Hanuman Speaks: The Lesson Before the War

Prologue

Time’s river flows on, carrying whispers of ancient tales — of the Chiranjeevis, rare souls who defy death. While kingdoms rise and fall, these immortals walk across centuries, preserving memory and preparing the ground for struggles yet to come. Vyasa, preserver of wisdom; Parashurama, warrior sage; Vibhishana, ruler shaped by righteousness; Bali, king of surrender; Kripa, teacher beyond time; Ashwatthama, burdened with curse; and Hanuman, eternal servant of Rama — they stand as bridges across ages — carrying the memory of Rama’s era into Krishna’s, bearing lessons from the war for Lanka into the war of Kurukshetra, linking what the world learned with what it must never forget.

And among these few stands Hanuman, the son of Vayu, whose strength shook the oceans and whose humility held a power beyond strength. Blessed by Rama to live as long as His name is spoken, Hanuman watches over the world, unseen yet ever present, waiting for the hour when destiny calls him again.

It is he who meets Bhima in the deep forest — not by chance, but by design.

And now, the immortal speaks.

Hanuman Speaks

I watched the world from silence, the stillness between two great storms. The war of Lanka had ended, yet its lessons lingered; the war of Kurukshetra awaited beyond the horizon, gathering power like thunder behind a darkening sky. I had traversed epochs, through triumph and ruin, and still the world had not grasped that the greatest battles are not fought with weapons, but within the heart.

I saw Bhima then — son of Vayu, my brother in spirit and breath. He moved through the forest in search of the Saugandhika flower. The ground trembled beneath him, the wind followed his stride. Confidence burned in every step.

He believed nothing could stop him, but the path to Kurukshetra demanded more than strength — it demanded humility and the courage to bow before rising.

So, I placed my tail across his path to steady his spirit.

Bhima glared at the tail — a simple gray coil across the earth. Anger flared. He commanded me to move aside, his voice shaking the leaves. I remained still — for sometimes stillness is the only mirror pride will see itself in.

He reached to lift it with ease, but his strength dissolved. He strained, fought, heaved — the tail did not move. His breath faltered; confusion shadowed his resolve.

He tried again. And again. This had never happened to him before.

At last he stopped, and understanding rose in him like dawn. He stood humbled.

Then he lowered his head, acknowledging the presence of a strength he had not known.

Only then did I speak. “Rise, Bhima.”

My voice held the quiet power of mountains and oceans. He looked up, breath unsteady, and I saw clarity replace pride.

“You stand before Hanuman,” I said, “son of Vayu, servant of Rama — your brother not by blood, but by breath.”

For a moment he stood motionless, as though time itself had paused around him. He bent in respect, his earlier certainty softened into understanding. When he rose, his voice held quiet restraint.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I did not know before whom I stood. I have heard the glories of Hanuman, whose leap shook the oceans and whose roar shattered the heart of Lanka. Yet I never imagined meeting him in this mortal world.”

I smiled. “Strength is a gift, Bhima, but also a burden. One who wields it must know when to lift it, when to stay it, and when to lay it aside. Without wisdom it destroys. Guided by restraint, it protects.”

His eyes softened, and the fire of anger gave way to something quieter — reflection. He listened as I spoke of the war that once shook the earth, the war of Lanka. I told him how arrogance blinded Ravana and how restraint lifted Rama. I spoke of sacrifice, loyalty, and battles won not by might but by the strength to let go of pride.

“The war you walk toward,” I said, “is far greater than the war we fought in Lanka. It is not a struggle of kingdoms, but of Dharma itself. Kurukshetra will demand more than the swing of a mace. It will demand steadiness of heart, discipline of mind, and unity of purpose — and you, Bhima, must carry not only your own strength, but the strength of your brothers.”

Tears welled in his eyes. “Tell me then,” he asked softly, “how shall I face what is to come?”

“You won't face it alone,” I said.

I blessed him, placing my palm upon his head. The wind paused around us, as though listening. “In the war ahead, when the chariot of Arjuna cuts through the battlefield, look to its banner. There I shall stand. My presence will steady your breath. When your war-cry resounds in battle, I will answer.”

He lowered his head in acceptance. When he looked up again, his gaze held only purpose.

“Go now,” I told him. “Fetch the flower not for glory, but for love. A warrior’s heart must know tenderness, for only then can it understand sacrifice.”

And so he walked onward, lighter than he had come — not weaker, but steadier.

Closing Reflection

Bhima left that day with the same strength in his arms, but a steadier strength in his heart. I did not fight in Kurukshetra; I lifted no weapon. I stood upon Arjuna’s flag as promised, steadying his resolve. When his strength spoke in battle, I answered — and the hearts of the enemies trembled.

As long as the name of Rama is spoken, I shall remain — to stand where Dharma falters and to steady the shoulders that carry the weight of the world.