As the mighty Vāli lay fallen, struck down by the arrows of Rāma, the air was thick with sorrow and fear. One of the monkey chiefs urged Tara, Vāli’s devoted wife, to return while her son Angada still lived. “Protect Angada,” he pleaded. “Death, in the form of Rāma, has claimed Vāli and is carrying him away. Though Vāli hurled trees and massive rocks in battle, he was brought low by arrows as powerful as thunderbolts, as if Indra’s own weapon had felled him. Now, the great monkey army is scattered and defeated, for the tiger among monkeys, radiant as Indra himself, has been slain.” He continued, “Let the city be guarded 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 gentle one, if you wish to dwell elsewhere, let the monkeys retreat into the fortresses even today, for here dwell forest-roaming ones, both with and without wives. From those greedy and deceitful, we have great fear.” As these words were spoken, Tara, beautiful and dignified, replied with deep emotion. “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?” Overwhelmed by grief, she ran off, weeping bitterly, beating her head and chest in her sorrow. As she went, her eyes fell upon her husband, Vāli, lying lifeless on the ground—the slayer of demon lords, who had never turned away from battle. He, who once hurled mighty mountains as Indra does his thunderbolts, now seemed seized by a mighty wind, his roar silenced like thunderclouds after the storm. Equal in valor to Indra, he now lay fallen like a rain cloud spent, a hero struck down by a hero, the lion among beasts felled by a tiger for the sake of flesh. Once honored by all the world, with banners and platforms raised in his name, he now lay like a shrine destroyed by Garuda in pursuit of a serpent. There, Tara saw Rāma, holding his mighty bow, with Lakshmana at his side, and also Sugrīva, Vāli’s younger brother, standing nearby. Passing by them, Tara reached her husband, slain in battle, and, seeing him, collapsed to the ground in confusion. Rising again as if from a troubled sleep, she cried out, “Noble prince!” and wept upon seeing her beloved bound by the noose of death. Her cries, sharp and mournful like a curlew’s, pierced the hearts of those around her. Sugrīva, witnessing her anguish, was seized by intense sorrow, especially as he saw young Angada arrive. Let the next part of the tale be heard, as told in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa. Tara, beholding Vāli with a face like the moon, struck down by Rāma’s death-dealing arrow, approached her husband and embraced him, his body mighty as a great elephant. Her mind tormented by grief, Tara, like a creeper torn from its support, lamented over her husband, who resembled a great mountain. “O hero, mighty in battle, foremost among the vanaras,” she cried, “why do you not speak to me, who stands before you? Rise up, O tiger among the monkeys, and return to your excellent bed, for noble kings do not lie upon the ground like this. O lord of the earth, the ground is dear to you; even after your life has departed, you abandon me and seek her with your body. By your righteous conduct today, it is clear that the beautiful city of Kiṣkindhā has been fashioned upon the path to heaven.” She remembered their joyful days together: “Those delightful times we spent in the honey-scented forests, you and I—now you have brought them to an end. Devoid of joy and hope, I am plunged in an ocean of grief, now that you, the great leader of the mighty hosts, have met your end. My heart must be steadfast indeed, for though scorched by sorrow at seeing you fallen to the earth, it does not shatter into a thousand pieces today.” She recalled the cause of their misfortune: “Sugrīva’s wife was taken by you, and he was exiled; now, O lord of the monkeys, the retribution for that act has come upon you. Intent on your own welfare, you scorned me out of delusion, though I spoke words of good counsel, wishing only your good. Now, with your beauty, youth, and southern charm, you will no doubt stir the hearts of the Apsarases, O noble one.” She lamented the workings of fate: “Time, without doubt, is the ender of life; by its force, you have fallen under Sugrīva’s power, unable to resist. Having slain Vāli in battle, though he fought another, Rāma, descendant of Kakutstha, does not grieve, even after committing such a blameworthy deed.” Tara’s sorrow deepened: “Now, widowed and tormented by grief, I, once neither pitiable nor accustomed to suffering, will live on without support. And Angada, cherished and tender, used to comfort, will now live at the mercy of my desires, while his uncle is seized by wrath. O son, look upon your father, so noble and devoted to righteousness; but seeing him will be a rare thing for you, my child. Comfort your son and give him my message; kiss him on the head, for you are now setting out on your journey afar.” She then turned her words to Sugrīva: “Be content, Sugrīva; you will regain Rumā. Rule the kingdom without anxiety, for your brother, your enemy, is destroyed.” Her grief knew no bounds. “Why do you not answer me, your beloved, as I lament like this? Look at these splendid-armed women, your wives, O lord of the monkeys.” Hearing her lament, all the monkey women gathered around Angada, and, stricken with grief and misery, they wept aloud, their cries echoing through the forest as they mourned the passing of their mighty lord, Vāli.