तारायाः रणभूमिगमनम्

Answered with such reasoned words, the great monkey king, lying wounded by the arrow, made no reply. In the eighteenth sarga he had no answer to Rāma's reasoning; now even the strength to speak was failing. His limbs broken by rocks, badly battered by trees and overwhelmed by Rāma's arrow, he fainted as his life drew to its end — the blows of rocks and trees taken in the fight are recalled to show how many his wounds were. He swooned but was not yet dead, for he still lives in the twentieth sarga. Tārā heard that her husband Vālī, that tiger among monkeys, had been killed in battle by an arrow Rāma had loosed. She heard it from others rather than seeing it herself, so her first response was mixed with dread. Hearing the terrible, unwelcome news of her husband's death, she rushed out of the mountain cave with her son, in great alarm — Aṅgada went with her, as he will in the next sarga too. "Terrible" and "unwelcome" describe the news, one as it was in itself, the other as it struck her who heard it. These four verses set the scene of the sarga: Vālī's silence, his swoon, the spreading of the news, and Tārā's coming out.

The mighty monkeys who attended Aṅgada, seeing Rāma with his bow, fled in terror; the mere sight of the bow in his hand was enough, and those who had been fearless under Vālī's strength grew afraid without him. Then Tārā saw the frightened monkeys racing towards her, like deer that have strayed from the herd when its leader has been killed — an apt image, for when the leader falls the herd scatters, and so did the monkey host. Grieving herself, she went up to those grieving monkeys, driven in terror by Rāma as if his arrows were at their heels, and said: "Monkeys, you who used to go before that lion among kings, why do you abandon him and run away so frightened and so wretched? If that brother was struck down by his cruel brother for the sake of the kingdom, with far-flying arrows sent from afar by Rāma, what of it?" Her question is sharp: it is not right that a leader's followers should desert him and run; and she herself hints at what must have happened. Hearing the monkey queen, the monkeys, who could take what shape they wished, gave the lady a timely answer with one voice.

"Lady whose son still lives, turn back and protect your son Aṅgada. It is Death himself in the form of Rāma who has killed Vālī and is carrying him off. Vālī, who hurled trees and great boulders, has been felled by arrows like thunderbolts, as if by the thunderbolt itself. Now that this tiger among monkeys, bright as Indra, is dead, the whole monkey army is overwhelmed and scattered. Let the city be guarded by brave warriors and let Aṅgada be consecrated; once Vālī's son is on the throne the monkeys will follow him. Or, if staying here no longer pleases you, lovely lady — for the monkeys will quickly occupy the strongholds this very day — there is great danger for us from the forest-dwellers here, some without wives and some with them, men greedy and disappointed." The monkeys have only two concerns, guarding the kingdom and consecrating Aṅgada. To them Rāma is Death himself; they have no thought of dharma, only fear. "Greedy and disappointed" points to monkeys hungry for power or cheated of it, whose strife is feared, and the fear of the strongholds being seized suggests that Sugrīva's supporters will soon be entering Kiṣkindhā. Their counsel puts statecraft first, not grief; Tārā's reply will be the very opposite.

Hearing the words of the monkeys, who had gone only a little way, the lady of the lovely smile answered in a manner worthy of herself — true to her own nature and to the dignity of a wife; and "lovely smile", in the midst of grief, recalls her abiding beauty. "What is a son to me, or a kingdom, or even my own life, now that my husband, that noble lion among monkeys, is dying? I will go to the feet of that great soul who has been struck down by the arrow Rāma loosed." These words show her devotion as a wife: son, kingdom and life itself she counts as nothing, and going to his feet already hints at her resolve to follow him in death, which will become plain in the next sarga. So saying, she ran forward weeping, faint with grief, beating her head and breast with both hands in her anguish. The monkeys had run in fear; she ran for love. As she went she saw her husband lying on the ground, the slayer of dānava lords who never turned back in battle.

She saw him who had hurled great mountains as Indra hurls his thunderbolts, full of the force of a great gale and roaring like a mass of great clouds; equal to Indra in valour, now still like a cloud that has spent its rain; a roarer terrible to those who roar, a hero brought down by a hero, struck down as a lion is struck by a tiger for the sake of its prey; honoured by all the world, like a sacred shrine-tree with its banner and altar uprooted by Garuḍa for the sake of a serpent. With these images the poet paints Vālī's ruin, weaving many comparisons into one sentence to show one man's greatness through many reflections. The last is especially moving: he whom all honoured now lies broken, and Garuḍa uprooted the tree not out of hatred for it but to get at the serpent, just as Rāma killed Vālī for Sugrīva's sake. "A hero brought down by a hero" admits, even in Tārā's eyes, Rāma's own heroism: even in reproach she does not deny the truth. Then she saw Rāma standing propped on his mighty bow, Rāma's younger brother Lakṣmaṇa, and her husband's younger brother Sugrīva. Passing them by — ignoring all three — she came to her husband lying dead in battle, looked at him and, stricken and bewildered, fell to the ground. Rising again as if from sleep and crying "My noble lord!", she wept to see her husband bound with the cords of death. Seeing her wailing like an osprey, and seeing Aṅgada arrive, Sugrīva sank into bitter dejection. So the sarga ends in Sugrīva's grief, and the joy of victory is veiled by sorrow.