This is one of the little known stories from within the Ramayana, set deep within the ancient forests of the Dandakaranya, the wilderness from Kishkinda in the south and all the way up to Panchavati in the north-west, and Chitrakoot in the north-east. Vayuputra Hanuman meets up with the elderly and respected gurumayi, the ascetic-teacher, Shabari, just before some days of their meeting with Rama, the son of Dasharatha.
The Troubled Heart of Anjaneya
The sun dipped behind the jagged peaks of the western mountains, casting long shadows over the great Rishimukha hill. South of this majestic sentinel lay Kishkindha, the city of the Vanaras, ruled by the valiant King Vali, brother of Sugriva. Yet, a short march north of Rishimukha, nestled deep within a hidden fold of the forest where the mighty Tungabhadra river sang its tireless hymns, stood the ashrama (hermitage) of Shabari, disciple of Matanga Rishi.
This was no ordinary retreat. Shabari, though advanced in years, possessed the spiritual vitality of a thousand springs. She was the Gurumayi (senior monk and teacher) to a thriving Gurukula (school) of eager students drawn from the ancient, forest-dwelling communities. Clad in simple saffron, their faces radiated a sincere devotion to Dharma and an unshakeable reverence for the ancient systems of knowledge and the wisdom of the forest. The air of the ashrama was thick with the resonant, rhythmic chanting of mantras and the ancient sastras.
On this particular evening, a strange and powerful aura preceded the arrival of a guest. A sudden, deep hush fell upon the forest floor. The shishyas (students), gathered for the evening prayers, sensed a disturbance in the air, a tension woven with unparalleled spiritual might.
Then, with the soft tread of a feather upon a lotus leaf, a figure of extraordinary stature entered the perimeter. It was Hanuman, the son of Anjana and the Wind-God, Vayu. His form, normally a vessel of supreme confidence and controlled power, now held a barely perceptible tremor of agitation. His eyes, usually bright with sharp intellect, were clouded with an introspection so profound it verged on distress.
He stopped before the modest hut of the Gurumayi, bowing low, his hands pressed together in humble pranam.
“O Mother Shabari, venerable one,” his voice, typically a low rumble of command, was tinged with unusual softness. “I beg permission to enter your sacred sanctuary. I, Hanuman, son of the Wind, have come to seek the solace of your presence and the clarity of your wisdom.”
Shabari, who was tending the evening lamp before an altar dedicated to Narayana, turned slowly. Her face, etched with the maps of a long life lived in deep penance, broke into a beatific smile.
“Hanuma, my son! You are welcome here, as welcome as the first monsoon shower to a parched field,” she greeted him, her voice like the rustle of ancient silks. “I have known of your coming since the early hours. My spirit sensed the approach of the one whose destiny is so inextricably linked to the highest Purushottama (Supreme Being). Come, sit. Share the anxieties that ruffle the calm waters of your otherwise boundless strength.”
The Burden of the Divine Dream
Hanuman settled on a simple reed mat, his powerful frame folding itself with a humility that belied his divine birth and terrifying strength. The shishyas observed from a respectful distance, their awe palpable.
“Mother,” Hanuman began, exhaling a deep breath that stirred the nearby prayer flags, “I confess to you that for many weeks, the peace of my own mind has been utterly shattered. I have been blessed with all knowledge, strength, and unwavering devotion to my friend and my only King, Sugriva. Yet, a single, insistent melody plays in the chamber of my heart, demanding my full attention.”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper, though the words seemed to carry on the very air itself.
“I am plagued, daily and nightly, by the vision of a glorious being. He is tall, dark as the monsoon cloud, yet shining with an inner light that eclipses the sun. He is accompanied by his brother, fierce and loyal, and is in the agony of losing his consort, even in my dreams, he is fraught with great unbearable sorrow.”
Hanuman passed a hand over his brow. “This presence, Mother, this Rama, son of Dasaratha, the Prince of Ayodhya, I know him, instinctively, in the deepest core of my being, to be none other than the great Narayana, who descends in human form to cleanse the Earth of Adharma (unrighteousness). I have been told, in flashes of divine intuition, that my service is meant solely for him. But I do not know when, where, or how I am to meet him. This anticipation, this profound yearning to simply gaze upon his feet, is a torment to my soul! It distracts me from my duties, it poisons my sleep. I am but a vanara, unworthy of such a sublime service, yet commanded by fate to carry the burden of this greatest Avatar (incarnation).”
His confession ended, and the powerful Vanara sat in silence, his eyes fixed on the flickering lamp, waiting for counsel.
Shabari closed her eyes, her lips moving silently in prayer. When she opened them, they shone with the reflected light of the oil lamp, but also with an ethereal wisdom.
“My son, your dream is not a burden. It is a benediction. Know this, your soul, pure and unsullied, is the chosen vessel for the greatest devotion the world shall ever witness. You are the embodiment of Dasya Bhava (the mood of servitude to God). Your distress is merely the anxiety of the servant who awaits the arrival of his Master.”
She paused, then her eyes widened slightly, confirming a hidden truth.
The Oracle of the Separation
“But you are not alone in your troubled sleep, Hanuma,” Shabari continued, her voice gaining an unexpected resonance. “For I, too, have been visited by the divine will. Not by a vision, but by a sacred Oracle of the Goddess, speaking in my deepest slumber.”
She recounted the divine visitation: “The Oracle spoke to me, her voice booming like the celestial conch, ‘O Shabari, servant of the Most High, the Lord you worship, Shri Rama, the Avatara of Narayana, is already journeying south. He has been subjected to a cruelty most foul. His beloved wife, Sita, who is the very embodiment of Mahalakshmi, the Goddess of Fortune, has been snatched away by Ravana, and carried across the sea to his dark island kingdom, Lanka. The Lord is coming to you, not in triumph, but in the deepest agony and separation, a human grief that shall purify the earth with its sincerity.’”
A wave of profound sorrow washed over the faces of the listening shishyas.
Shabari straightened, her posture becoming regal. “The Oracle commanded my role: I am to be the temporary sanctuary for the distraught Lord. My humble ashrama is to serve as the threshold between his anguish and his divine resolve. I must ensure that when he and his devoted brother, Lakshmana, reach this region, their minds are put to rest. They must be given sustenance, clarity, and the gentle strength to focus their formidable intellects on the task ahead, the search for the vanished Janaki (Sita).”
Hanuman was instantly galvanized. His distress evaporated, replaced by a consuming fire of elation and purpose.
“Mother!” he exclaimed, his eyes blazing. “Then the journey has already begun! The lila (divine play) of the Lord is unfolding even as we speak! I am overwhelmed with joy! To know that my King, Sugriva, and I are to be participants in this greatest epochal event! We are to serve Narayana himself! Blessed be the Earth, and blessed be our lineage!”
He rose to his feet in his excitement, then remembered his place and settled down, his expression turning serious again.
“Tell me, Mother. You are possessed of divine foresight, and your penance has earned you the grace of the gods. What must I do? How can I best prepare my heart, my mind, and the resources of Kishkindha to meet and serve the Lord? When he arrives, distraught and sorrowing, what actions must I take to soothe his pain and show him the path to victory?”
The Secret of Participation
Shabari smiled, a gentle, knowing curve of her lips that spoke of the immense secret of the divine will.
“My courageous son, you ask for a map where no map exists,” she said softly. “You desire to be told the moves of the game before the pieces are laid out. But the Lord’s lila is not a predictable ritual, it is a spontaneous, exhilarating dance. The great poets will later sing of the meeting between Rama and you on Rishimukha hill, of the covenant you strike, and of the incredible feats you will perform.”
She raised a single finger, her gaze piercing. “But the Oracle spoke not of blind devotion but extreme action for you and me, only of participation. We are not the architects of this grand design, Hanuman. We are the fortunate witnesses, the blessed collaborators. Narayana does not need our advice, he needs our presence and unconditional love.”
“When Shri Rama arrives, you will be moved by a power greater than your own will. Your strength will be employed where needed, your knowledge will surface when required, and your devotion will be the beacon that lights the path. But you are not to anticipate or plan the meeting. You are simply to be present, entirely and wholly present, in the moment.”
Shabari’s eyes became distant, as if she were gazing across the long span of time to the moment of her own departure from this world, when she would offer the Lord the hospitality of her asrama and her gurukula. She would introduce Narayana himself, to her students and they would in turn be forever blessed.
“I am commanded to offer the Lord solace and the hospitality of a soul refined by time. You are commanded to offer him the loyalty and partnership of a soul refined by truth. When the moment of your meeting comes, you will know the words to speak, the service to render, and the humility required to accept such a sublime calling.”
She concluded with a deep sigh, a peaceful relinquishment of all expectations. “We are all but blessed participants in this great, divine game of Narayana. To know the beginning and the end would be to rob the lila of its joy. We simply await the arrival of the Lord in search of the Goddess, whose separation is the cause of their re-unification, and whose grief is the precursor to the establishment of everlasting Dharma.”
Hanuman listened, his agitation now completely stilled. The words of the venerable Gurumayi were not a set of instructions, but an absolution. He was to surrender his anxiety and simply trust the tide of destiny. His heart, which had been tight with worry, expanded with a buoyant faith.
“Mother Shabari,” he said, bowing low again, his powerful head touching the dust of her earthen floor. “Your words are a profound balm to my turbulent spirit. I have come seeking direction, and I have received the far greater gift of non-attachment to outcome. I will return to Rishimukha and Kishkindha, and wait with an alert and peaceful mind for the hour of his arrival. I shall serve Sugriva faithfully, preparing the ground for the day when the Lord of the Universe will accept the service of a simple Vanara.”
The Twilight Vigil
Hanuman rose, the energy of a man re-purposed radiating from him. The final light of day had faded, and the forest was now wrapped in the deep violet cloak of night. The shishyas began their final chant—a prayer for the welfare of all beings.
Shabari watched him, her gaze filled with immense tenderness for the great spirit before her. “Go, Vayuputra, O great Hanuma. Go and be ready. Soon, the sorrowful footprints of Shri Rama and the determined tread of Lakshmana will grace this forest floor. The time of waiting is nearly done, and the time of epic deeds is about to begin. May the grace of the Mother of the Universe, Mahalakshmi-Sita, protect your path.”
Hanuman offered a final pranam, a reverence not just for the ascetic, but for the profound destiny they now shared. Without another word, he melted into the darkness of the Dandakaranya, his thoughts no longer clouded by doubt, but illuminated by a steady, brilliant certainty.
He knew that the divine sorrow of Rama, the Avatara of Narayana, would soon find temporary rest in the sanctuary of Shabari. And he knew that the moment he, the faithful Vanara, would meet the heartbroken Prince of Ayodhya, the great machine of Dharma would begin its relentless, righteous turn toward the annihilation of Ravana and the joyous reunion of Narayana with his beloved Mahalakshmi.
The fire in the ashrama crackled softly, and the chant of the forest students rose into the velvet night, a patient, potent prayer to the Lord who was on his way. (c) Bharat Bhushan
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