High in the Himalayas, where the air forgets to breathe and the stars hang low like oil lamps, there is a cave no map has ever marked.
It lies behind a waterfall that flows upward in winter.
Inside, on a stone shaped like a lotus, sits Hanuman.
He does not eat.
He does not sleep.
He meditates.
His body is small — like that of a humble vanara — but his presence fills the mountains. Birds do not sing near the cave. Snow does not fall. Even the wind holds its breath.
For 5,000 years, he has waited.
Not for food.
Not for glory.
Not even for siddhi.
He waits for one voice.
The voice that once said, "Carry me across the sea."
The voice that laughed in Lanka, that calmed storms, that sang the Gita into Arjuna's trembling heart.
The voice of Krishna.
But Krishna never came.
And so, Hanuman waits.
He does not grow old.
He does not forget.
But every dawn, he feels something fade — not his devotion, but his hope.
Today, however, the cave shivered.
Not from earthquake.
Not from avalanche.
From sound.
A sound not heard — but remembered.
The soft jingle of Krishna's ankle bells.
Hanuman's eyes snapped open.
Not slowly.
Not peacefully.
Like a warrior drawing a sword.
And then — he wept.
Not tears of sorrow.
Tears of recognition.
For the first time since Krishna vanished, he had felt Him.
Not in dream.
Not in prayer.
In bone.
In blood.
In the space between heartbeats.
That night, he dreamed.
Not of Lanka.
Not of the mountain with the healing herb.
He dreamed of Puri.
A wooden temple.
A chariot with golden wheels.
A crowd chanting, "Jagannath! Jagannath!"
And in the sanctum — an idol with round, black eyes — staring not at the priests, but through them.
Through time.
Through sorrow.
Through him.
And then, the idol spoke — not in words, but in silence:
"You have waited long, son of the wind. But the time of waiting is over. The Ark remembers your name."
Hanuman tried to speak.
To bow.
To offer his hands.
But the dream shifted.
Now he stood on the ruins of Dwaraka, submerged beneath the sea.
Above the waves, a golden dome pulsed — like a heartbeat.
And from it, a voice — deep, familiar, divine — whispered:
"I did not leave you, Hanuman. I only closed my eyes. Now, open yours."
He woke.
Not gasping.
Not sweating.
But standing.
His tail — coiled like a serpent for centuries — uncurled.
His hands — folded in dhyana for ages — clenched into fists.
And from his chest, a sound rose — not a cry.
Not a chant.
A roar.
It began low — like thunder beneath the earth.
Then it grew.
Louder.
Deeper.
Until the mountain shook.
Snow fell from peaks three miles away.
Eagles dropped from the sky.
The upward-flowing waterfall reversed — crashing down like a pillar of light.
And when the roar ended, Hanuman stood at the cave's mouth, facing east.
His eyes — once dull with centuries of waiting — now burned like twin suns.
A sanyasi, meditating near Badrinath, heard the roar.
He dropped his japamala.
His guru, an old man with eyes like burnt coals, smiled.
"Who was that, Guruji?" the disciple asked.
The old man whispered, "That was not a man. That was a promise being remembered."
Hanuman did not walk.
He leapt.
From the Himalayas to the Vindhyas.
From the Vindhyas to the Narmada.
From the Narmada to the edge of Odisha.
He moved like wind.
Like thought.
Like bhakti made flesh.
And with each leap, memories returned — not as images, but as truths.
He remembered carrying the mountain to save Lakshmana — not for war, but for dharma.
He remembered burning Lanka — not for rage, but for justice.
He remembered serving Rama — not for reward, but for love.
And now, Krishna called.
Not to fight.
But to remember.
To witness.
To rebuild.
On the third night, he landed in a forest near Puri.
Not far from the sea.
Not far from the temple.
And there, beneath a neem tree, sat an old woman.
She was peeling a berry with trembling hands.
Her eyes were blind.
Her clothes, simple.
Her face, carved by time.
But when Hanuman stepped forward, she smiled.
"I was wondering when you'd come," she said.
Hanuman froze.
"You… see me?"
She laughed softly. "I do not see with eyes, son. I see with waiting."
He knelt before her.
"Who are you?"
"Shabari," she said. "I offered berries to Rama. Now, I wait to offer them to Krishna."
Hanuman's breath caught.
"You are… one of the Seven?"
She nodded. "And so are you. Though you wear devotion like a cloak, you are bound like the rest — to live, to suffer, to remember."
She held out the berry.
"Taste it."
Hanuman hesitated.
"I do not eat."
"Taste it," she insisted.
He did.
And the moment the bitter neem touched his tongue —
a thousand lives flashed through his mind.
A warrior weeping over a dead child.
A sage writing the same story again and again.
A king walking beneath the earth.
A fisherman pulling metal from the sea.
A crow speaking in Sanskrit.
And a wooden idol — blinking.
And at the center of it all —
a sphere of light, buried beneath the temple,
pulsing like a heart.
"What is it?" he whispered.
Shabari smiled. "The Ark. Krishna's last gift. His final word. It sleeps. But not for long."
"Why now?"
"Because the world has forgotten," she said. "And when the world forgets dharma, the Chiranjeevi must remember. You are not just a devotee, Hanuman. You are a witness. And witnesses are needed now."
He looked toward the sea.
"Puri," he said.
"Yes," she replied. "The temple calls. The idol watches. And the first footstep has already been taken."
Hanuman rose.
"I will go."
Shabari nodded. "Then go not as a servant. Go as a guardian."
And as he turned to leave, she called out:
"Tell Him… I still have a berry for Him."
He did not answer.
But as he leapt into the sky, his hand touched his chest —
where, for the first time in 5,000 years,
his heart beat not with sorrow —
but with purpose.