वालिनः सान्त्ववचनं प्राणत्यागश्च

Vāli's life was ebbing. Breathing faintly, he looked all around him, and the first thing his eyes fell on was his younger brother Sugrīva standing before him; that the dying monkey's first glance went to his brother is itself a sign of affection. He spoke to the victorious lord of monkeys clearly and with love. "Sugrīva, you must not hold against me any fault born of sin. I was dragged along by force by a delusion that fate had in store for me." By speaking of what fate held in store he names the power of destiny, but he does not deny his own wrong. "I think, brother, that happiness for us both at the same time was never ordained. The affection that should have been between brothers turned into its opposite." So he mourned how perverse fate had been. Then he openly renounced everything. "Take the kingdom of these forest-dwellers this very day, and know that this very day I am going to the house of Yama, the lord of death. Life, kingdom, great wealth and unblemished fame, all of it I give up at once." This is the heart of his speech: at the moment of death enmity ends and renunciation is complete. First he clears away blame, then he faults destiny, and last he himself hands over the kingdom, and in these three steps the feud comes wholly to an end. By saying he spoke "with affection" the poet shows that not a trace of anger was left in the dying king, and by saying he spoke "clearly" he shows that even pierced by the arrow Vāli could speak distinctly, so that his words were considered, not raving.

"In this state of mine I will say something to you, hero," he began, "and though it may be hard to do, you must do it, king. Look at Aṅgada lying there on the ground, his face wet with tears; he deserves comfort and has grown up in comfort, a boy still, yet no fool. He is dearer to me than my own life. Treat him as your own son and guard him on every side, so that though he has lost me he lacks nothing. Be to him what I was, lord of monkeys: the one who gives him all he needs, who protects him and keeps him safe in danger." Those two words, "deserving comfort" and "grown up in comfort", tell how the boy had always been cherished; one who had never known hardship now lay fallen on the ground. Then Vāli spoke of the gifts of Tārā's son: "He is your equal in valour and will go ahead of you when the rākṣasas are slain. Strong and young, he will show his strength in battle and do deeds worthy of his birth." By showing how useful his son would be, Vāli presents him not as a burden but as a helper, and there is skill in the way he asks. Then he taught Sugrīva Tārā's worth: "This daughter of Suṣeṇa is thoroughly practised in judging subtle matters and in reading every kind of omen. Whatever she says is right, do it without doubt, for nothing Tārā has judged ever turns out otherwise." This is one of the rare places in the Rāmāyaṇa where a woman is so plainly acknowledged as a counsellor, and later Sugrīva will often be saved by her words. Last he gave him a lesson in statecraft: "Do Rāghava's work without hesitation. To neglect it would be wrong, and if you slight him he may destroy you too." Vāli gives two reasons, the loss of dharma and his own ruin; keeping a promise is not only a matter of gratitude but of self-preservation too. His counsel thus falls into three parts, love for his son, trust in his wife and gratitude to a friend. The one who earlier thought Rāma had killed him unjustly now tells his brother to do Rāma's work without misgiving, and this ripening of understanding is what marks this sarga. In "though he has lost me" we hear a father's pain at parting, and in "guard him on every side" the humility of one who pleads.

Then Vāli gave away the garland Indra had given him, which had always shone at his throat. "Sugrīva, put on this divine golden garland. A noble fortune dwells in it, and once I am dead she would leave it." Behind this lies the belief that the goddess of fortune lives in the garland, and the fear that she would depart from a dead body. Spoken to so lovingly by his brother, Sugrīva lost the joy of his victory and grew downcast again, like the moon seized by an eclipse. The image is moving: newly come into the kingdom, he had been like the full moon, and in a moment all his brightness was gone; and just as the eclipse is not the moon's own doing but comes upon it from outside, so Sugrīva's dejection came from his brother's death. Calmed by Vāli's words, he did what was fitting and without delay took the golden garland, with his brother's leave; it was not seized but given. Having given the garland, and seeing his son standing there, Vāli, now ready for death, spoke to Aṅgada with love. He was prepared and resolved, and nothing remained for him now but to counsel his son.

"From now on know the right place and the right time," was the first thing Vāli taught his son, for knowing where, when and how to act is the root of all good conduct. "Bear what is pleasant and what is unpleasant, endure joy and sorrow as they come, and obey Sugrīva. If you behave the way you did when I always indulged you, Sugrīva will not think much of you." This is plain speaking: the fondness of a father is not to be expected from an uncle. "Subduer of foes, do not follow those who are not his friends and do not side with his enemies. Serve your master's interest, keep yourself in check and obey Sugrīva." Last came a subtle piece of wisdom: "Do not be too familiar, and do not hold back affection either; both are serious faults. So keep your eye on the middle way." When he had said this, grievously tormented by the arrow, his eyes rolled back, his terrible teeth were bared, and his life left him. A hero's last words were words of wisdom, and that is the dignity of his death. The counsel he gave Aṅgada is statecraft in brief: knowing place and time, forbearance, obedience, avoiding the enemy's company and keeping to the middle course. Knowing that his son's future lay in his uncle's hands, he taught him humility, not revenge. "Keep your eye on the middle" is the essence of it all: not too far away and not too close.

Then the monkeys, whose leader was slain, cried out, and all those best of monkeys lamented. "Kiṣkindhā is empty today, now that the lord of monkeys has gone to heaven; empty are the gardens, the hills and the woods." Without its king the land itself seemed deserted, and by naming city and forest both they show how far his rule had reached. "With that tiger among monkeys slain, the monkeys have lost their splendour. By his mighty rush the groves and forests were always wreathed in showers of blossom; who will do that now?" Then they remembered his valour. For fifteen years he fought a great battle with the mighty gandharva Golabha, a battle that did not stop by night or by day, and in the sixteenth year Golabha was struck down. "He killed that insolent creature; he, with his terrible fangs, kept us all from fear. How has he himself been struck down?" Their question mingles wonder and grief. Their sorrow shows itself in three ways: the emptiness of the city, the dimming of the woods, and the memory of their lord's matchless strength. Fifteen years of unbroken war with Golabha prove that strength, and that one who conquered such a gandharva should fall to a single arrow is the very thing that amazes them. By calling him the one who "kept us all from fear" they name a king's first duty, to give his people freedom from fear.

With their heroic lord slain, the monkeys found no peace, like cattle roaming a great forest where a lion prowls when the bull of the herd has been killed. In the image the lion is Rāma, the bull Vāli and the cattle the monkeys, and it speaks both of fear and of being left without a protector. Then Tārā, drowned in an ocean of sorrow, gazed at her dead husband's face, put her arms around Vāli and sank to the ground, like a creeper that had clung to a great tree when the tree is felled. The image of the creeper shows that she had stood only by leaning on her husband: when the tree is cut, the vine falls with it.