Lo, behold! The tempest rose in simian form, Hanuman the mighty, child of the Wind, leapt upon Lanka like the gale’s own fury, shaking its golden bones till fear groaned from pillar to gate. Even as thunder rends the sky and oceans leap in wrath, so came he, rushing, roaring—before whom the famed Kinkaras, cruel and royal-born, fell like dry leaves hurled by autumn’s breath. Yet Ravana, the ten-crowned sovereign, steeped in pride and wrapped in the blindness of power, scoffed at this wild intruder as no more than a beast with idle rage.
To seize the storm that mocked his throne, Ravana turned to his dearest, most terrible son, Prahastha, a name unbeaten by fate. But ere his command had flown into action, Hanuman, resting his gaze upon the Ashoka grove already laid low, mused aloud with fire in his chest—why leave the carved arches and silken halls untouched? Let beauty born of arrogance fall by a single sweep of his hand.
Then up he rose to the palace pinnacle, shining like Meru, radiant as if it dared rival the sun’s own orb, and there he grew in stature till his shadow kissed the sky and dwarfed the peaks of Pariyatra. No eye in Lanka could measure him, no soul could fathom his vastness. He roared—a roar like Indra’s storm-tusk tearing the firmament—and smote his arms with a thunderous rhythm, each blow a curse upon the city’s peace.
Panic gripped the heights. Soldiers fell where they stood, birds dropped from the heavens, overcome by tremors. Upon the citadel’s crown stood Hanuman, unyielding, his voice a tempest that deafened the heart. Then came the guard, in hundreds, in rings upon rings, as the Ganga rushes in waves, armed and bold. But lo! The monkey-God, aflame with divine ire, tore a pillar from the palace breast, whirled it till sparks danced in dread, and fire surged wild through the golden corridors. Warriors perished like forest fowl caught in a midsummer blaze.
Then high above all, held aloft by air itself, he proclaimed with the breath of gods—know this, Lanka, I am but one among many. Sugreeva, child of the Sun, commands us. Monkeys greater than I await his word—some match a hundred elephants, others a thousand, and some beyond count. Some move as rivers move, some fly with the speed of Vayu, and some mirror the gods in wrath. Our claws are spears, our fangs like blades, our breath can tear down your towers and root your realm from the earth.
Sugreeva, son of Aditya, his strength veiled in silence, is mightier than tongues may tell, and your king, daring to lift arms against Rama, has struck his name into the scroll of doom. Your end nears, O Lanka.
Then came Jambumali, born of Prahastha, dread in form, dreadful in soul. With limbs like Arjuna trees, fangs like twin blades, legs like elephant’s trunks, and a face fit to swallow a beast whole, he came, decked in crimson garlands, ears gleaming with wheels vast as chariots, riding a chariot drawn by donkeys ghostly and grim. His bow sang like Indra’s thunder, its cry a prelude to death.
At the bidding of Ravana and the command of his sire, he rode with fury and fire. Arrows flew in arcs—half-moons to the brow, karni shafts to the crown, ten narachas to the limbs. Hanuman’s face, kissed with blood, turned red as an autumn lotus under the sunrise, gleaming with rage and valor mingled. The monkey-god’s colour deepened; his strength swelled like a storm.
He seized a boulder, vast and jagged, hurled it with the sky’s force—but lo, the demon’s arrows burned it to ash before it struck. Then Hanuman wrenched an Arjuna tree and spun it in wrath like Vishnu’s disc—but again, shattered mid-air it fell. Wounded and pierced, his flesh bore shafts like sacred posts garlanded for sacrifice. Yet his might unfailing, he rose, lifted a rod of metal vast and dense, and with one terrible arc brought it down upon the chariot.
And in that blow, the chariot, the ghost-drawn beasts, and all who stood beside Jambumali sank into the earth as if swallowed by doom. Hanuman roared again, shook his frame, and the arrows fell from his body like rain from a tree’s trembling leaves. Thus fell Jambumali, son of Prahastha, never to rise, never to be named in battle again.
Word flew to Ravana’s court. The ten-headed king, master of fear, shook with wrath and disbelief. That his beloved, his blood, should fall to a monkey—this insult burned hotter than flame. Fury choked his command, and he summoned the sons of his ministers, finest among the rakshasas, bidding them seize the simian or die in the act.
But fate had crowned Hanuman. Vayu’s breath guarded him, Agni’s flame danced in his eyes, and the justice of Yama walked in his steps. He came not merely to battle, but to carve terror into Lanka’s heart—to light the fire that would guide Rama’s path. Yet his soul stirred still, yearning to meet Ravana’s gaze and show him the ruin yet to come before flying back to Kishkindha.
Thus began Lanka’s darkest tale—etched not by sword nor spell, but by the hand of a monkey, written in flame, sealed by thunder, and witnessed by heaven and earth. From that hour, demons trembled—not only at Hanuman, but at the will behind him, the coming storm of Rama, and the rising of the monkey tide.