The moon rose high, casting her silver light upon the battlefield, where Rama sat beside his fallen brother, Lakshmana. Hope flickered like a fragile flame, for only Hanuman’s strength and speed could now save the beloved prince.
Far away, Hanuman soared through the skies — swift as the wind, mighty as the mountains — his heart pounding with devotion, his eyes set upon the distant Himalayas, where the Sanjeevani herb grew upon the sacred mountain Dronagiri.
The world below watched in awe as the great vanara raced against time. Trees bowed, rivers sang, and the stars themselves lit his path.
At last, Hanuman reached the mighty mountain, its peaks rising high into the heavens. But alas! The herbs glowed with equal brilliance — how could he find the sacred Sanjeevani among them in the dark of night?
Hanuman’s heart beat faster. “There is no time for doubt,” he roared. “If I cannot find the herb, I shall carry the mountain itself!”
With a mighty roar, Hanuman placed his hands upon the mountain and lifted it high into the air — roots, rocks, trees, and all.
The earth trembled, the skies blazed, and the mountain rose — carried by the strength of a heart filled with love and duty.
Across valleys, forests, and rivers, Hanuman flew — a mountain cradled in his hands, his eyes burning with the light of Rama’s name.
Back on the battlefield, Rama looked to the skies — and there, like the rising sun, came Hanuman, the mountain glowing in his grasp.
Sushena, the wise healer, bowed before Hanuman’s might. He searched the mountain and found the sacred Sanjeevani — its leaves shining with life itself.
With gentle hands, Sushena crushed the herb and placed it upon Lakshmana’s wounds. A fragrance filled the air, soft and sweet, like the breath of the gods.
And then — as if touched by the dawn — Lakshmana stirred. His eyes fluttered open, his chest rose, and life returned to the mighty prince.
Rama wept tears of joy, embracing his brother. “O Lakshmana, you have returned. You are my soul, my strength. Without you, victory would have no meaning.”
The vanaras cheered, the earth sang, and even the stars twinkled brighter — for the bond of brothers had triumphed over death itself.
Hanuman, humble and smiling, bowed low. “I am but your servant, my lord. Your love gave me wings, your name gave me strength.”
The mountain was returned, the skies cleared, and the war drums beat once more — for now, with Lakshmana revived and Rama’s heart whole again, the final battle was near.
The earth waited, the heavens watched — as the tale of love, courage, and devotion neared its mighty end.