Across the wild grandeur of Mount Gandhamadana strode the mighty and lion-hearted Bhīma, his step as firm and graceful as a war-elephant’s march. In playful spirit he mingled with the beasts of the forest, driving away prowling predators with a careless sweep of his arm. The creepers and flowering trees trembled at his passing, while Siddhas, celestial maidens, Uragas, and the winged hosts of Garuḍa and Gandharvas peered from mountain clefts to behold his mighty frame in movement—leaping, bending, whirling, springing high and stooping low to pierce the dense canopy of green. The very mountain quivered beneath the thunder of his feet as he crossed stony streams and water-logged paths, his strides stretching beyond the measure of ordinary men. He climbed the heights with ease, glided down the slopes with the speed of the wind, and moved with the precision of Garuḍa himself.
As he went, he marked a flock of birds, their wings wet and glistening, and knew thereby that a lake lay near. He came upon that lake enclosed by a forest thick with fruit and flowers, where sunlight barely pierced the leafy roof. Palmyra and dark trees stood interlaced, their branches heavy with fruit, and the air, moving through the leaves, kept the waters cool and sweet. Entering the lake, Bhīma bathed, plucked lotus flowers, and wove them into a garland which he wore upon his broad chest; the golden pollen dusted his limbs with fragrance. Then, wandering into a vast grove of banana trees, he raised his conch to his lips and blew. The sound rolled through the forest like thunder among clouds, striking hills, caverns, and woods with reverberant power.
Far away, in a shaded cave, lay Hanumān, the venerable son of Vāyu, resting in tranquil slumber. The resonant note of that conch reached him and stirred his spirit; though he smiled at its harmony with the forest’s own breath, he resolved in jest to halt the stranger who dared such might. He uprooted great trees and cast them across the path, then laid his mighty tail across the narrow way, feigning sleep while the slow swing of that tail sent tremors through the mountain. Beasts fled in fear and birds rose shrieking to the sky.
Bhīma, startled by the strange stillness and the trembling earth, advanced in search and beheld a wondrous monkey resting upon a stone. The creature was compact yet powerful, with a neck thick and strong, bright eyes, lips red as flame, and limbs of surpassing grace. His fangs and nails shone with a strange light; his countenance was serene, radiant with purity and self-command. At the sight, the son of Pāṇḍu felt awe and reverence for the son of the Wind. Yet with warrior spirit he roared like a lion to wake him.
Hanumān opened his eyes slowly, yawned, and said with gentle reproach: “I am old and weary, resting here in peace. Why disturb me, O proud and fearless one? Beasts know not righteousness, yet man is bound by it. Have you not learned reverence for age, nor the way of kindness? Without knowing who I am or what my station is, you have come and awakened me. This forest is not for mortal men; only ascetics of transcendent power pass here. Eat of the fruits and roots, then go your way. You seem dear to me; therefore, I speak for your good.”
Bhīma answered with folded arms: “O noble monkey, I am Bhīmasena, son of Kuntī and of the Wind God, famed among men for strength and valour. I go on an errand of purpose; stand aside and grant me passage. If you deny me, I shall summon the great Hanumān who once crossed the ocean itself.”
At this, the monkey smiled and asked, “Tell me, friend, why and how did Hanumān cross that ocean?”
Bhīma replied, “In the search for Sītā, the monkey host led by Sugrīva came upon the bird Sampāti, who revealed her dwelling in Laṅkā. Then Hanumān, blessed by the Wind God, rose from despair and, with steadfast resolve, leapt across the boundless sea. Even so am I his equal in might; would you behold it?”
Hanumān, laughing softly, said, “Brother, I am old and feeble. If your kindness permits, lift my tail aside and make your way.” Bhīma, confident, tried to move the tail with one hand, then with both—but it stirred not. His strength ebbed, sweat poured from his brow, and shame seized him. His pride fell like dust. Bowing low, he said humbly, “Forgive my folly. Surely you are no common being. Are you a Siddha, a Gandharva, or a god in disguise?”
Then the monkey revealed himself with a smile: “I am Hanumān, son of Anjanā and Kesari, born by the grace of the Wind. I am he of whom you spoke—thy brother in spirit. Long ago, I served Lord Rāma of Raghu’s line when his consort was stolen by Rāvaṇa. With the aid of Sugrīva’s host we bridged the sea, and Rāma slew the fiend. In his joy he blessed me with life enduring as long as my name is remembered on earth.”
Bhīma, overcome with reverence, clasped his feet and said, “My life is blessed to behold thee, O Anjaneya. Grant that I may see thy form as when thou didst cross the sea.”
Hanumān replied, “That form belongs to other ages. The world changes with its times: Kṛta, Tretā, Dvāpara, and Kali differ each in measure and virtue.” At Bhīma’s entreaty, he spoke of the yugas—how in Kṛta all men walked the path of truth and needed no law; in Tretā, dharma stood upon three feet, and rites were performed with devotion; in Dvāpara it stood upon two, with truth and falsehood mingled; and in Kali it totters upon one, when anger and desire rule men, yet penance bears great fruit.
At last Bhīma said, “Still, O mighty one, let me behold the form thou didst wear in Tretā.” Then Hanumān, smiling, revealed his vastness: his body rose like golden Meru, joining heaven and earth, filling all space. Bhīma bowed in awe, eyes closed in prayer. “Withdraw thy splendour, O Lord,” he murmured, “for the world itself trembles at thy sight.” Hanumān resumed his gentle shape.
He said, “In the hour of battle, my spirit shall dwell in thy roar, lending thee power immeasurable. Go forth, and may thy strength be a blessing to thy kin.”
Bhīma, bowing low, answered, “Truly thou art the greatest of beings. Hadst thou willed, Rāvaṇa would have fallen by thy hand alone. Yet thou didst serve humbly, and by thy help Rāma won victory with ease.”
Thus the brothers of the Wind embraced upon Gandhamādana’s height, and the echo of their meeting still lingers like thunder in the heart of the mountain.
