The sun bathed the peaks of the Himalayas in gold, where the air was thin, and silence echoed louder than speech. Amid these ancient, snow-kissed mountains, in a cave high above the clouds, a divine figure sat, his body still, his eyes closed in deep remembrance. It was Hanuman, the immortal devotee of Lord Rama, who now lived in quiet contemplation far from the bustling world below.
Years had passed since the war in Lanka, since the coronation of Lord Rama in Ayodhya. The world had moved on. Kingdoms rose and fell, sages meditated in forests, and mankind retold tales of Rama’s valor and Sita’s devotion. But Hanuman, unbound by time and untouched by the decay of age, found solace in solitude, his heart still echoing the name, Rama.
One morning, as the sun melted the frost from the pine leaves, Hanuman opened his eyes. A thought had stirred within him—not of pride, not of fame, but of longing. He missed Rama deeply. And in that yearning, a divine idea took shape.
“I shall write,” Hanuman whispered to the wind. “I shall write of Him—not as others have, but as I saw Him, as I knew Him. Not for the world, but for myself, to relive the blessed moments I spent at His feet.”
He wandered from the cave into the cliffs beyond, where the rocks bore no name, no inscription, no history. There, with the nail of his own hand, he began to inscribe the story of Rama—on stone, on bark, on the hidden faces of mountains. He etched scenes with precision: the boyhood of Rama, His exile, the golden deer, the agony of Sita’s abduction, the mighty bridge to Lanka, the thunderous war, the fall of Ravana, and the tender return to Ayodhya.
Each word bore not only memory but love. Hanuman wrote not as a scribe, but as a soul who had lived and breathed Rama. The stones glowed faintly with divine energy, as if the mountain itself wished to preserve the tale.
Meanwhile, in a distant ashram nestled near the banks of the Ganga, the sage Valmiki, the great poet, sat composing his own Ramayana. He had been blessed by Brahma himself to undertake the sacred task. With celestial vision and deep wisdom, Valmiki penned down verses that would echo through time.
One day, as fate would have it, Narada, the wandering sage, visited Hanuman’s secluded haven. Seeing the cave adorned with glowing scripts, Narada’s heart swelled with wonder.
“These are not just words,” he murmured. “This is love made eternal.”
He read Hanuman’s version and wept—each verse pulsed with devotion, each scene painted not with ink, but with soul. He traveled swiftly to Valmiki’s ashram and spoke of what he had seen.
“O great sage,” said Narada, bowing low, “Your Ramayana shall guide the world, but in the mountains, there is one written with such love that even the stones sing of Rama.”
Valmiki’s curiosity was piqued, but so too was his sorrow. Was his creation—his life’s work—less worthy? Was it merely knowledge without the fire of Hanuman’s devotion?
Still, he traveled to the mountains, seeking the truth for himself. When he reached the cave, Hanuman greeted him with folded hands and a smile.
“O revered one,” said Hanuman, “What brings you to these silent hills?”
“I have heard of your Ramayana,” said Valmiki. “And I wished to see it with my own eyes.”
With no pride and no hesitation, Hanuman guided him. Together they walked along the cliffs, and Valmiki read the sacred engravings—verses that spoke not only of battles and dharma, but of glances, of silences, of Rama’s laughter, and of the tears Hanuman had seen Him shed.
By the end, Valmiki fell silent. A tear rolled down his cheek. “Your Ramayana is greater than mine,” he whispered. “It is not made for the world, but for the heavens. Mine may be chanted, but yours is lived.”
Hanuman placed his hand gently on the sage’s shoulder. “Both speak of Rama,” he said. “Is there any need to compare what is offered with devotion?”
But Valmiki was troubled. “If the world reads yours, they may never look upon mine,” he said honestly, not out of jealousy, but humility.
Hanuman stood silent for a long time. Then he smiled faintly, and said, “If my words must fade to preserve the glory of yours, so be it. Let yours guide mankind, for yours is written to teach. Mine was written only to remember.”
And with that, Hanuman pressed his palm upon the stones. The engravings shimmered with golden light—and vanished. The wind carried away the last echo of the divine script. The mountain was again bare.
Valmiki watched in awe and heartbreak. “Why?” he asked.
Hanuman replied, “Because you wrote for the world, and I wrote for Rama. Let my Ramayana live only in the ether, and in my heart. Your words shall carry His name to every corner of the earth.”
Valmiki bowed low. “Then grant me one boon,” he said. “Will you read mine and bless it, as one who truly knew Him?”
Hanuman took Valmiki’s scroll and read it—every shloka, every line. When he finished, he touched it to his forehead.
“It is Rama Himself,” he said. “You have not written His story—you have brought Him to life.”
That night, under the full moon, the sage and the devotee sat together, chanting Rama’s name. The mountains echoed, the stars paused, and the universe listened.
Epilogue
The legend of Hanuman’s Ramayana lives on in whispers. No manuscript remains. No verses can be found. But it is said that in the deepest caves of the Himalayas, when the wind brushes the rocks, sometimes a melody is heard—not of words, but of memory. A memory of love so pure it could not remain in stone, but only in silence.
And thus, the world knows the Ramayana through Valmiki. But those who listen with their hearts may yet hear Hanuman’s version—in the rustle of leaves, in the quiet between chants, and in the tears of those who truly understand Rama.
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