Hanuman

When Hanuman was young, he mistook the sun for a ripe mango and leapt toward it. Indra struck him down with his thunderbolt, but Vayu — the wind god and Hanuman's father — withdrew all breath from the world in grief. The gods relented, blessing the child with near-invincibility.

This is how Hanuman received his name: "one with a broken jaw." But within that wound lay the seed of his greatest gift — the forgetting of his own power, so that when the moment came to serve Rama, the remembering would be all the more magnificent.

In the forest of Kishkindha, Hanuman had been serving the monkey king Sugriva in exile. When two princes appeared — Rama and Lakshmana, searching for Rama's abducted wife Sita — Sugriva sent Hanuman to investigate, disguised as a wandering brahmin.

The moment Hanuman saw Rama, something ancient stirred in him. His forgotten divinity trembled at the edges of his awareness. He revealed his true form and fell at Rama's feet. "I am yours," he said simply. It was not submission — it was recognition. Every great devotee knows this moment: when you find the one you were made to serve, freedom and surrender become the same thing.

The army stood at the southern tip of India, staring across the vast ocean to Lanka where Sita was held captive. Who could cross it? Angada could not. Jambavan was too old. Then the wise bear turned to Hanuman, who sat quietly in the corner, and spoke the words that changed everything.

"You have forgotten who you are, son of the Wind. You leapt to the sun as a child. This ocean is nothing." As Jambavan spoke, Hanuman's body began to grow. He rose like a mountain, his shadow stretching across the sea. With a roar that shook the earth, he leapt — soaring over the waves while sea-demons tried to swallow him and enchantresses tried to trap him. He defeated them all. Sometimes our greatest obstacle is simply forgetting our own strength.

Hanuman shrank to the size of a cat and crept through Lanka's golden streets at night. He searched every palace, every garden, growing desperate. Finally, in the Ashoka grove — a garden of sorrows — he found her.

Sita sat beneath a tree, surrounded by rakshasi guards, thin from fasting, her hair unbraided in mourning. Ravana came daily to threaten and cajole, but she would not look at him. Hanuman watched from the branches, tears streaming down his face. When the guards slept, he descended softly and placed Rama's signet ring before her. Her eyes widened. "He is coming," Hanuman whispered. "And he has not forgotten you for a single breath." In that moment, Hanuman understood — devotion is not just serving the divine. It is carrying hope to those who have almost lost it.

Hanuman allowed himself to be captured — he wanted to face Ravana directly. Dragged into the demon king's court, he delivered Rama's message: return Sita, or face destruction. Ravana laughed and ordered Hanuman's tail wrapped in oil-soaked cloth and set ablaze.

But as the flames licked his tail, Hanuman shrank free from his bonds. He grew enormous and leapt from rooftop to rooftop, dragging his burning tail across Lanka's golden palaces, temples, and armories. The city blazed like a second sunset. Only then did Hanuman pause — had the fire reached the Ashoka grove where Sita waited? He raced back in terror, but found her untouched. The fire of devotion, it seems, knows who to spare.

During the great battle, Ravana's son Indrajit struck Lakshmana with a poisoned arrow. The prince lay dying, his breath fading. The physician Sushena said only the Sanjeevani herb from the Himalayas could save him — but it had to arrive before sunrise.

Hanuman flew north faster than thought itself, crossing the length of India in moments. But on the mountain, surrounded by thousands of luminous herbs, he could not tell which one was Sanjeevani. Time was running out. So Hanuman did what only Hanuman would do — he uprooted the entire mountain, placed it on his palm, and flew it back to Lanka. Lakshmana was saved with moments to spare. The lesson: when you cannot find the answer, bring the whole mountain. When love is urgent, precision matters less than showing up.

After the war was won and Rama was crowned king, the court gathered for celebration. Sita gifted Hanuman a magnificent pearl necklace. He examined each pearl carefully, then cracked them open one by one, peering inside. The courtiers laughed. "What are you looking for, monkey?" "I am checking if Rama and Sita are inside," he replied. "If they are not, these pearls are worthless to me."

Someone scoffed: "Then is Rama in YOUR body?" Without hesitation, Hanuman tore open his chest. And there, glowing on his heart, were Rama and Sita — not as images but as living presence. The court fell silent. This is the final teaching of Hanuman: devotion is not performance or ritual. It is the total saturation of every cell with love. When they ask what you are made of, may your answer be this clear.