वालिनो दाहसंस्कारः

Kākutstha, who shared their grief, spoke words of comfort to Sugrīva, to Tārā and to Aṅgada, with Lakṣmaṇa at his side. "The dead gain nothing from grief and lamentation," he said, "so you should now set about what has to be done next. The custom of the world must be kept, and you have shed your tears; but no rite can be performed once its time has passed." Rāma does not forbid grief; he shows its limit. Weeping is itself part of the world's custom, but letting the hour slip by destroys the rite. Then he laid out the nature of time. "In this world necessity is the cause; necessity is the means of every act; necessity is what sets every creature to its task. No one is the doer of anything, and no one is master of what he is set to do. The world moves by its own nature, and time is that nature's final resting place. Time never outruns time, nor does it fall short, and no one who has met his own nature passes beyond it. Time has no kin, no motive, no valour, no bond of friend or relation; it is subject to no one. One who sees rightly must see everything as the ripening of time, for dharma, wealth and pleasure are all held together in time's order." These words were especially fitting for Sugrīva, who had been the occasion of his brother's death; once time is named as the doer, his self-reproach is eased. "Vālin has gone from here to his own true state and has received the fruit of his deeds, the pure fruit won by the right use of conciliation, gifts and wealth, lord of monkeys. That great soul had already won heaven by keeping to his own duty, and now, by not sparing his life in battle, he has taken possession of it." A warrior's death was his fulfilment. "This is the highest destiny, and the leader of the monkey troops has reached it. Enough of mourning, then; let what the hour demands be done." All three before him were stricken, Sugrīva by his brother's death, Tārā by her husband's loss, Aṅgada by his father's, and so Rāma addressed them all in one speech. The word "necessity" returns three times in a single verse, and so the poet sets it above everything else. "The world moves by its own nature" takes away the pride of being the doer, and "time is its final resting place" shows what that nature itself rests on. This passage is the centre of the kāṇḍa's philosophical reflection. The question Vālin asked earlier, "why did you kill me?", is answered here indirectly: once time is the slayer, personal enmity dissolves. Tārā herself will soon echo these very words, saying that Time in the form of Rāma is dragging him away, which shows that Rāma's teaching had entered her heart. In this counsel Rāma joins practice and understanding, the keeping of the world's custom and the contemplation of necessity, and through both grief is calmed; and by ending with "let what the hour demands be done" he turns the teaching into action.

When Rāma had finished, Lakṣmaṇa, slayer of enemy heroes, spoke courteously to Sugrīva, who was quite beside himself. "Sugrīva, with Tārā and Aṅgada, see at once to the funeral rites and the cremation of Vālin. Give orders for plenty of dry firewood and fine sandalwood for his last rites. Comfort poor Aṅgada, who is sunk in misery. Do not lose your head: this city is in your charge now. Let Aṅgada bring garlands and cloths of every kind, clarified butter, oil, perfumes and whatever else is needed at once. Tāra, go quickly and hurry back with a litter; speed is a virtue, and above all at a time like this. Let strong, capable monkeys fit to carry a litter make ready; they will bear Vālin out." When he had said this, Lakṣmaṇa, the joy of Sumitrā, stood beside his brother; having given his instructions he did not go off, and that shows his modesty. Hearing Lakṣmaṇa's words, Tāra, his mind in a flurry and thinking of nothing but the litter, hurried into the cave; grief-stricken minds fasten on a single thing, and the poet sees it. He came hurrying back with the litter, borne by stout monkeys well used to such carrying, and the strength of the bearers tells how heavy the litter was and how great Vālin's body. Lakṣmaṇa's words complete Rāma's philosophy: Rāma teaches the truth, Lakṣmaṇa sets out the order of work. The things needed, firewood, sandalwood, garlands, cloths, clarified butter, oil, perfumes, a litter and bearers, are simply listed, which conveys the urgency. Each of the three is given his own task, Sugrīva to give orders, Aṅgada to fetch the things, Tāra to bring the litter, and so the minds of the grieving are yoked to work, which is itself the cure for grief. By telling Sugrīva that the city is in his charge, Lakṣmaṇa sets him in the king's place and wakes his sense of duty. Sugrīva is described as having lost his wits: even after his victory grief had robbed him of himself, and that is why Lakṣmaṇa's gentle words were needed. The word "at once" is used twice, repeating Rāma's point that the work must not wait.

It was a splendid litter, like a chariot, with a noble seat, painted all over by craftsmen with birds and adorned with carved trees. It was covered with painted panels, well finished on every side, with latticed windows, so that it looked like an aerial car of the Siddhas. It was well joined and spacious, finely made by skilled hands, set with little wooden hills and finished with graceful work. It was beautified with fine ornaments and chains and many-coloured garlands, covered with carved caves and thickets and decked with red sandal. It was heaped with flowers and hung with lotus garlands shining like the rising sun. This long description shows the dignity of a monkey king's funeral; even in death Vālin is borne like a king. The poet's eye moves from one piece of craftsmanship to the next, birds, trees, painted panels, lattices, wooden hills, chains, garlands, red sandal, lotus garlands, and the likeness to a car of the Siddhas hints at the dead king's ascent to heaven. Seeing such a litter, Rāma said to Lakṣmaṇa, "Let Vālin be carried out quickly, and let the funeral rite be performed." Rāma does not perform the rite himself, but he urges its speed, and this marks the end of all enmity; the word "quickly" recalls what he had said before, that a rite whose time has passed is fruitless.

Then Sugrīva, weeping aloud with Aṅgada, lifted Vālin and laid him on the litter. The victor wept as he remembered his brother, and it was he himself, not his servants, who lifted the body, and that is the proof of his remorse. Having laid the lifeless Vālin on the litter, he adorned him with ornaments of many kinds, with garlands and with clothes, as the funeral rite requires among men as well. Then Sugrīva, king and lord of monkeys, gave the command: "Let my elder brother's last rites be performed as the scriptures lay down." By calling him "my noble elder brother" he kept due reverence for him, and by giving an order, "let it be done", he shows that he now stands as a king who commands. "Let the monkeys go in front, scattering jewels of every kind in plenty, and let the litter follow. Whatever splendours are seen at the funerals of kings on earth, with such splendours let the monkeys honour their master." The monkey king's rites were to equal those of human kings; scattering jewels was part of a royal funeral, and it gladdened those who stood along the road asking alms.

Such a funeral they quickly made ready for Vālin. Tāra and the other counsellors, embracing Aṅgada, set out at once, crying aloud, and all the monkeys, who had lost their kinsman, went weeping. Then all the monkey women, devoted to him and obedient to his will, cried out again and again, "Alas, hero! Alas, hero!", calling on their beloved over and over. Tārā and all the other monkey women, bereaved, followed their lord with piteous cries. At the sound of their weeping in the forest the woods and hills on every side echoed it back, so that they too seemed to be wailing; the poet's image here is the echo, a figure well known in great poems, and it shows how far the grief spread. They came to the sandbank of a mountain stream, in a lonely place surrounded by water, such as the scriptures prescribe for a cremation ground. In describing the procession the poet names three groups in turn, first Tāra and the counsellors, then all the monkeys, then the monkey women. The cry "Hero, hero!" is the natural voice of grief. "Bereaved" is said of the monkeys and of the monkey women alike, to show that the grief was shared by all.

There a great many forest-dwelling monkeys built the pyre. Then the best of the monkeys lowered the litter from their shoulders, and all of them, lost in grief, drew aside and stood apart; so the poet leaves the wife alone beside the body, and her lament comes naturally. Tārā saw her husband lying on the floor of the litter, took his head in her lap, the last sign of her love, and lamented in deep sorrow. "Alas, great king of the monkeys! Alas, my lord, my loving one! Alas, you who deserved all honour, mighty-armed, my beloved! Look at me! Why do you not see this poor creature crushed with grief? Giver of honour, even with your breath gone your face looks joyful, and it has the colour of the setting sun, as if you were still alive." In calling herself "this creature" she speaks of herself as another, to show her misery before her husband. The brightness of his face, the poet suggests, is the mark of a hero even in death. Her cries of "alas", repeated six times, show the force of her grief, and the one word "in deep sorrow" tells all that was in her heart.

"Monkey," Tārā said again, "it is Time itself in the form of Rāma that drags you away, Time that with a single arrow has made us all widows in battle." In this she does not blame Rāma; she echoes his own words, that time is the doer. "Lord of kings, these monkey wives of yours cannot leap, and they have come all this long way on foot. Do you not know it? These moon-faced wives of yours were dear to you. Why then, lord of monkeys, do you not look even at Sugrīva? King, your counsellors, Tāra and the rest, and these townspeople stand around you in despair. Subduer of foes, send these counsellors away as you used to, and then let us all play in the woods, wild with love." These last words come from the madness of grief: she speaks to her dead husband as if he were alive and asks him to take his pleasure with them as before, and here pity reaches its height. Her lament has three parts, blame of Time, the plight of the wives, and the sorrow of the counsellors and townspeople, and at the end, as if she had forgotten everything, she asks for the old forest play; this near-madness is the last stage of grief. In asking why he does not look at Sugrīva she shows that the feud is over, for death has ended the quarrel of the brothers. She calls him by name after name, lord of kings, lord of monkeys, king, subduer of foes, monkey, and with each one she treats him as living. "Come on foot" paints the monkey women's hardship: monkeys can leap, but these women had to walk.

As Tārā lamented, wrapped in grief for her husband, the monkey women, themselves worn out with sorrow, raised her up. Then Aṅgada, weeping, his senses overwhelmed by grief, laid his father on the pyre with Sugrīva's help. He lit the fire according to the rites and, his mind in turmoil, walked around his father, now setting out on the long road, keeping him on his left, for the rites prescribe that the dead be circled this way and not the usual way. When they had duly performed the last rites for Vālin, the chief monkeys came to a lovely river of clear, pure water to make the offering of water, and there, gathered together with Aṅgada at their head, and with Sugrīva and Tārā, they poured water for Vālin; the son goes first in that offering, as custom requires. Sorrowing with the sorrowing Sugrīva, the mighty Kākutstha, sharing his grief, had all the funeral rites performed. Aṅgada's part is plain: it is he who places his father on the pyre, he who lights it, he who circles it and he who leads the water offering, for these are a son's rights by scripture, and Sugrīva only helps. Rāma does not act himself, but it is he who has the rites done, and so he presides over them. Calling death "setting out on the long road" gives the father's passing the shape of a journey, and the river is called pure and auspicious to show the holiness of the rite. Then, having set alight Vālin, foremost in valour and illustrious, slain by the arrow of the best of the Ikṣvākus and blazing like fire, the monkey Sugrīva came back to Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. The last verse is in a grander metre, which gives the close of the sarga its solemnity, and Sugrīva's return to Rāma builds the bridge to the next sarga.