वालिनो रामभर्त्सनम्

Struck by Rāma's arrow, Vālī, so fierce in battle, fell all at once like a tree cut through. He who had been grim in war, who could shake mountains with his fist, was brought down by a single arrow; "all at once" tells us his death came unlooked for. Every limb laid out on the ground, still wearing his ornaments of refined gold, he went down like Indra's banner when its cords are loosed — as the great banner is lowered at the end of the festival, so was that mighty hero brought down. When the lord of the hosts of monkeys and bears had fallen, the earth lost its lustre like a sky without the moon; with his fall the whole land grew dim, for he ruled not monkeys only but bears as well, and both hosts were now left without a lord. Yet even as he lay fallen, neither beauty nor breath, neither splendour nor valour left the body of that great soul. The poet stresses this with a fourfold "neither… nor": Vālī's greatness is not destroyed even by death, and he is still to speak. The jewelled golden chain that Indra had given him held fast the life, splendour and beauty of that chief of monkeys; the commentators say it was not a mere ornament but the very support of his life, and its repeated mention shows its importance in the story as the sign of his descent from Indra. With that golden chain the hero looked like a bank of cloud whose edges are tinged with the glow of evening — the gold on his dark body like a red streak on a dark twilight cloud. His chain, his body, and the arrow that had pierced his vitals — as if his beauty had been divided among the three, it still shone on him as he lay; it is a strange fancy that even the arrow becomes part of his beauty. And the weapon loosed from Rāma's bow lit up for the hero the road to heaven and carried him to the highest state: Rāma's arrow was not only the instrument of his death but of his salvation too. So the poet, while describing the harshness of the killing, does not lessen the dignity of the slain. The last sarga described the fight; this one describes what follows the fall, moving quickly from action to picture, and the "highest state" already hints at the peace Vālī will find at the end.

He lay fallen in battle like a fire whose flame has died, like Yayāti cast down from the world of the gods when his merit was spent, like the sun brought down to earth by Time at the end of an age; unassailable as great Indra, unbearable as Upendra — Indra's son, Vālī of the golden chain, broad-chested, long-armed, bright-faced and tawny-eyed. Rāma, with Lakṣmaṇa following, saw him and came near. All four images show great beings whose light has for a moment failed — fire, Yayāti, the sun and Indra — and the comparison with Yayāti is especially telling, for he too fell by his own deeds. Rāma, though he had shot from a distance, did not shrink from going to face him. Honouring that hero as he slowly turned his gaze on them, the two mighty brothers drew near — the poet shows that Rāma looks on even a slain enemy with respect. Seeing Rāghava and mighty Lakṣmaṇa, Vālī spoke to them words that were courteous and in keeping with dharma, and yet harsh — three qualities that seem to contradict each other but together describe his speech: there is courtesy, there is argument from dharma, and there is severity; even his reproach rests on principle, not mere abuse. Lying on the ground, his strength and breath ebbing, struck down and his senses failing, he spoke with purpose to Rāma, who was proud of his victory — even as his life ebbed, his words were full of meaning, a sign of the strength of his mind. "You are the son of a king, famous and fair to see. What merit have you gained by killing one whose face was turned away, so that, while I was locked in a fight with another, I met my death at your hand?"

"'Rāma is nobly born, full of courage, radiant and true to his vows; he feels others' pain and is devoted to the good of his people; he is compassionate, full of energy, knows what each moment demands and is firm in his vows' — so all beings on earth speak of your fame. Self-restraint, calm, patience, dharma, steadiness, truth, valour, and punishment for wrongdoers — these, by the teaching of the texts, are the virtues of kings. It was weighing those virtues of yours and your high birth that I came out to meet Sugrīva, even though Tārā forbade me. 'He will not strike me while I am engaged with another and off my guard' — that was my conviction, though I had never seen you." Vālī had trusted Rāma's reputation and so had no fear; the root of his reproach is that very trust, not mere anger. This praise, though it sounds like a hymn, is really a rebuke: from one famed for such virtues such a deed was never expected. Though he had never seen Rāma, Vālī had thought of him as righteous, and so went out to fight without suspicion. Here he mentions Tārā's warning for the first time, and he will return to it. These verses carry the core of his case — "trusting in your fame I was off my guard" — so that the killing is felt as the slaying not only of a body but of a trust; and his rebuke draws on the science of kingship, not only on his own pain.

"I did not know you for what you are — a man whose soul is ruined, flying the flag of dharma while you do not follow it, a man of wicked conduct, like a well covered over with grass." A grass-covered well looks like level ground, but whoever falls in never climbs out — the image shows what deceit is. "I did not recognise you as a sinner dressed as a good man, a hidden fire wrapped in the disguise of dharma" — like embers hidden under ash, whose burning is not known until one touches them. By saying twice "I did not know" he suggests that only today has he seen Rāma's true nature. "When I have done no wrong in your land or your city, and shown you no disrespect, why do you strike down one who is innocent? I am a monkey living on fruit and roots, roaming the forest; I was not fighting you but another — why kill me? You are a king's son, trusted and fair to look on, and the outward marks of dharma can be seen on you. What man born of a warrior line, learned and free from doubt, wrapped in the signs of dharma, would do so cruel a deed?" Birth, learning and settled judgement — such a man, he argues, would never act cruelly. "Born in the line of Raghu and famed for righteousness, why do you go about wearing a fair form when you are not fair within?" — the paradox sharpens his condemnation of deceit. "Conciliation, giving, patience, dharma, truth, steadiness and valour, and punishment for those who do wrong: these are the virtues of kings. We are forest creatures, Rāma, beasts that live on roots and fruit; that is our nature, and you, lord of men, are a man. What quarrel can there be between beasts and men? Land, gold and silver are the causes of war; what can you covet here in the forest, or in fruits that are mine?" So Vālī doubts Rāma's righteous garb and cites the principles of statecraft to show he should not have been killed. His words grow sharper step by step — first suspicion, then accusation, at last open condemnation. By setting beasts against men he shows there was no ground for enmity, since the usual causes of war, land and gold, are absent here.

"Policy and discipline, punishment and favour — this is the conduct of kings, and it must not be confused; kings do not act on desire, but only after weighing time and place." He means that punishment and favour must each be used in their own place, not mixed. "But you put desire first; you are quick to anger and unsteady; you confuse the duties of a king, and your bow is your answer to everything. You have no regard for dharma, and your mind is not set on prosperity; driven by your senses and your desires, you are dragged this way and that. Having killed me with an arrow, though I did no wrong — having done a deed that men recoil from, Kākutstha — what will you say among the good? One who kills a king, a brahmin or a cow, a thief, one who delights in killing, an unbeliever, a younger brother who marries before his elder — all these go to hell. The informer, the miser, the killer of a friend, the man who defiles his teacher's bed — these, beyond doubt, go to the world of the wicked. My hide may not be worn by good men, my hair and bones are forbidden, and my flesh may not be eaten by righteous men like you. Only five five-clawed creatures may be eaten by brahmins and warriors, Rāghava: the porcupine, the hedgehog, the iguana, the hare and the tortoise. Wise men do not touch my hide or my bones, Rāma, and my flesh may not be eaten — and yet I, a five-clawed creature, have been killed." So Vālī uses the law-books too to prove he should not have been killed, relying on the rule that even in hunting only an animal that may be eaten may be slain; this argument will be answered by Rāma in the eighteenth sarga. Quoting the texts, he lays a double charge: he places Rāma on the list of those bound for hell, and he puts the monkey, being unfit to eat, outside even the hunter's law. His quoting the rule of the five five-clawed creatures, found also in the law-books, shows his learning.

"Tārā, who knows everything, told me what was true and good for me; but in my folly I brushed it aside and have fallen into the power of Time." Vālī admits his own fault too, and that only adds to the weight of his words; the memory of Tārā's counsel in the fifteenth sarga sharpens his sorrow. "With you as her lord, Kākutstha, the earth is as unprotected as a virtuous woman with a lawless husband" — as an unrighteous husband fails to protect his wife, so an unrighteous king fails to protect the earth. "Crooked, deceitful, mean, with a mind that only feigns humility — how could you be born of great-souled Daśaratha? I have been killed by the elephant that is Rāma, who has broken the girth of good conduct, overstepped the dharma of the good and thrown off the goad of dharma." The metaphor is skilful: the elephant's girth-rope is good conduct and the goad is dharma, and without both the elephant runs mad. "Having done a deed so vile, so improper and so condemned by the good, what will you say when you meet good men? You have shown this valour on us, who stood aside from your quarrel; I do not see you showing such valour against those who have wronged you." "Who stood aside" is very sharp: why show valour against those who are neither friends nor enemies? — and where, he implies, is this valour against Rāvaṇa? "Had you fought me face to face in open battle, prince, you would have been killed by me today and be looking on the god who is the son of the Sun, Yama. Unseen, you have killed me in this fight, hard to overcome though I am, as a snake kills a sleeping man who has fallen into the power of his own sin." The image of the snake and the sleeper shows his own lack of watchfulness.

"Since you killed me to please Sugrīva — had you only asked me first, I would have brought Maithilī to you in a single day. I would have bound that wicked rākṣasa Rāvaṇa, who carried off your wife, by the neck and handed him over to you without killing him in battle. Even if Maithilī had been hidden in the waters of the ocean or in the underworld, I would have brought her at your command, as the white she-mule was brought back." This promise shows the height of Vālī's strength and also his last generosity: even at death's door he says he could have done Rāma's work — and would have brought Rāvaṇa alive. "It is right that Sugrīva should have the kingdom once I have gone to heaven; what is not right is that you killed me in battle against dharma. True, this world is set to its tasks by Time" — he accepts his death as the work of fate and has no grief at dying — "but if you have found a fitting answer, let it be well considered." That last phrase is a question, and the next sarga is its answer. Having said this, his mouth parched, racked by the wound of the arrow, the great-souled son of the monkey king looked at Rāma, bright as the sun, and fell silent. The last verse, in a longer metre, ends in silence, which is Vālī's final word and the prelude to the next sarga; and "bright as the sun" shows that even in Vālī's anger Rāma's radiance is undimmed.