The son of the Wind God wasn’t raised by the Wind God. Pavan’s love was fly-by-night and fly-by-day, too. If Pavan didn’t have a home on earth, how could he possibly make a home with a wife and child? Hanuman’s dejection after Rama’s reign ended brought out the Wind in his bloodline. No wonder he wandered.
Unlike his father, though, Hanuman was far less impulsive. His mother, Anjana, had been wearing a loose wrap on a seaside cliff one day, and Pavan, passing by, had taken an accidental look. In his defence, he resisted thousands of such peeks a day. All Anjana felt was a gust from below, as if she were crossing a rope bridge over an abyss.
Hanuman had a far closer relationship with Anjana’s husband, Kesari, and he regarded that mild-tempered vanara as his true father. Still, he had a sense of familiarity with the Wind God, and he did not feel the same terror and awe as others.
One day, while cruising between India and Lanka for old times’ sake, Hanuman glimpsed a typhoon swirling into shape, miles out at sea. He did not keep mum out of filial piety. Nor did holy terror keep him from questioning his father’s climate-changing action. He steered directly towards the typhoon. Hanuman had always imagined his father stirring a typhoon, like a pot with a ladle. Now, he discovered that the storm was the Wind himself, spinning in place with his four cloud-arms out. With a dancer’s technique, Pavan kept his face turned one way and let his body turn as much as possible before swivelling his head. This kept him from getting dizzy
“Hello there, Son! Stay clear. I’m whipping up a real boardwalk-breaker this time.”
“What’s prompting this?” Hanuman asked with crossed arms. “When men and monkeys make war, it’s as a last resort, and we have all kinds of rules about how we treat civilians and civilian property. Then we write tragic ballads and grim epics about it for generations. You seem to be doing far more damage for sport and without provocation.”
“I was listening to the Ramayana, and I heard about how they treated you when they captured you. It got my rage going, so I’m taking it out on Lanka.”
“That was thousands of years ago. Whatever happened, happened to me, and even I don’t hold a grudge. Besides, right after they set my tail on fire, I ran through the city and burned it to the ground. It was a firestorm so bright, the stars admired it as we admire stars. Leave these latter-day Lankans alone.”
Pavan had no experience raising kids, so he had never developed the slightest tolerance for insolence. “Aren’t you the compassionate one?” he said sarcastically. “Transcended all your passions, have you? So high thinking and addled with fame and praise that you talk back to your father? I’ll have you know that typhoons like this one serve a higher purpose. I wash the filth out of the sewers and gutters, free of charge. I goad cost-cutting builders to build with better materials. I remind complacent coast-dwellers whose mercy lets them enjoy their beach chairs and sun umbrellas and seaside cocktails. Would anyone value good weather and soft breezes if I didn’t mix it up with some bad weather and gale-force winds? You have no place questioning the dharma of a meteorological master like me. What men break in war is an avoidable waste. What Gods break in the course of being Gods is nature doing what comes naturally.”
Pavan, with a final angry glare at his son, ducked out of the storm he had created and flung it north, towards Lanka. Hanuman hovered in its path. Pavan loved his son in spite of his harsh words, and he knew Hanuman was not in danger – he had plenty of time to flee. Imagine his horror when Hanuman raced towards the storm. A storm that size is as hard to take back as a word and as hard to steer as a freighter. Pavan shouted for Hanuman to stop but all that came out was thunder.
The monkey had a serene smile on his face, even as the slant rain battered his cheeks and crunched narrow eyes, even as the fur blew flat on his limbs. Hanuman rocketed skyward at the last minute and looped into the eye of the storm.
There, in that mute command centre, in that cylinder aswirl with cloud-carved bas-reliefs of Ramayana scenes, Hanuman folded his legs into the lotus position. He rested his wrists on his knees and touched his thumbs to his middle fingers. He closed his eyes, flared his nostrils and began chanting Rama’s name. The hypnotic, harmonic sound waves slowed the typhoon’s progress towards the island. The rate of spin, too, grew calmer and less hectic. Grey clouds brightened with inward illumination. Rain turned to Ganga water, and the Ganga water, before it touched the waves, turned to steam and floated skyward to seek the sun.
Pavan heard the sacred name being repeated in his son’s voice, and he witnessed his own masterpiece typhoon dissolve. His natural power acknowledged a power beyond nature, and his anger at his son’s insolence vanished as quickly as the storm. Pavan joined his hands in a humble namaste, both to the name and the one who chanted it. Hanuman never saw this. He floated atop the stilled sea as the sunlight dried his fur – meditating, reminiscing, dissolving.
Excerpted with permission from “Defying the Typhoon” in The Later Adventures of Hanuman, Amit Majmudar, Puffin.
