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The sorrow in Tara’s eyes that day was the shadow of an eclipse sliding across a full moon. She tried to hold her husband back, and Vali answered her sharply. “Go home with your companions,” he said. “Why do you keep following me? The devotion and love you have shown me are enough. O lovely-faced one, tell me, for what reason should I swallow this younger brother’s roar, this open enmity? For a hero, to bear the arrogance of an enemy is worse than death, my timid one. I will go and fight Sugriva. Set your fears aside. I will grind his pride to dust, and I will leave him his life. Battered by trees and by the blows of my fists, he will turn and run of his own accord.” And she need feel no misgiving about Rama, he told her, for a man who knows what is right and reveres his duty could never stoop to a sin. Then, swearing her by his own life, he told her to turn back.
Vali goes forth to the field
Speaking loving words, Tara embraced him, and weeping softly she walked slowly around him, keeping him on her right, in the old gesture of farewell. Then, learned in the sacred texts and longing for his victory, she performed the Swastyayana, the rite of good fortune in which boiled rice is scattered on the ground and blessings are invoked with the appointed mantras, and, dumbstruck with grief, she withdrew into the inner apartments with the other women.
The moment Tara had gone in, Vali came out of the city hissing like a great angry serpent. Filled with towering rage and moving at tremendous speed, he swept his gaze all around, hunting for his enemy. Then the glorious Vali saw Sugriva, reddish-brown as gold, girded tight, planted firm on his feet, and glowing like fire. Seeing his brother standing so, ready and unafraid, the long-armed Vali, in a black fury, drew his loincloth tight.
Cinched tight and full of vigor, glad to have his chance for a fight, Vali raised his fist and made straight for Sugriva. Sugriva too came on with great force, the golden chain about his neck, his own fist clenched and aimed at his raging brother. To Sugriva, his eyes red with anger, skilled in the art of war, rushing in at speed, Vali said, “This great fist of mine is bound tight, its fingers set just so; when I fling it at you with force, it will come back to me only after it has taken your life.” At that the enraged Sugriva answered, “Then let this fist of mine fall on your head and take yours in the same instant.”
The savage duel of the two brothers
Struck by Vali’s blow, the enraged Sugriva spat blood like a mountain split by lightning and stood streaming like a cliff with a waterfall. Then, fearless, Sugriva tore a sal tree up by the roots and brought it down on Vali’s body with all his strength, as a thunderbolt comes down on a great mountain. Crushed under the weight of the tree and reeling from the sal’s blow, Vali swayed like a ship in the open sea, weighed down by a heavy cargo and crowded with passengers.
The two brothers were of terrible strength and prowess, swift as Garuda, dreadful of body, each searching out the other’s weak point, and in the sky they looked like the sun and the moon. Then Vali, rich in strength and valor, gained the upper hand, and Sugriva, son of the sun and great in might though he was, began to fail. His pride shattered, his strength ebbing, burning with resentment against Vali, Sugriva threw a signal toward Raghava. Again and again the two of them fought with trees and their branches, with claws as sharp as ten million thunderbolts, with fists, knees, feet, and arms, a grim war like the war of Vritra and Indra. Soaked in blood, roaring their challenges, the two monkeys clashed like a pair of storm-clouds.
A key to reading this (the vajra): The vajra is Indra’s thunderbolt. Valmiki reaches for it again and again because Vali is Indra’s son and Sugriva the son of the sun. Both brothers are the children of divine fathers, and so their fight is bound up with the natural images of clouds, sun, moon, and lightning.
Rama’s arrow from behind the tree
Raghava watched Sugriva weakening and casting his eyes toward the horizon again and again. Seeing the lord of monkeys in distress, the mighty Rama looked to his arrow for the killing of Vali. He set to the bow the shaft that was venomous as a serpent and drew the great bow to its full curve, the way the Ender lifts the wheel of Time at the close of the ages. At the twang of the bowstring the finest of the birds flew up in terror, and the deer, dazed as if the world were ending, scattered every way.
Loosed with a crack like thunder, blazing like a flash of lightning, the great arrow flew from Raghava’s bow and struck Vali full in the chest. Struck with that force, the mighty and valiant lord of monkeys crashed to the earth. The best of men had loosed that fine shaft, worked with gold and silver, as Shiva once loosed the smoking fire from his forehead to burn Kamadeva to ash.
Like the staff raised in Indra’s honor on the full-moon day of Ashvina and then let fall, Vali dropped to the earth, drained of splendor and past all sense, his throat locked with tears, slowly moaning in pain. Bathed in streams of blood and water, like a flowering ashoka torn up by a storm, Indra’s son sank senseless to the ground.
A sub-tale: The Gita Press commentary traces the image of the Ashvina full-moon staff to a regional custom. In Bengal, at a festival on the full-moon day of the month of Ashvina, a staff is raised in Indra’s honor and, when the rite ends, let fall. Valmiki’s figure of the flag lifted all at once and all at once brought down comes alive from that scene.
The gist: Ignoring Tara’s warning, Vali went down to the field, and a brutal fist-fight followed with Sugriva. When Vali began to prevail and Sugriva, failing, threw his signal, Rama loosed an arrow from behind a tree and it struck Vali in the chest. Vali fell, yet by the power of the golden chain Indra had given him, his life had not yet left him.
Vali’s question to Rama, still asked today
Pierced by Rama’s arrow, Vali, hard as iron in a fight, dropped all at once like a felled tree. His limbs lay flat on the ground, and adorned in his ornaments of burnished gold he looked like a flagstaff whose cord had been slackened. Even where he lay, neither grace nor life nor energy nor prowess left the body of that great soul. The fine, jewel-set golden chain that Indra had given him held his life, his energy, and his grace in place. His chain, his body, and the arrow buried in his vitals, the three of them shone as though his splendor had been parceled into three.
With Lakshmana beside him, Rama looked on Indra’s son Vali, hung with the golden chain, broad of chest, long of arm, radiant of face, tawny of eye. Formidable as the great Indra and hard to withstand as Upendra, the Dwarf, Vali lay on the field like a fire gone smokeless, like Yayati cast down from the world of the gods when his merit was spent, like the sun flung to the earth by Time at the dissolution of the ages. The two brothers came near him slowly. Seeing Rama and the mighty Lakshmana, Vali spoke words that were harsh and yet courteous, and in keeping with dharma.
“You are the son of a king,” he said, “renowned, and pleasing to look upon. By killing a man who was not facing you, what merit have you won in this world, when I was locked in combat with another and met my death at your hands? All beings say that Rama is nobly born, full of goodness, radiant, a keeper of vows, tender to the suffering, devoted to the good of the people, one who knows the right hour and holds firm to his word. It was because I trusted these very virtues, and your high lineage, that I fought Sugriva even though Tara forbade it. The belief had settled in me that, until I had laid eyes on you, you would never strike me down while I was busy with another and off my guard.
“Now I know you for what you are: a man who acts against his own conscience, who carries the banner of dharma and is faithless beneath it, foul in his conduct, treacherous as a well hidden under a mat of grass. I did not read you as sin wearing a holy man’s dress, as a fire buried under a mask of piety. I did no wrong in your realm or your city, and I never slighted you. Why then have you killed me, a guiltless creature of the woods who lives on fruit and roots, who was not fighting you and was grappling with another?
“Restraint of the senses, restraint of the mind, forgiveness, dharma, fortitude, truth, valor, and the punishing of wrongdoers, these are the virtues of kings, O king. We are creatures of the forest, beasts that eat roots and fruit; such is our nature. You are a man who lives in a city. Land, gold, and silver are the grounds men quarrel over; what greed could you have had for the fruit of my forest? Sound policy and humility, restraint and grace, these are the parts of a king’s conduct; kings do not move at the whim of desire. Having killed me with your guiltless arrow, what will you say when you stand among good men? The killer of a king, the killer of a Brahmin, the killer of a cow, the thief, the man who delights in taking life, the unbeliever, and the man who marries before his elder brother, all of these go to hell.
“My skin is not fit for the dharma-keeping to wear, nor my hair, nor my bones; my flesh is not fit to eat. For a Brahmin and a Kshatriya, only five kinds of five-clawed creatures may be eaten: the rhinoceros, the porcupine, the iguana, the hare, and, fifth, the turtle. I am a five-clawed beast, and I have been killed for nothing. Tara spoke to me words that were true and good for me; overstepping them in my delusion, I have fallen under the sway of Death. Had you but set me to this task at the start, I would have brought back your Maithili in a single day, and I would have looped a cord around the neck of the wicked Ravana and handed him to you alive, without killing him. Even a Sita hidden in the waters of the sea or in the underworld I would have carried back, as Hayagriva carried back the Vedas that were kept in the form of the mare.
“It is fitting that Sugriva should have the kingdom once I go to heaven; but it is not fitting that you should have killed me unrighteously while I was fighting another. Men come to their death by Time in any case, and for that I have no grief. But if you have any proper answer to my question, weigh it well and speak it.” Having said this, gazing at Rama who blazed like the sun, wracked by the arrow’s blow and his mouth gone dry, the son of the monkey king fell silent.
The gist: While life is still in him, Vali puts to Rama the question people still ask today. What did you gain, he asks, by killing a forest creature from behind a tree, without stepping into the open, when he had done you no wrong? He calls Rama’s banner of dharma a disguise, recites the law of what may and may not be eaten, and says he could have brought Sita back himself. Then he falls silent and waits for his answer.
Rama’s answer: the deep secret of dharma
Hearing Vali’s words, harsh and yet in keeping with dharma, Rama spoke to that best of monkeys, who now was like a sun stripped of its light, a cloud emptied of its rain, a fire put out, words rich in dharma and worldly wisdom. “Without truly knowing dharma, wealth, and desire, and the ways of the world besides, why do you fault me here today out of your ignorance? Without asking the wise and the elders whom the teachers esteem, gentle one, you seek in your monkey fickleness to lay a charge on me.
“This whole earth, with its mountains, its forests, and its woods, belongs to the line of Ikshvaku. The right to punish and to favor its beasts, its birds, and its men rests with them. And that earth is ruled now by Bharata, whose heart is set on dharma, who is truthful and upright and given to both restraint and grace. Bearing his command for the spread of dharma, we and other kings range the whole earth and duly punish whoever strays from the path.
“You, for your part, have thrown dharma aside, and by your own deed you have earned reproach. An elder brother, a father, and the man who gives you learning, these three are to be held as a father. In the same way a younger brother, one’s own son, and a worthy pupil, these three are to be counted as a son; and in this, dharma alone is the authority. The dharma of the good is subtle, O leaping one, and very hard to know; the Self seated in the heart of every being knows what is good and what is evil. You are fickle, and you take counsel with fickle, undisciplined monkeys, the way a man born blind takes counsel with others born blind. What do you know of dharma?
“Now hear the plain meaning of my words, the reason you were struck down. Casting the eternal law to the wind, you clung to your younger brother’s wife. While Sugriva lived, you lived in lust with his wife Ruma, who stands to you as a daughter-in-law; this is a sinful deed. For the man who couples in lust with his own daughter, his sister, or his younger brother’s wife, the punishment laid down is death. In punishing those who break the bounds, we take Bharata’s command for our authority and stand ready.
“My friendship with Sugriva is as unbreakable as my friendship with Lakshmana, and it was made for the recovery of his wife and his kingdom. I gave my pledge before the monkeys, and how could a man like me let a pledge go unhonored? Two verses sung by Manu are held authoritative among those skilled in dharma, and I have acted on them. Men who commit sins and are punished by kings become spotless and rise to heaven like the doers of good deeds; a thief is freed of his sin by punishment or by pardon, while the king who leaves him unpunished takes on the sin himself. My own forebear, the emperor Mandhata, laid a terrible punishment on an ascetic for a sin like yours.
“And hear one more reason, O bull among monkeys, knowing which you should feel no anger. Meat-eating men, in hiding or in the open, take many deer with nets and snares and traps of every kind, whether the deer are heedless or wary, facing them or turned away, and no fault is counted in it. Even royal sages skilled in dharma go hunting. So it is, O monkey, that in the fight you were struck down by my arrow, for you are a beast that goes among the branches, whether you were fighting me or not.
“Kings can bestow the dharma so hard to reach, and long life, and welfare; of this there is no doubt. They are gods who walk the earth in human form. Not knowing dharma, in nothing but your anger, you fault me, who stand in the dharma of my fathers and my fathers’ fathers.” At these words of Rama, the deeply wounded Vali found no more fault in Raghava, for his mind was now settled on the matter of dharma.
A key to reading this (Manu’s verses): A footnote in the Gita Press edition notes that in the Manusmriti we have today (chapter 8, verses 315 and 316) these two verses appear in a somewhat different wording. Valmiki’s reference belongs to that old conception of punishment in which a king’s rod cleanses the offender of his sin. This is the vision of the king’s dharma from Valmiki’s age, older than the one the later devotional tradition would carry.
Vali’s plea for pardon and his fear for Angada
Then, joining his palms, the lord of monkeys answered, “O best of men, what you have said is the very truth; of that there is no doubt. A dwarf cannot argue with a giant. And for the harsh and improper words I spoke before, in my heedlessness, do not hold me at fault either, for you know the truth of things and are devoted to the good of the people.
His throat locked with tears, groaning like an elephant sunk in a bog, Vali gazed at Rama and said slowly, “I do not grieve for myself, nor for Tara, nor for my kinsmen, as I grieve for my son, my virtuous eldest, Angada of the golden armlet. Wretched at not seeing me, that boy, raised in tenderness from his infancy, will dry up like a pond whose water is gone. My one dear son, a boy still, mighty and yet unripe in judgment, protect him, O Rama. Set the best of bonds between Sugriva and Angada; you are their guardian and their teacher in what should and should not be done. The heart you hold toward Bharata and Lakshmana, hold it toward Sugriva and Angada. And see that Sugriva does not dishonor the ascetic Tara, who is guilty for no reason but my guilt.
“By your grace a kingdom can be enjoyed, and heaven can be won. Though Tara held me back, it was you I wanted my death from, and so I went into the duel with my brother Sugriva.” Having said this, the lord of monkeys fell silent. And Rama spoke to Vali, in whom discernment had now risen, words the good approve, full of the truth of dharma. “Do not grieve for us, nor for yourself, O best of monkeys; it was out of a special love for you that we made our decision in keeping with dharma. The one who punishes the man deserving punishment and the man who, deserving it, is punished, both are fulfilled and feel no grief. By this yoke of punishment, along the road the scriptures ordain, you are freed of sin and have come to your own dharmic nature. Let go the grief, the confusion, and the fear in your heart; what the Ordainer has decreed cannot be overstepped. As Angada always leaned on you, so now he will lean on Sugriva and on me; of this there is no doubt.”
Hearing the sweet words of the great Rama, words that held to the path of dharma, Vali replied fittingly, “O lord of men of terrible valor, equal to the great Indra, for the rude and cutting words I spoke without knowing, distraught and confused by the pain of your arrow, I make my peace with you; forgive me.”
The gist: Rama’s answer on the king’s dharma quiets Vali’s question, and Vali holds him guiltless. The dying king’s one care now is his son Angada, whom he puts into Rama’s keeping, asking too that Tara’s honor be guarded. Rama assures him that the punishment has made him free of sin.
Tara runs to the battlefield
Tara heard that Vali had been killed by Rama’s arrow. Battered with rocks, beaten again and again with trees, struck through by Rama’s shaft, he was swooning at the close of his life. When she heard this most cruel news of her husband’s slaying, Tara, wild with dread, came out with her son from the mountain cave that was Kishkindha. Seeing Rama with his bow, the mighty monkeys who were Angada’s bodyguard fled in terror. Tara saw them scattering like deer whose herd-leader has been killed.
Full of sorrow herself, Tara went up to the sorrowing monkeys. “You who were the vanguard of that lion among kings,” she said, “why do you desert him and run in terror in your wretchedness? Even if, for the sake of the kingdom, Vali was made to fall by his cruel brother, through arrows Rama loosed from far off?” The monkeys answered her truly. “O mother of a living son, turn back and protect Angada. Death, in the form of Rama, has struck Vali down and is carrying him away. As Indra fells a mountain with the thunderbolt, so Rama has felled Vali with arrows like thunderbolts. This tiger among monkeys, bright as Shakra, being killed, the whole army has broken and fled. Set brave men to guard the city and crown Angada. Hanuman and the others will soon seize the strongholds. From the forest-dwellers with wives and without, greedy as they are for the kingdom, there is great danger.”
Tara answered as befitted her. “With that great lion among monkeys destroyed, what use to me is a son, or a kingdom, or my own life? I will go to the feet of that great soul who has been laid low by Rama’s arrow.” So saying, weeping, senseless with grief, beating her head and her breast with both her hands, she ran on.
On the way she saw her husband fallen helpless on the ground, the slayer of the chiefs of the danavas, who had never turned back in battle, a hurler of mountains, valorous as Indra, lying now like a rain-cloud that has spent itself; like a lion brought down by a tiger, or a shrine with its flag and its altar laid waste by Garuda for the sake of a serpent that dwelt in it. She saw Rama, leaning on his glorious bow, and Lakshmana, Rama’s younger brother, and her own brother-in-law Sugriva. Passing them by, she reached her slain husband and fell to the ground in her pain. Then, rising as if from sleep, saying “Aryaputra,” she wept to see her husband bound in the cords of Death. Watching her cry like an osprey, and seeing Angada arrived, Sugriva sank into bitter despair.
A key to reading this (Aryaputra): By the Gita Press note, a devoted wife does not speak her husband’s name aloud. “Aryaputra,” son of a worthy father, was the customary form of address a wife used for her husband. Tara’s calling Vali “Aryaputra” rather than by his name keeps to that observance.
Tara’s lament and her vow to fast unto death
Reaching the husband whom the life-taking arrow, loosed from Rama’s bow, had struck to the ground, moon-faced Tara embraced Vali, huge as an elephant, huge as a mountain, and, seeing him lie like an uprooted tree, she lamented with a grief-stricken heart. “O terrible in your valor in battle, foremost of the leaping ones, hero, why do you not speak today to me, who stand here before you? Rise, O tiger among monkeys, and come to a fine couch; kings such as you do not lie down on the ground. O lord of the earth, this earth is surely dearer to you than I am, since even with your life gone you embrace her with your limbs and leave me.
“My heart is very hard, that it does not break today into a thousand pieces at the sight of you fallen. You carried off Sugriva’s wife and drove him into exile, and here is the fruit you have reaped. Wishing you well, I spoke words that were good for you, and in your delusion you scorned them. Time itself became the ender of your life and forced you into Sugriva’s power.
“Killing Vali unjustly while he fought another, having done a thing so contemptible, will Kakutstha Rama not be tormented by it? I, who was raised without ever meeting sorrow, who was never sorrowful before, will now suffer widowhood and grief like a woman with no one to guard her. To what state will the tender and valiant Angada come, raised in every comfort, when his uncle Sugriva is beside himself with anger?” Then, turning to Angada, “My son, look well on your father who loved dharma; his face will now be hard to see.” And turning to Vali, “Comfort your son, breathe in the scent of his head, and give me your last message, for you have set out on the journey to the world beyond.
“By killing you, Rama has done the great deed of clearing his debt of the pledge he gave Sugriva. Be satisfied now, Sugriva; you will have Ruma back, enjoy the kingdom untroubled, your enemy brother is slain. O long-armed one, why do you not speak to me, your beloved, who go on lamenting? See here, these many lovely wives of yours.” Hearing Tara’s lament, all the monkey-women, gathered around Angada, cried aloud in their grief.
“O lord with heroic arms, joined by Angada, why have you set out on the long road to the other world, deserting your dear son Angada in his lovely dress? To go so suddenly is not right. If in my thoughtlessness I have done anything to cross you, O lord of the monkey race, forgive me; I touch your feet with my head.” Lamenting so piteously, Tara of faultless complexion, with the other monkey-women, resolved to sit on the ground where Vali lay, to take no food or drink, and to await her death.
The gist: Tara embraces Vali and laments to break the heart, reminding him how he scorned the words that would have saved him, and she speaks in turn to Angada and to Sugriva. In the end she resolves to follow her husband and sits down beside him on a fast unto death.
Hanuman’s words of comfort
Then Hanuman, a commander of the monkey hordes, gently comforted Tara, who lay fallen to the earth like a star dropped from the sky. “An embodied being reaps, after death, all the good and evil fruit of the deeds it did under the notion of virtue and vice, driven by the desire for their reward. Yourself worthy of grief, whom do you grieve for as one to be pitied? In this body, fleeting as a bubble, who is worth grieving for, and to whom? This boy Angada should be looked to now by you, the mother of a living son; give your thought to the rites to be done in the days to come. You know how uncertain are the birth and the death of beings, so, O wise lady, one should do only what yields good in the world to come, and set aside the merely worldly weeping.
“Vali, on whom hundreds of thousands, hundreds of millions of monkeys leaned in their hope, has reached the end of his allotted span. Looking to justice in his acts, given to conciliation, to giving, and to forgiveness, he has gone to the land of those who win their victory through dharma; you should not grieve for him. All the best of the monkeys, this your son Angada, the kingdom of the bears and the monkeys, all of these have their protector in you, O blameless one. Gently rouse both Sugriva and Angada, stricken as they are with grief, to what must be done. Take Angada by the hand and have him rule the earth. Let the monkey-king Vali be duly cremated and Angada crowned; seeing your son on the throne, you will find peace.”
Tara, wounded by her husband’s ruin, answered Hanuman where he stood near her. “Even if a hundred sons like Angada were set on one side, to embrace the limbs of this slain hero is dearer to me than they. O best of monkeys, I have no power over the kingdom of monkeys, nor over the crowning of Angada. In every matter his uncle Sugriva is the authority, and he is close at hand. This thought of yours about Angada is not to be taken up; it is the father, and in his absence the uncle, who is a son’s kinsman, and not the mother. For me, nothing in this world or the next is more blessed than to follow Vali. This bed of bare ground, used by the hero cut down as he faced his enemy, is fit for me to share as well.”
The gist: Hanuman offers the wisdom of the body’s impermanence and the fruit of one’s deeds, trying to turn Tara toward Angada’s crowning and Vali’s cremation. But Tara’s resolve is fixed; she leaves the crowning of Angada to Sugriva and holds that to follow her husband is her only blessing.
Vali’s last counsel and his passing
His breath now very faint, Vali cast his eyes all around and, drawing slow breaths, saw first his younger brother Sugriva standing before him, and he said to him with affection, in a clear voice, “Sugriva, do not lay on me the blame for the wrong done to you; the delusion of mind that came of what was fated dragged me by force. Dear brother, happiness was not ordained for us both at once, and so the love that ought to bind two brothers turned the other way, into enmity. Take today the kingdom of these forest-dwellers, and know that I go this very day to the abode of Yama. I am giving up, and quickly, my life, my kingdom, my great fortune, and my untarnished fame, all of it.
“In this state, whatever word I speak to you, O king, hard as it may be, do it. Look at Angada fallen on the ground, his face bathed in tears, worthy of every comfort, raised in comfort, a boy and yet no fool. Protect him in every way, this Angada dearer to me than my own life, as you would a son sprung from your own body, for he will now be left without me. Be his father, O lord of monkeys, his giver, his protector, his refuge in every fear, as I was to him. This glorious son of Tara is your equal in prowess, and in the killing of the rakshasas he will go before you. Radiant and young, this Angada will do deeds on the field worthy of me.
“This Tara, daughter of Sushena, is skilled beyond all others at deciding the subtlest matters and at reading the meaning of every kind of omen. Whatever she calls right, do it without doubt; Tara’s counsel never turns out wrong. And accomplish Rama’s task without a moment’s hesitation; to fail it would be a sin, and slighted, he could punish you. Wear this divine golden chain too, Sugriva; the generous goddess of victory dwells in it, and once I am dead she may abandon it if it lies on my lifeless body.”
At these words spoken in a brother’s love, Sugriva gave up his joy and grew wretched, like the moon caught in an eclipse. Calmed by Vali’s gentle words, and with his leave, Sugriva took up the golden chain. Then, having given the chain away, and seeing his son Angada standing before him, Vali, now set on death, spoke fondly to him. “From this day on, weighing place and time, level in the pleasant and the unpleasant, bearing joy and sorrow, when the moment comes, submit to Sugriva. As I always held you in indulgence, so, if you do not carry yourself well, Sugriva will not hold you in high regard. Do not go over to those who are not his friends, and never to his enemies; be devoted to your master’s purpose, self-controlled, and under Sugriva’s will. Give no one too much affection, and give none too little; both are grave faults, so keep your eye on the middle way.” Saying this, Vali, in agony from the arrow, his eyes turned up and his terrible teeth bared, gave up his life.
Then all the finest of the monkeys who stood there wept at their leader’s death and cried out in lament. “With the monkey-king gone to heaven, Kishkindha is desolate today, and its gardens and mountains and forests are desolate. Vali, by whose great speed the woodlands and the forests were kept clothed in flowers, being slain, the monkeys are stripped of their splendor. He gave a great war to the high-souled gandharva Golabha, a war that ran for fifteen years and stopped neither by day nor by night, and in the sixteenth year he brought that unruly foe down. The terror of us all, how has this Vali been felled today?” As wild cows in a great lion-haunted forest take no joy when their bull-leader is killed, so the monkeys found no comfort at brave Vali’s death. Then Tara, drowned in a sea of calamity, gazing on her dead husband’s face, embraced Vali like a creeper clinging to a great uprooted tree and sank to the ground.
A sub-tale: Into the monkeys’ lament rises the memory of one of Vali’s feats. He fought the gandharva Golabha for fifteen years without pause, a war that halted neither by day nor by night, and in the sixteenth year he brought the unruly foe down. Valmiki keeps this sub-tale so that the fall of Vali, whom no one could master in so long a war, from a single arrow loosed from behind a tree, grows the more piercing.
The gist: In his last moments Vali lifts the blame for the feud off Sugriva, gives him the kingdom and Angada, tells him to honor Tara’s judgment and Rama’s task, and hands him the golden chain from Indra. Counseling Angada in restraint and the middle way, he gives up his life; the monkeys and Tara sink into grief.
Tara’s last lament and the drawing of the arrow
Breathing in the scent of the monkey-king’s face, Tara, famed the world over, spoke to her dead husband. “You would not follow my word, O hero, and now you lie in discomfort on this rough, hard, stony ground. O lord of monkeys, this earth is surely dearer to you than I am, since you embrace her and give me no answer. On that same hero’s bed where once your prowess laid your enemies slain, you lie today, yourself slain in battle.
“You have left me forlorn and alone and gone to the other world, O bestower of honor. The wise say a girl should never be given to a hero, for a hero’s wife is made a widow in a moment. I have sunk into a bottomless, boundless sea of grief. This hard heart of mine is surely made of stone, that it has not broken today into a hundred pieces at the sight of my husband slain.”
Ringed by the blood that flowed from his limbs, wrapped as in a red sheet of indragopa insects, Vali lay on his bed as though asleep, all his limbs covered with dust and blood, so that Tara could not take him in her arms. Sugriva, whose fear a single arrow of Rama’s had lifted, had gained his end in this most terrible of feuds. The shaft still lodged in Vali’s heart kept Tara from embracing him, and she could only gaze. Then Nila, Sugriva’s general, drew the arrow out of Vali’s body as one draws a blazing venomous serpent out of a mountain cave. Even as it came free, the luster of the shaft shone like the rays of the sun caught on the peak of the western mountain. From Vali’s wounds streams of blood ran on every side, like mountain torrents mixed with red ochre. Wiping the battle-dust from her hero husband, Tara bathed him in the tears of her eyes.
Seeing her slain husband bathed in blood, Tara said to her tawny-eyed son Angada, “My son, look on the most tragic last state of your father. By the sinful deeds of a former birth, this feud has come to its end. Greet your royal father, bright as the young sun, a bestower of honor, who has now gone to the abode of Yama.” At this Angada rose and clasped his father’s feet with his stout, rounded arms, saying, “I am your son, Angada.” And Tara said, “Why do you not bless Angada as you did before, saying, ‘Live long, my son,’ as he greets you? Like a cow standing with her calf beside a bull that a lion has felled in an instant, I stand with my son beside you, from whom awareness has departed.
“Having pleased the gods with the sacrifice of battle, how did you take the final bath of the rite, with Rama’s arrow for its water, without me, your wife? The dear golden chain that Indra gave you when he was pleased with you in battle, why do I not see it here on your body? Even with your life gone, the fortune of kingship does not leave you, as the light of the setting sun does not leave the lord of mountains. You did not heed my salutary word, and I had no power to hold you back; and now, slain in battle, I and my son are ruined, and with you the goddess of fortune too takes her leave of me.”
The gist: Covered in blood and dust, Vali cannot even be embraced; the general Nila draws the arrow from his heart like a venomous serpent. Tara has Angada bow to his father and pours out her last lament in the figures of the battle-sacrifice, its closing bath, and the vanished golden chain of Indra.
Sugriva’s remorse and Tara’s praise of Rama
Seeing Tara drowned in the great sea of grief, Vali’s younger brother, the radiant Sugriva, was sorely tormented by the killing of a brother that he had himself brought about. Gazing with a tear-washed face, weary of heart in a moment, the thoughtful Sugriva went slowly, grieving, toward Rama with his attendants. Reaching the glorious Raghava, his bow in his grip, his arrows like serpents, his limbs marked with the signs of royalty, Sugriva said, “O king of men, with a single arrow you have killed Vali and done, as you promised, the deed whose fruit is plain, the return of my kingdom and my wife; and yet, O prince, because of my own elder brother’s death, my mind has turned back from every enjoyment, along with this accursed life.
“King Vali is slain, the chief queen Tara wails, the whole city cries out in its grief, and my son Angada’s life hangs in peril; and now, O Rama, my mind takes no delight in the kingdom. Before, out of anger and resentment and a grievous insult, I gave my consent to my brother’s killing; but now that Vali is slain, O best of the Ikshvakus, I will be tormented for the rest of my life. I hold now that to have lived on somehow on the Rshyamuka mountain, by the ways natural to monkeys, would have been better than to win heaven by killing Vali. That great soul said to me, ‘I do not wish to kill you, go your way.’ Those words were worthy of him; and the deed of having him killed was worthy of me.
“Weighing the worth of a kingdom won by killing a brother of great virtue, and the grief that comes after, how can a brother, even with desire set before him, find joy in the killing of his brother? In his greatness he judged my killing unfit, while by my own ill judgment I did him a life-taking wrong. When I lay groaning a while, struck by the branch of a tree, he comforted me and said only, ‘Do not make this mistake again.’ He kept brotherhood, nobility, and dharma; I showed nothing but anger and lust and monkey fickleness.
“As Indra took on sin from the killing of Vishvarupa, so this unthinkable, unbearable sin has come upon me from the killing of my own brother. Indra’s sin was shared out among the earth, the waters, the trees, and women; but who will take on the sin of this monkey? The mad elephant of remorse for a brother’s death tears at me as it would tear the bank of a river. And the good conduct seated in my heart is being destroyed by contact with this sin, the way pure gold is parted from the dross-mixed gold when it is heated on the fire.” Hearing the lament of Vali’s younger brother Sugriva, tears welled in the eyes of Rama, foremost of the Raghus, slayer of hostile heroes, and for a moment he was cast down.
Then Rama, forbearing as the earth, protector of the world, looking again and again, saw Tara sunk in calamity and weeping. The chief ministers lifted the fair-eyed, noble-hearted wife of the monkey-king, who lay embracing her husband. Struggling, torn from her husband and clinging back to him, Tara saw Rama with bow and arrow in hand, blazing like the sun with his own splendor. Fawn-eyed Tara knew that fair-eyed foremost of men, whom she had never seen before, for the very Kakutstha of whom she had heard from Angada’s mouth. Afflicted, tottering on quick steps, she reached Rama, equal to Indra, hard to approach, of exalted bearing.
Reaching the pure-souled Rama, who by his supremacy in battle never missed his mark, the noble-hearted Tara, who had lost all sense of her own body in her grief, said, “You are immeasurable, hard to approach, master of your senses, of the highest dharma, of undecaying fame, wise, forbearing as the earth, and red-eyed. You bear the bow, an arrow in your hand, of great might and firm-knit limbs; you have given up the happiness of a human body and yet you are joined to a bodily glory that is not of this earth. With the very arrow with which you killed my beloved, kill me too; slain by you, I will reach him, for without me Vali will find no delight even in heaven.
“O lotus-eyed one, even in heaven, though he look upon the apsaras in their many-colored chaplets and their strange dress, Vali will not want them until he has me. Without me, brave Vali will find only grief and pallor even in heaven, as you find grief and gloom without the Videha princess Sita on the lovely slopes of Rshyamuka. You know how a young man suffers, bereft of the wife he loves; knowing it, kill me, so that Vali need not suffer the pain of not seeing me.
“And if you, great soul, would keep the sin of killing a woman off your head, then kill me as Vali’s own other self; so it will be no woman-killing, O prince. By the practice of scripture and the many words of the Veda, a wife is the very half of her husband; and so the wise hold no gift greater than the gift of a wife. Looking to dharma, give me back to that same beloved of mine, O hero; by this gift the wrong of my killing will not touch you. To kill me, afflicted, forlorn, come to this pass, torn from my husband, is not worthy of you; and yet without the wise Vali, best of monkeys, of the graceful gait of an elephant and the fine golden chain, I cannot live long, O king of men.”
Rama consoles Tara
Prayed to in these words, the mighty great soul Rama comforted Tara and spoke to her wholesome words. “O wife of a hero, do not turn your mind to a wrong path. This whole world was fashioned by the Ordainer; he joins to it all its joy and its sorrow, so the world says. The three worlds do not overstep the decree the Ordainer has set, and they lie in his power. You will find, through Sugriva, the same supreme love you found before in the presence of Vali and Angada, and your son Angada will win the office of prince regent. The Ordainer has made his decree so, and the wives of heroes do not lament in this way.” Reassured by these words of the mighty great soul Rama, the scorcher of his foes, the finely dressed and lovely wife of the hero grew quiet, her wailing face at last stilled.
The gist: Tormented by the killing of his brother, Sugriva speaks of his revulsion from the kingdom and his deep remorse, and for a moment Rama too is cast down. Then Tara, recognizing Rama as a divine man, praises him with devotion and begs to be killed by the arrow that killed Vali. Rama gives her the sense of the Ordainer’s decree, quiets her, and promises her Angada’s office as heir.
The funeral rites of Vali
Comforting Tara, and Sugriva with Angada, in their shared grief, Kakutstha Rama, with Lakshmana, said, “The dead are not helped by grief and remorse. Turn your minds to what must be done at once after a death. You have done what worldly custom asks, the shedding of tears; but once the appointed time has passed, no rite can be performed.
“Time is the cause of all in the world; Time is the instrument of every deed; Time is the ground of all beings’ appointed tasks. No one is an independent doer, nor is anyone a lord who prompts another to act; the world moves by its own nature, and Time is the ground of that nature. Time does not overstep its own bounds, nor does it wane; coming face to face with Nature as Destiny, no living being can pass beyond it. Time has kinship, friendship, or bond with no one, nor is there any means to bring it under control. Let the discerning man see everything as an unfolding of Time; even dharma, wealth, and desire are attained in the course of Time. Vali, made pure by the yoke of conciliation, giving, and the right use of wealth, standing firm in his own dharma, has reaped the fruit of his deeds and come to his dharmic nature; by not clinging to his life, he has won the highest heaven. This is the best of destinies, and it is the one Vali has attained; so let go your grief and give your minds to the task the hour demands.”
When Rama had finished speaking, Lakshmana, slayer of hostile heroes, said courteous words to Sugriva, whose mind had lost its balance. “O Sugriva, with Tara and Angada, see without delay to the rites for the disposal of Vali’s body and to his cremation. Command some able official to gather much dry wood and fine sandal for the rite. Comfort the dejected Angada; do not be childish of mind, this city depends on you. Let Angada fetch garlands and garments of every kind, ghee, oil, fragrances, and whatever else is at once required. And you, O Tara, bring a palanquin quickly; at this hour, haste is what is called for. Let monkeys strong enough to bear the palanquin make ready to carry Vali.”
Hearing Lakshmana’s words, the bewildered Tara went at once into the cave and brought back a divine, chariot-like palanquin with a fine seat, carved with figures of birds and with the shapes of trees, graced with painted garlands, fitted with latticed windows, like the aerial car of the Siddhas, and decked with red sandal. Seeing such a palanquin, Rama said to Lakshmana, “Let Vali be borne away quickly and his funeral rites performed.” Then Sugriva, with Angada, weeping, lifted Vali’s body and set it on the palanquin. Having laid the lifeless Vali, hung with ornaments and garlands and garments, on the palanquin, the monkey-king Sugriva gave the command that the last rites for his noble elder brother be done as the scriptures ordain, monkeys going ahead and scattering jewels in plenty, and the palanquin following behind.
Weeping, all the monkeys walked in the funeral procession. Tara and all the monkey-women, crying “O hero, O hero” in a piteous voice, followed their lord, and at their weeping the forests within the forests and the mountains too seemed to cry on every side. On a lonely sandy bank of a mountain river, ringed with water, the monkeys built the pyre. Taking the palanquin down from their shoulders, the finest of the monkeys stood apart, given over to grief. Seeing her dead husband lying in the bottom of the palanquin, and laying his head in her lap, the deeply grieving Tara lamented. “O great king of monkeys, O lord tender to me, O long-armed beloved, look at me; why do you not cast a glance at this handmaid of yours, stricken with grief? Even with life gone, your face, colored like the setting sun, looks glad and alive. It is Death, in the form of Rama, that drags you to the other world, Rama who with a single arrow has widowed us all. O king of kings, these wives of yours, who though monkeys cannot leap, have come the long road on foot; why do you not look at them?”
The monkey-women, thin with grief, raised the wailing Tara, hemmed in by her sorrow for her husband. Then, weeping, his senses drowned in grief, Angada with Sugriva laid his father’s body on the pyre. Setting fire to it in due order, Angada, his senses in turmoil, circled his father, who had set out on the long journey. Having duly cremated Vali, the finest of the monkeys went to the blessed river Shiva, the Tungabhadra, with its holy water, for the offering of water to the departed. Placing Angada ahead, Sugriva and Tara and all the rest offered water to Vali. Dejected along with the dejected Sugriva, in equal grief, the mighty Kakutstha Rama had the funeral rites carried out under his direction. Having duly cremated Vali, slain by the arrow of Rama, best of the Ikshvakus, and radiant as a blazing fire, the monkey-king Sugriva returned to Rama, who waited there with Lakshmana.
The gist: Rama gives them the sense of Time and Destiny and turns them all from grief to the task the hour demands. Lakshmana entrusts the funeral arrangements to Sugriva; Tara brings a divine palanquin, and Vali’s body is carried to the riverbank. Tara laments with his head in her lap, Angada sets fire to the pyre, and all offer water and return to Rama.
Sugriva crowned, and Angada made heir-apparent
When the bath was done, and Sugriva stood grief-stricken in his wet clothes, the chief monkeys of the army gathered around him. Then Hanuman, son of the wind, with the luster of the golden mountain and a face like the rising sun, joined his palms and spoke to the mighty, unwearying Rama, all the monkeys standing with folded hands like rishis around Brahma, the grandfather of the rishis. “O Kakutstha, by your grace Sugriva has won this great ancestral kingdom, so hard to come by, of the sharp-toothed, mighty, great-souled monkeys. With your leave he will enter the auspicious city and duly carry out all his royal duties with his kinsfolk. Bathed in water made fragrant with perfumes and herbs, he will offer you a special worship. Come to this lovely mountain cave. Join the monkeys to their lord and make them glad.”
At these words of Hanuman, the wise and eloquent Rama replied, “O gentle Hanuman, as the keeper of my father’s command, for fourteen years I will not enter even a village, much less a town. Let the brave Sugriva, foremost of monkeys, enter that rich and wonderful cave without delay and be installed in the kingdom with due ceremony.” Then he said to Sugriva, “O Sugriva, knowing as you do both the worldly and the religious custom, install this virtuous Angada, of generous strength and valor, in the office of prince regent. Being the eldest son of your elder brother and his equal in prowess, the noble-minded Angada is fit for the office of heir-apparent.
“This is Shravana, the first of the rainy months, the season of falling water; O gentle one, the four months of the rains, the Chaturmasa, have already begun. This is no time for the endeavor of the search; enter the auspicious city, and I will stay on this mountain with Lakshmana. This wide mountain cave, airy, full of water and of lotuses and lilies, is a delightful place. When the month of Kartika comes, make your effort for the killing of Ravana; this is our understanding, and until then, dwell in your abode. Be installed in the kingdom and make your kinsfolk glad.”
With Rama’s leave, the foremost of monkeys, Sugriva, entered lovely Kishkindha, so long guarded by Vali. Thousands of monkeys saluted him and, surrounding him on every side, entered the city. Seeing the monkey-lord Sugriva, all the people bowed their heads to the ground; the vigorous Sugriva raised them all, spoke to them sweetly, and entered the pleasant inner apartments of his brother Vali. When he came out again, his kinsfolk consecrated him as the Vasus consecrated the thousand-eyed Indra. They brought him a white canopy bordered with gold, two white yak-tail whisks with handles of gold, and jewels of every kind, seed-herbs, the shoots and flowers of the milk-trees, white raiment and white unguents, fragrant flowers of the land and of the water, divine sandal, many perfumes, unbroken rice, gold, panic seeds, honey, ghee, curds, a tiger skin, and a pair of fine shoes. With unguent, gorochana, and manahshila, sixteen lovely and glad maidens came to the place.
Having satisfied the best of the Brahmins with jewels, garments, and food, men learned in the sacred texts made their offerings into the fire that blazed with the oblation sanctified by mantras. Then Sugriva, his face turned to the east, was seated in due form on an excellent seat with legs of gold, spread with rich coverings and graced with painted garlands, on the lovely summit of a palace set with gold. With clear water gathered in golden pitchers from the rivers and the streams, from the sacred places, and from all the seas, Gaja, Gavaksha, Gavaya, Sharabha, Gandhamadana, Mainda, Dvivida, Hanuman, and Jambavan, the king of bears, by the rite the scriptures set forth and the great rishis ordained, with auspicious bull’s horns and pitchers of gold, consecrated Sugriva as the Vasus consecrated Indra.
When Sugriva was consecrated, hundreds of thousands of great-souled monkeys roared with delight. Keeping Rama’s word, Sugriva embraced Angada and installed him as prince regent. At Angada’s installation the tender-hearted monkeys cried “Well done, well done” and praised Sugriva. All of them, glad, praised the great-souled Rama and Lakshmana again and again. Crowded with joyful, well-fed people, graced with banners and flags, the city of Kishkindha grew lovely. Having reported to the great-souled Rama the news of his great consecration, and having won back his wife Ruma, the vigorous Sugriva came into the kingdom as Indra, lord of the thirty gods, came into the sovereignty of the gods.
A key to reading this (the Chaturmasa and the pact): Rama himself does not enter the city, for by his father Dasharatha’s decree he will keep away from village and town for fourteen years. The Chaturmasa, the four months of rains that begin in Shravana, is no season for a search; and so the understanding fixed between Sugriva and Rama is to wait until Kartika and then take up the effort to kill Ravana.
The gist: Hanuman calls Rama to Kishkindha, but because of his father’s word Rama will not enter the city and resolves to stay on the mountain with Lakshmana. He directs that Sugriva take the kingdom and Angada the office of heir-apparent, and sets the search for Sita for after the month of Kartika. Sugriva is duly consecrated, wins back Ruma, and Angada becomes prince regent.
Source: Srimad Valmiki Ramayana, Kishkindhakanda, Cantos 15-26 (Gita Press, Gorakhpur).
Basis: Valmiki Ramayana (Gita Press, Gorakhpur)