Hanuman, the mighty vanara, born of the wind and schooled in restraint, resolved to awaken the demon world to the power of their destined foe. Not through stealth nor speech did he declare this truth, but by thunder and fury. He chose a path fierce and deliberate, not for glory, but to strike fear into the hearts of those who thought themselves invincible. He tore trees from their roots, crushed the creepers that coiled about the garden groves, and laid waste to pavilions and terraces with the strength of his limbs alone, a storm in simian form. This was no mindless destruction—it was a summons. A roaring challenge was hurled into the heart of Ravana’s golden citadel. The Ashoka Garden, once a realm of tranquil bloom, lay broken beneath his feet.
He stood tall beneath the arch of the garden’s entrance, an arch adorned with precious stones and the artistry of the finest hands—gold entwined with silver, nature etched into metal, a gate to a paradise now fallen into chaos. Flocks of birds shrieked and scattered as though the skies had cracked. Trees fell like towers under siege. Demons and beasts fled in fear, unsure whether it was an earthquake or divine wrath that shook their city. Cries echoed through Lanka, and whispers of ill omen spread like fire on dry grass. The proud city, once thought impenetrable, now trembled.
Demonesses—foul of face and harsh of form—roused from sleep and came upon a sight that chilled their hearts. Before them stood Hanuman, vast as a mountain, limbs like thunderclouds, eyes like fire. They felt the weight of his silence more than the clash of his wrath. In fear and confusion, they turned to Sita, the noble daughter of Janaka, who sat beneath a lone tree—the only untouched place in that devastated garden.
“Who is this being of monstrous might?” they cried. “Whence comes he? Why does he speak to you? What words did he utter?”
Pressing her with questions, their fear disguised as vigilance, they sought the key to this terror. Sita, though sorrowed by her fate, found composure within. Her eyes calm, her voice measured, she replied, weaving caution with wit: “How should I know the mysteries of your demon realm? How can I discern the nature of this being, whether he is a rakshasa in another form or some celestial power? I, too, am awed by his presence. Perhaps he is one of your own, returned from distant conquest, or some illusion conjured by fate. Only a serpent knows the path of another serpent. As for me, I know nothing.”
Her words, cloaked in innocence and veiled truth, unsettled them. Some fled, their courage broken. Others lingered, unsure whether to guard her or flee the wrath to come. A few raced to Ravana’s palace, breathless with terror, and cried, “O King of Lanka, a monstrous vanara lays waste to your garden! He speaks with Sita but reveals not his purpose. His destruction is vast—the garden is no more. Only the space near Sita remains unharmed, whether out of respect or strange design. We believe he is no ordinary beast. He may be a messenger of Indra or an agent of Rama, come to challenge your dominion. Worse, perhaps Sita herself summoned him to terrify us. He speaks boldly to her as if mocking your law. Who would dare such insolence unless death held no fear? He must be punished!”
Ravana’s fury ignited like wildfire. His eyes gleamed with flames, his breath seethed like lava, and tears of wrath marked his cheeks. At once, he summoned the Kinkaras, his elite host—eighty thousand fierce warriors, armed with tridents, swords, and bows. “Go,” he thundered, “and seize this beast alive. Drag him before me. I would know who dares set foot upon the soil of Lanka, land of no return.”
The Kinkaras surged forth like a black tide, their weapons flashing, their roars rising like a thousand drums. But Hanuman stood unmoved, rooted like the Himalaya. Their strikes broke upon him as waves upon rock. His eyes blazed, his chest swelled, and with a swing of his tail and a stomp of his foot, he shook the very earth. Birds dropped from the sky. Trees split at their roots. Lanka trembled.
Then, in a voice that rolled like thunderclouds, Hanuman declared, “Behold, the glory of Rama is eternal! Lakshmana waits with arrows forged by gods. Sugreeva, king of the vanaras, moves with righteous fire. I am Hanuman, son of the wind, servant of Rama, lion of Ayodhya, heir of Dasaratha. I need no chariot, no blade—stones and trees shall suffice. A thousand Ravanas shall fall before me. I spared only that sacred spot where Sita sits—not from weariness, but from reverence.”
His voice struck their hearts like a war drum. For a moment, the Kinkaras faltered, but duty bound them. They attacked once more. Hanuman seized a massive door-latch, iron and wood, and wielded it like the mace of Death. With it he crushed their ranks. Warriors fell like shattered statues, and the survivors fled, broken in spirit, to report their failure.
Ravana, shaking with rage, summoned Prahastha, his mighty son, undefeated in war. “Go,” he commanded, “bring me this vanara. Bind him with chains or burn him to ashes, but bring him to me.”
Thus began a new chapter in the fate of Lanka. Hanuman’s wrath was but the herald of war to come—a war not born of ambition, but of righteousness. In that clash of realms, where gods watched and destinies turned, the proud towers of the demons would one day fall, and the wheel of dharma would be set back in motion.
