As the dreadful Brahmastra, born of the Creator’s will and unleashed by Indrajit, raged with divine fury, Rama and Lakshmana, perceiving resistance would but multiply destruction, yielded themselves to its power and fell unconscious, bound as many warriors before them.
The false pride of Indrajit, mistaking submission for conquest, led him to withdraw without further ruin. Sugreeva, Neela, and Jambavantha lay in semi-conscious stupor, caught in the sanctified web of celestial arrows. Amidst the hush of stunned valour, the pious Vibhishana, discerning and faithful, moved among the fallen hosts of vanaras, his heart heavy with worry, but his words firm with courage: “Fear not, O simian warriors. Rama and Lakshmana, bound by the unerring Brahmastra, shall soon awaken. Do not be cast down.”
Hanuman, once restrained by the same weapon, now freed, approached Vibhishana and spoke gravely: “Mighty vanaras lie struck by the hallowed shafts of Indrajit. Let us find who among them breathes still and who has surrendered to Yama.”
They seized heavy torches and went forth into the grim field. Horror seized them as they beheld limbs torn, cries of agony, bodies pinned beneath broken chariots, and the weight of divine wrath. Among the wounded and fettered by celestial force, they found Angada, Neela, Sarabha, Gandhamadana, Gavaksha, Sushena, Vegadarsi, Nala, Jyothimukha, and Dwivida.
Recognizing the sacred hour of impact, they measured the lapse of time—two hours and twenty-four minutes had passed since the astras struck. Hope yet remained, for only after a full day would the souls fall beyond recovery into the domain of Yama. Vibhishana’s eyes searched the scattered host, seeking the ancient Jambavantha.
They found him, the son of Brahma, stooped with age, pierced by many arrows, lying still as extinguished fire. They addressed him: “O noble one, may thy life yet burn within.” The venerable voice replied: “By sound alone I knew thee, O Vibhishana, for my eyes see no more. If Hanuman lives, let him be sought, for his life is dearer to me than Sugreeva, Angada, or even Rama.” Vibhishana, astonished, asked, “Why such favor?” And Jambavantha answered: “If Hanuman breathes, I know hope remains. In his strength lies the life of all.”
As he spoke, Hanuman approached, bowed low, and touched his feet. At once, the spirit of Jambavantha rekindled as if reborn. “O Hanuman,” said he, “the hour is come. Save the simians. Fly now to Mount Himavat. Between Rishabha and Kailasa lies the radiant mountain of herbs, rich with healing glory. Atop it blooms four divine plants: Mrithasanjeevini, which restores life; Vishalyakarani, which extracts weapons; Suvarnakarani, which returns glow; and Sandhanakarani, which heals wounds. Bring them quickly, O mighty one.”
Enthused by command, Hanuman stood upon the summit of the mountain, towering like another peak. The earth groaned beneath him, trees shattered, rocks fell, and rivers stirred. Lanka trembled; its walls cracked and palaces danced in fear. From Trikuta, he soared, expanding his form, shaking the heavens. Roaring with thunder, he frightened Gandharvas, Kinneras, beasts, and birds.
With folded hands, he saluted the Ocean Lord and sought his blessing. Then, coiling his vast tail like a mighty serpent, leaning forward, mouth aflame like Yama’s fire, Hanuman rose to the skies. Stones, trees, and creepers lifted in his wake and rained down. With the speed of Garuda, he sped towards Himavat. The swirling ocean passed beneath him, teeming with life. He flew over forests, hills, streams, human towns, and sacred lands, faster than thought, a second sun thundering through the sky. Remembering Jambavantha’s word, he beheld at last the garland of white-peaked mountains. Himavat lay before him, adorned with streams, radiant herbs, and divine abodes.
He saw the places sacred to Brahma, Rudra’s field of arrows, Indra’s vajra-throne, Kubera’s halls, and the shadow-platform of Surya. Through Kailasa and Rishabha he passed, until at last he reached the Mount of Herbs. Alighting gently, he searched for the plants. Though he had crossed the vast skies without weariness, the herbs hid themselves, knowing they were sought.
Angered, Hanuman thundered, “O mountain, you defy Rama! You conceal the cure! Now behold my might!” With furious power, he shook the peak. The air filled with panic—birds flew, animals fled, sages trembled. He wrenched the whole mountain from its roots, placed it upon his head, and soared aloft. The celestials blessed his flight; the guardians of the quarters hailed him. In the sky he appeared like a second sun, racing with the force of Vishnu’s discus.
The vanaras saw him approach and raised shouts of joy that echoed through Lanka. The demons trembled. Hanuman descended and placed the mountain gently on the field. The sacred wind, bearing the fragrance of the herbs, reached the fallen. One by one, the vanaras stirred, revived as if from a tranquil sleep. Rama and Lakshmana too awoke, restored in vigor and resolve. Ravana’s deceit had failed. His forces, broken, were buried in the sea, uncounted.
The vanaras, honored in death, had their remains sanctified. Yet all were revived with the divine breath of the mountain. Hanuman, bowing to Vibhishana, was embraced with reverence. He returned the mountain of herbs to its abode, bowed with gratitude, and flew back, standing humbly before Rama, awaiting command. Thus, the vanaras were saved—not for war alone, but for righteousness, for they fought for Dharma. And the balance of the worlds, long disturbed by demonic tyranny, began to incline toward harmony, toward Rama, and the fulfillment of divine will.
