He who once hurled great mountains as easily as Indra wields his thunderbolt was now, by the force of a mighty wind, cast down—his roar echoing like a mass of thunderous clouds. Equal in valor to Indra himself, this formidable hero, once the terror among those who roared, now lay fallen, like a rain cloud that has spent itself; a lion among beasts, struck down by another mighty hero, as a tiger slays a lion for its own need. Honored throughout the world, celebrated with banners and lofty platforms, he now resembled a sacred shrine destroyed by Garuda in his quest for a serpent. Tāra, his devoted wife, beheld Rama, standing firm with his great bow, and Lakshmana by his side, as well as her husband’s younger brother, Sugrīva, who stood nearby. Passing by them, Tāra reached her husband, slain upon the battlefield. Overcome with distress at the sight, she fell to the ground, confusion and grief overwhelming her. Rising again as if from a troubled sleep, she cried out, “Noble prince!” and, seeing her beloved bound by the noose of death, she wept bitterly. Her wailing, like the plaintive cry of a curlew, pierced the hearts of those around her. Sugrīva, hearing her lament, was seized by a deep sorrow, especially as Angada, the young prince, approached and beheld the scene. Thus begins the twentieth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa. There, Tāra saw Vāli, her husband with a face radiant like the moon, struck down by the deadly arrow released from Rāma’s bow. Approaching him, the luminous Tāra embraced Vāli, who resembled a fallen, mighty elephant, and grieved over him, her mind tormented, like a delicate creeper torn from its support. “O hero, mighty in battle, foremost among the vanaras,” she cried, “why do you not speak to me now, as I stand before you? Rise, O tiger among monkeys, and return to your noble bed; for such great kings do not lie upon the bare earth. O lord of the earth, it seems the ground is dearer to you than I; even in death, you abandon me and seek her embrace with your body. “By your righteous conduct, O hero, it is clear that the beautiful city of Kiṣkindhā has been fashioned upon the very path to heaven. The delightful days we spent together in honey-scented forests—you have brought them to an end. Stripped of joy and hope, I am plunged into an ocean of grief, now that you, the great leader of the mighty vanara hosts, have met your end. “My heart must indeed be steadfast, for though scorched by sorrow to see you fallen, it does not shatter into a thousand pieces. You took Sugrīva’s wife and exiled him; now, O lord of the monkeys, retribution for that act has come upon you. Intent on your own welfare, you scorned my counsel, though I spoke only for your good, O king of the monkeys. “O bestower of honor, surely, with your beauty and youth and southern charm, you will stir the hearts of the Apsarases in heaven. Time is the ender of all; by its force, you have fallen under Sugrīva’s power, unable to resist your fate. “Rāma, descendant of Kakutstha, has slain you in battle, though you fought another, and yet he does not grieve, even after committing such a blameworthy deed. Now, widowed and tormented by sorrow, I, who was once neither pitiable nor accustomed to suffering, must live on, bereft of support. And Angada, so cherished and tender, accustomed to comfort, will now live at the mercy of my will, while his uncle is seized by wrath. “O son, look upon your father, so noble and devoted to righteousness; but to see him will be rare for you, my child. Comfort your son, O lord, and give him my message; kiss him on the head, for now you set out on your journey afar. “Be content, Sugrīva; you will regain Rumā. Rule the kingdom without anxiety, for your brother and enemy is destroyed. Why do you not answer me, your beloved, as I lament so? Look upon these splendid-armed women, your wives, O lord of the monkeys.” Hearing Tāra’s lament, all the monkey women gathered around Angada, and, stricken with grief and misery, they wept aloud. “Why have you abandoned Angada, your heroic son, and gone away into exile for so long? It is not right to leave behind such a virtuous, dear, and handsome child. If, without thought, I have ever done anything displeasing to you, O long-armed one, forgive me for that, O lord of the monkey clan; I bow my head at your feet, O hero.” Then, surrounded by the other monkey women, Tāra, weeping pitifully by her husband’s side, resolved—flawless in beauty—to undertake a fast unto death there, beside Vāli’s fallen form. Thus ends the twentieth sarga of the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa. At that moment, Hanuman, chief among the monkeys, gently consoled Tāra, who lay fallen like a star from the heavens. “After death,” he said softly, “a being receives all good and bad results according to their own actions, born of virtue and fault, without confusion. You grieve for one who is to be grieved for, you pity the pitiable; but who truly deserves to be mourned, considering this body is but a bubble? “Think of this: Prince Angada is your living son. Consider what wise and capable actions you must take for his future. You know well the fixed coming and going of beings; therefore, the wise should do what is good, not merely what is worldly. He, for whom thousands and hundreds of thousands of monkeys waited in hope, has now reached his destined end.” And so, in the shadow of Vāli’s passing, grief and wisdom mingled, as the vanaras and their queens mourned, and the course of destiny moved ever onward.