As Vāli, the mighty monkey king, lay wounded and weakened by Rāma’s arrows, Rāma himself approached him with words full of dharma, compassion, and wisdom—words that were admired by the virtuous and grounded in righteousness. Gently, Rāma sought to comfort Vāli, whose mind remained clear despite his pain. “Do not let sorrow trouble you, O noble monkey,” Rāma said. “You need not grieve for us, nor should you grieve for yourself. In all this, we have acted with firm resolve, guided by dharma.” He continued, “He who punishes the guilty and the one who receives punishment—both, having fulfilled the purpose and cause of their actions, should not be sorrowful. By receiving your due punishment, you are freed from sin and have returned to your own righteous nature through the path of justice. Cast aside grief, delusion, and fear from your heart, O foremost of monkeys. The ordained order cannot be transgressed by you.” Rāma then reminded Vāli, “Just as Angada is always devoted to you, O lord of monkeys, so too should Sugrīva be devoted to me. Of this, there is no doubt.” Hearing these words—so sweet, thoughtful, and righteous—Vāli, the great warrior, mustered his strength to reply. “When, distressed by arrows, I spoke to you in ignorance, O lord, you—whose might is like Indra’s and whose valor is terrifying—have now been appeased. Forgive me, O king.” As the story continues in the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Vāli, though reasoned with and comforted, gave no further reply. His limbs, battered by stones and struck by trees, now overwhelmed by Rāma’s arrows, failed him. At the end of his life, Vāli lost consciousness. Meanwhile, Tāra, Vāli’s beloved wife, heard the dreadful news: her husband, the tiger among monkeys, had been slain in battle by Rāma’s arrow. Overcome with grief, she rushed from the mountain cave, her son Angada at her side, both stricken by the cruel loss. The mighty monkeys who served Angada, terrified by the sight of Rāma with his bow, scattered in all directions, fleeing like deer whose leader had been killed. Seeing the frightened, fleeing monkeys, Tāra—herself grieving—approached them and called out, “You, who were the foremost followers of the lion among kings, why do you abandon him now and flee in terror and distress?” She wondered aloud if, for the sake of the kingdom, a brother had struck down his own kin with Rāma’s far-flying arrows. The monkeys, who could assume any form at will, replied to her with timely words: “Return while your son still lives; protect Angada. Death, in the form of Rāma, has taken Vāli away. Though Vāli hurled trees and massive rocks, he was struck down by arrows as hard as thunderbolts, as if felled by Indra’s own weapon. Our entire monkey army has been scattered now that the tiger among monkeys, radiant as Indra, has been slain. Let heroes protect the city, and let Angada be installed as prince; the monkeys will serve Vāli’s son, who stands in his father’s place. Or, if you wish, let the monkeys quickly enter the fortresses for safety. Here dwell many, both with and without wives, and from the greedy and deceitful among them, we have great fear.” Hearing these words, Tāra, standing close by, replied with sorrow and dignity, “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, her heart overwhelmed by grief, Tāra ran off, weeping, striking her head and chest in her sorrow. As she went, she saw her husband fallen on the ground—the slayer of demon lords, the hero who never turned away in battle. He, who once hurled great mountains like Indra casts his thunderbolts, now lay silent, his might subdued, roaring no more, like a great cloud spent of its rain. Once honored by all the world, Vāli now resembled a shrine destroyed by Garuda in pursuit of a serpent. Tāra saw Rāma, holding his mighty bow, Lakṣmaṇa standing nearby, and also her husband’s younger brother. Passing by them, she reached her husband, slain in battle. Overwhelmed, she fell to the ground in confusion. Rising again as if from a troubled sleep, she cried out, “Noble prince!” and wept bitterly upon seeing her husband bound by the noose of death. Her wailing, sharp and sorrowful like a curlew’s cry, stirred deep grief in Sugrīva, especially when he saw Angada arrive. In the twentieth sarga of the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa, Tāra beheld Vāli, his face like the moon, struck down by Rāma’s death-dealing arrow. Approaching her husband, the radiant Tāra embraced him, who resembled a great elephant, now fallen. Tormented by grief, she, like a creeper torn from its support, lamented over the mighty monkey king, who had resembled a great mountain in his strength and glory.