Chapter 26: The Ascent of Sundargiri
General POV
The sun had just risen over Ayodhya when Shon stepped out of the inn with a small cloth bundle slung across his back. Inside it were a few pieces of dried roti, some jaggery, and his water pot. Seven days of work had helped him recover his strength and earn a little money, but more than that, they had given him what he needed most—a direction.
Sundargiri.
A name whispered by locals, a mountain spoken of with awe. Said to be a day's journey away, cloaked in mist, with birds always circling the peak and a strange echo of "Ram Ram" that drifted down its slopes at dawn and dusk. It was said no one had found its heart, yet all believed that a divine being lived there.
And Shon knew—that divine being was none other than Mahabali Hanuman.
He didn't wait to be stopped or second-guess his decision. His heart was clear. With a calm mind and firm resolve, he walked.
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The Journey Begins
The road to Sundargiri was not paved or marked with signs. It passed through thick grasslands, muddy trails, and occasional fields with thatched huts. Farmers eyed him curiously as he passed. Some waved. Others warned him.
"Don't go that way alone, beta," an old man said. "There are wild jackals in the jungle stretch."
"Many have tried to climb Sundargiri," a potter told him. "None returned from beyond the mid-slope."
But Shon just smiled, bowed respectfully, and kept walking.
By noon, the sun grew harsh, and his sandals stuck to the muddy path. Flies buzzed around his ears, and thorns poked out from bushes, scratching his arms and legs. Still, he walked.
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Shon was walking through a thick forest on his way to Sundargiri mountain. The trees were tall, the air was quiet, and birds had stopped singing. Something didn't feel right.
Suddenly, he heard a growl.
Out of the bushes, a pack of five wild jackals jumped out. They were thin, hungry, and their glowing eyes were full of anger. They slowly started surrounding him.
Shon's body tensed. He grabbed his bow.
"So much for a peaceful walk," he said under his breath.
The first jackal ran at him fast. Shon stepped to the side and kicked it hard, making it roll back into the bushes.
Another one came from his left.
Thwip!
Shon quickly shot an arrow. It flew fast and hit the jackal in the shoulder. The jackal fell with a cry.
Two more came at the same time from both sides.
Shon jumped backward. While in the air, he fired another arrow. It just scraped one jackal's head. As he landed, he spun around and hit the other jackal with his bow, knocking it down.
Now only one was left.
It was the biggest one—and the smartest. It had waited until the others were hurt.
It growled and jumped at Shon.
But Shon was ready.
He ducked low, rolled under the jump, and as he turned, he fired one last arrow. It hit the jackal in the chest. The beast hit the ground and didn't get up.
Shon stood still, breathing heavily.
The jungle was quiet again.
He looked around, checked his body. A few small cuts, a tear in his sleeve—but nothing serious.
He smiled a little.
"Looks like all that hard training paid off," he thought.
He cleaned his arrows, checked his wounds, and offered a short prayer for the fallen beasts.
Then, without wasting a moment, he continued his journey through the jungle.
The path was still long, the mountain far, and his journey had just begun.
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By evening, he reached the base of Sundargiri. The mountain was massive, more imposing than he'd imagined. Its green slopes rose steeply, the higher half covered in mist, with thick trees blanketing the sides like a jungle shawl.
He camped at the base that night, lighting a small fire with dried sticks. The chirps of insects filled the night, and occasionally, a distant howl made him grip his stick tighter. He didn't sleep much. Instead, he meditated, chanting the Hanuman Chalisa softly in his mind, the flame of devotion burning strong within.
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The Climb
Morning came, and Shon began his ascent.
The lower slopes were manageable, though slippery. He used a long stick for support and avoided loose stones. He drank from small streams, washed his face with cold water, and kept climbing.
As the altitude increased, so did the challenges. Twisted vines tried to trip him. Thorns tore his clothes. At one point, he slipped while crossing a moss-covered boulder and bruised his elbow badly. The pain made him grit his teeth, but he pushed forward.
Halfway up, the jungle grew dense. Giant trees blocked out sunlight. Wild monkeys stared at him from above. A boar charged at him once, but he managed to dodge it, narrowly missing being gored.
His food ran out. His water was low.
Yet, he continued.
He walked. Climbed. Slipped. Got back up. Walked again.
Each step forward was not just physical—it was spiritual. He chanted the Panchakshari Mantra under his breath. He visualized Lord Hanuman. He reminded himself why he was here.
At one point, he collapsed under a tree, his breath ragged. His legs were trembling. His hands were scratched. He was exhausted.
But the moment he opened his eyes and looked up—he saw it.
A small stone platform, hidden between trees. Covered in moss, but shaped like a seat. And carved on it—"Ram."
He knew. He was close.
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Meeting the Vanara
Another hour of climbing and searching led him to a small cave, almost hidden behind a curtain of vines.
As he pushed the vines aside and stepped in, the air changed.
It was cool. Peaceful. Silent.
At the far end of the cave, sitting cross-legged on a rock, eyes closed, was a figure.
Huge.
Golden-skinned.
Powerful.
And serene.
The cave itself felt alive with energy. Shon felt his legs shaking, not from fear, but reverence.
"Jai Shri Ram," he whispered softly, folding his hands.
The figure opened his eyes.
They were deep, brown, and glowing with kindness and power.
"Come forward, child," said a voice, gentle and thunderous at the same time.
Shon stepped closer, eyes wide, heart pounding.
"You made it," said the vanara. "And not because of strength. But because of devotion."
Shon knelt down, tears welling in his eyes.
"Pranam, Mahabali Hanuman," he said, voice trembling.
Hanuman smiled.
"You remember why have you come to me, little one?"
"To learn," Shon said. "To serve. To understand what true strength is."
"Then rise," said Hanuman, standing up.
"You passed the first test — effort. You climbed Sundargiri not with pride, but with purpose."
Shon looked up. "I want to learn, Mahabali . Not just strength, but your devotion, humility, and your heart."
Hanuman smiled.
He towered over Shon, muscles rippling, aura divine.
"Your training begins now."
And in that quiet moment, high atop Sundargiri, a new chapter of Shon's life began—not just as a boy reborn in a world of legends, but as a disciple of the greatest devotee of all time.
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