The vanara armies stretched across the hills and valleys, thousands upon thousands gathered under Sugriva’s command. Their voices filled the forests as they prepared for the greatest mission of their age: to find Sita, the queen of Ayodhya, stolen by Ravana and hidden somewhere in the vast world.
Groups were dispatched to the north, east, and west. But it was to the south that the most fateful party went, for destiny whispered that Sita lay across the ocean. In that party were Angada, Jambavan the wise bear, and foremost among them all, Hanuman, son of the wind.
Days passed as they searched. They scoured mountains and forests, valleys and rivers, but Sita was nowhere to be found. Exhaustion gripped them, and despair crept into their hearts. At last they came to the shore of the great southern ocean. There, endless waves pounded against the land, as though mocking their weakness. Beyond the sea lay Lanka, Ravana’s golden city, rising like a jewel from the waters.
The vanaras stood in silence, their eyes on the horizon. “Who among us,” they asked, “can cross this vast ocean? Who has the strength to leap across its waves and return alive?” One by one, they spoke of their abilities, but each admitted his limits. Some could leap a hundred yojanas, others two hundred, but none could match the distance required. Their hope faltered.
Then Jambavan, ancient and wise, turned to Hanuman. “Why do you stand silent, O son of the wind? Do you not remember who you are?”
Hanuman lowered his head. “I am strong, yes, but I have never seen myself as more than a servant. I leap trees and mountains, but this ocean? It is beyond me.”
Jambavan’s voice thundered with encouragement. “You are greater than you know. You were born of the wind, swift and mighty. As a child, you leapt at the sun, mistaking it for a fruit, and only the gods could restrain you. Your power is limitless, but in your humility you have forgotten it. Awaken, O Hanuman. Remember your strength. For today, all hope rests upon you.”
Something stirred in Hanuman’s heart. The words of Jambavan ignited a fire long hidden. He closed his eyes and remembered. He remembered the boundless energy of his youth, the blessings of the gods, the wind that flowed in his veins. And as he remembered, his body began to grow. Taller, broader, mightier. His form expanded until he towered over the vanaras, radiant as a mountain, eyes blazing like fire.
With a roar that shook the heavens, Hanuman declared: “I will go. I will leap this ocean, cross to Lanka, and find Sita. Neither wind nor wave, neither demon nor death, can stop me. By Rama’s name, I will succeed!”
The vanaras cheered, their despair transformed into awe. Hope returned, not because the ocean had shrunk, but because one soul had risen to meet it.
Hanuman ascended Mount Mahendra, its peak touching the clouds. He stood upon the summit, his gaze fixed on the far shore. Folding his hands, he prayed: “O Rama, give me your strength. O wind, my father, carry me. O gods, bless my leap.” Then, bending low, he gathered his might, his muscles coiled like thunder, his spirit aflame.
With a roar that split the sky, he leapt.
The earth trembled at his takeoff, trees were uprooted, rocks shattered. Through the air he soared, a comet of devotion, his body stretched across the heavens, his shadow darkening the waves below. The ocean, astonished, rose in waves to honor him. The mountains lifted their peaks in salute. The gods looked down in wonder, saying: “Behold, the power of faith!”
As he flew, challenges arose. The ocean itself, seeking to honor Rama, sent forth a mountain called Mainaka, rising from the depths. “Rest upon me, O Hanuman,” it said. “Take food, regain strength.” But Hanuman shook his head. “I cannot pause until my mission is complete.” He touched the mountain lightly with his hand and soared onward, showing that true devotion does not linger in comfort when duty calls.
Next came Surasa, mother of serpents, who rose from the waters to test him. “The gods command,” she said, “that you pass only through my mouth.” Her jaws opened wide, filling the sky. Hanuman grew larger, his form expanding until he filled her vision. Surasa widened her jaws wider still. Then, with quick wit, Hanuman shrank in an instant to the size of a bee, darted into her mouth and out again, and laughed: “I have passed through as you demanded. Now let me go, for my mission awaits.” Surasa, pleased, blessed him and vanished.
But illusion had one more trial. A demoness named Simhika rose from the waves, her power to seize shadows. She caught hold of Hanuman’s shadow and dragged him down. Yet Hanuman, unafraid, struck her with the force of thunder and destroyed her. The path was clear, and onward he flew.
At last, the golden towers of Lanka appeared on the horizon. Ravana’s city gleamed with splendor, guarded by walls of iron and gates of demons. Hanuman descended upon its shores like a silent flame, shrinking his form until he was no larger than a cat. For strength alone is not enough—wisdom and stealth must walk beside it.
Entering the city by night, he searched every palace, every garden, every chamber. He saw Ravana himself, seated on his throne, radiant yet corrupted by arrogance. He searched among the women of the court, but Sita was not there. At last he came to the Ashoka grove, where under a tree she sat, thin with sorrow, clothed in simple garments, surrounded by demonesses.
Her eyes were downcast, her face pale with grief, yet her spirit shone undiminished. Ravana approached her with words of desire and threats of death, but she answered him with scorn. “I am Rama’s. Your threats mean nothing, your riches are dust. My heart cannot be stolen, even if my body is captive.”
Hanuman’s heart swelled with devotion. From his hiding place, he marveled: “Here is true greatness. Even in chains, she is free.”
At the right moment, he revealed himself, descending from the tree with folded hands. “Mother, do not fear. I am Hanuman, servant of Rama. He sent me across the ocean to find you. Here is his ring, the sign of his love.”
Sita took the ring, her tears flowing at the sight. “My Rama still lives,” she whispered. “Hope is not lost.” She gave Hanuman a jewel from her hair, saying: “Take this to him, and tell him I await, though time is short.”
Hanuman bowed and said: “Do not fear. Rama will come. No force in heaven or earth can stop him. Your sorrow will end, your joy will return.”
Having completed his mission, Hanuman might have returned. But his devotion sought more. He rose in size, struck fear into the city, and destroyed Ravana’s gardens. Captured by demons, he allowed himself to be bound, only to show them his power. They set his tail aflame, but with fire upon him, he grew vast, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, setting the golden city ablaze. Flames consumed Lanka, a vision of Ravana’s fate to come. Then, with a final leap, Hanuman soared back across the ocean, carrying Sita’s message and jewel to Rama.
The mission was complete. Faith had leapt the ocean, devotion had conquered fear, and hope had returned to the heart of Rama.
This chapter of the Ramayan is one of its most powerful lessons: that faith can move mountains, and devotion can cross oceans. Hanuman did not doubt, he did not hesitate, he did not count the odds. He simply believed—believed in Rama, believed in dharma, believed in himself. And in that belief, the impossible became inevitable.
In our lives too, we face oceans. Oceans of fear, oceans of failure, oceans of doubt. We stand on the shore, saying, “It is too vast. I cannot cross.” But within us lies the same power that lay within Hanuman—the power of faith, of courage, of devotion. When awakened, it transforms weakness into strength, despair into hope, and distance into victory.
Ask yourself: what is your ocean? What lies on the far shore that you long for, yet fear to attempt? Learn from Hanuman. Remember who you are. Remember the wind that flows within you, the strength that sleeps in your soul. Bend low, gather your will, and leap. For when you leap with faith, the very universe will rise to carry you.
Hanuman teaches us that we are greater than we know. That our limits are illusions, our fears lies, our doubts chains we ourselves forge. To remember our true nature is to break those chains and soar.
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