Bhima Fails to Move Hanuman's Tail
Bhima, striding through a fragrant forest in search of a lake, finds his path blocked by an ancient ape lying across the road. The ape asks him to simply move his tail aside. Bhima smiles contemptuously, takes the tail in one hand — and cannot budge it. He tries both hands, strains until his body sweats and his face contorts, but the tail does not move.
Bhima was walking through a forest of flowering trees — ashoka, priyala, vakula — when a fragrance struck him, sweet and unfamiliar. He followed it deeper into the woods, past thickets of mango and kadamba, until he came to a clearing where the air itself seemed to hum with the scent of lotus and saffron.
In the middle of the path lay an enormous ape.
The creature was ancient — his body matted, his eyes half-closed, his limbs sprawled across the road as if he had simply fallen asleep mid-walk. He was not blocking the path deliberately. He was just there, too large to step over, too inert to move.
Bhima stopped. He was the strongest man alive, the son of Vayu, the wind god, a man who had killed rakshasas with his bare hands. He did not shout or threaten. He simply told the ape to get up.
The ape opened his eyes slowly. He did not rise. He spoke in a voice that sounded like old stone grinding against old stone: "I am old, O unblemished one. I have no strength to get up. Show me compassion. Pass by moving my tail aside."
Bhima looked at the tail — long, thick, lying across the path like a fallen branch. He smiled. A contemptuous smile. He bent down and grasped it with his left hand.
He could not move it.
He tried again, this time with both hands, gripping the tail that stood erect like Indra's weapon. He pulled. The muscles in his shoulders bunched. His eyebrows contracted. His eyes dilated. His face wrinkled into a mask of strain. Sweat broke across his body. But the tail did not shift — not a finger's width, not a hair's breadth.
Bhima was the man who had lifted the mountain Kailasa in his youth, who had torn down trees by their roots, who had killed the rakshasa Hidimba by snapping his spine. He had never encountered anything that resisted his strength. He tried again. And again. His body began to tremble with effort. His breath came in ragged bursts. But the tail remained exactly where it was.
He let go. His face lowered in shame. He stood beside the monkey, his hands joining in salutation, and bowed his head.
"O tiger among monkeys," he said, "show me your favours. Pardon my harsh words. Whether you are a siddha, a god, a gandharva, or a guhyaka — tell me who you are. I am asking you. I wish to know. Who are you, in the form of an ape?" Aranyaka Parva, Chapter 444