyed by Garuda for the sake of a serpent. She saw Rāma, holding his mighty bow, and Lakṣmaṇa, and also her husband’s younger brother, standing nearby. Passing by them, she reached her husband, slain in battle. Seeing him, her heart broken, she fell to the ground in confusion. Rising again as if from sleep, crying out, “Noble prince!” she wept upon seeing her husband bound by the noose of death. Her wailing, like that of a curlew, reached Sugrīva, who was seized by intense sorrow, especially upon seeing Angada, the son of Vāli, arrive. Now let the twentieth sarga be heard. In the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa, the twentieth sarga begins: Tāra, seeing Vāli—his face radiant as the moon—struck down on the ground by the death-dealing arrow released from Rāma’s bow, beheld her beloved husband, and grief overwhelmed her.