Anjana Speaks: The Untold Story Behind Hanuman’s Divine Legacy

The Sherpa: Anjana, welcome. It’s truly an honor to have you here with us today.

Anjana: Thank you, Sherpa. It’s a rare privilege to be invited to speak of my story, which has often remained in the background, overshadowed by the deeds of others.

The Sherpa: Your humility speaks volumes. But I have to say, your story is one that carries immense weight. You are, after all, the mother of Hanuman, one of the most beloved figures in Hindu mythology. How does it feel to be remembered primarily as the mother of such a divine being?

Anjana: It is both an honor and a burden. Being the mother of someone like Hanuman, whose destiny transcends the mortal world, has brought me great reverence. Yet, it has also meant that my own identity is often viewed through his life, rather than my own.

The Sherpa: That must be difficult—to be so integral to a divine story, yet have your own path somewhat overshadowed. Do you feel that, in a way, your identity has been diluted by Hanuman’s greatness?

Anjana: Not diluted, perhaps… but it has certainly been reframed. My purpose, as fate would have it, was to bring Hanuman into this world, and that role was filled with meaning. But there are many layers to me, layers that are often forgotten or left untold.

The Sherpa: Let’s dive into those layers. I find it fascinating how your origins shift across various narratives—sometimes an apsara, a celestial nymph, other times a vanara princess. How do you reconcile these differing stories about your identity?

Anjana: Ah, yes. My origins are indeed fluid in the myths that surround me. But I do not see them as contradictions. Each version of my story serves a purpose. As Punjikastala, the apsara cursed to live as a vanara, my tale becomes one of redemption—of moving from a heavenly being to something more grounded, more connected to earth and its suffering. In that sense, my journey is one of learning humility, of transforming my pride as a celestial nymph into the devotion of a vanara. On the other hand, as a vanara princess, I am embedded within the fabric of the Ramayana’s mortal world, where divine beings interweave with humanity. Both versions have their own truth.

The Sherpa: It’s like you embody both the divine and the earthly, the celestial and the grounded, all in one being. That duality must come with profound lessons, no? What did it mean for you to be punished—or perhaps gifted—with life on earth, particularly in the form of a vanara?

Anjana: It was a form of both punishment and gift, indeed. As an apsara, I had once lived free from earthly troubles, reveling in beauty and celestial pleasures. But there was also a kind of detachment, a separation from the hardships of mortal life. When I was cursed to live on earth as a vanara, it was not easy at first. The body of a vanara is wild, untamed, bound by instincts and passions that I, as a nymph, had never known. It was humbling. I learned to embrace pain, longing, and devotion in a way I never could before. In many ways, becoming a vanara opened my heart to a greater form of love, one that is not just bound to the heavens but grounded in sacrifice and duty.

The Sherpa: Sacrifice and duty. Those are heavy words. Do you feel that your transformation—from nymph to vanara—was a necessary step for you to become the mother of Hanuman?

Anjana: Absolutely. I believe that only by embracing the vanara form could I become the mother of a being like Hanuman. You see, the vanaras are creatures of deep instinct, of loyalty and courage. As Punjikastala, I would never have understood the depth of devotion that my life as Anjana has demanded. To give birth to a child destined for such greatness, I had to know sacrifice, patience, and an unwavering sense of duty. These are qualities that come not from divine pleasure but from the trenches of earthly struggle.

The Sherpa: I’m struck by how you describe motherhood—as a form of devotion and sacrifice. In your case, it wasn’t just any ordinary child you were to bring into the world, but a divine being who would play a pivotal role in the story of Rama. How did you prepare yourself for this monumental task?

Anjana: I don’t know if one can ever truly prepare for such a task. I only knew that my prayers, my devotion to Vayu, the wind god, were the cornerstone of my preparation. For years, my husband Kesari and I prayed for a child. It wasn’t an ordinary longing for parenthood. We knew that this child would be extraordinary, that he would serve a purpose far beyond our personal desires. My devotion to Vayu grew out of that understanding—of waiting, of hoping, of surrendering completely to the will of the divine.

The Sherpa: And then came that miraculous moment—the divine intervention, when the sacred pudding, meant for King Dasharatha’s wives, was delivered into your hands. That must have been overwhelming… can you take us through that moment, when the divine collided with the mortal in such a profound way?

Anjana: It is a moment I carry within me always. I had been praying, offering my devotion to Vayu, as I often did. There was a sense of longing in my heart that day, a yearning that ran deep. Then, as if in answer to my prayers, the sky itself seemed to respond. A kite, soaring above, dropped a portion of the sacred pudding into my hands. It was as if the wind—Vayu himself—delivered the divine essence to me. The realization that this was not mere coincidence but an act of divine will filled me with awe. I ate the pudding, knowing that within me, something miraculous had begun. That was the moment Hanuman’s destiny was set into motion.

The Sherpa: It’s astonishing how these divine acts of intervention can feel so intimate. You mentioned your devotion to Vayu, the wind god, and how integral that was to your life. Your bond with Vayu is also one that defines Hanuman’s identity, correct? His strength, his ability to fly—so much of that comes from Vayu. How does it feel knowing that this divine connection was passed on to your son?

Anjana: Yes, Vayu’s presence runs through Hanuman’s very being. It is through Vayu that Hanuman inherited his boundless energy, his strength, his ability to leap across oceans and touch the skies. In many ways, Hanuman is the embodiment of Vayu’s spirit—restless, powerful, and free. But there is something more profound in that connection. Vayu represents breath, life force, the very essence of existence. To know that this primal force flows through my son is both humbling and awe-inspiring. It reminds me that Hanuman is not just my son—he belongs to the universe, to the cosmos itself.

The Sherpa: And yet, despite this immense cosmic connection, you had to watch him grow and develop, like any other mother would. Was there ever a moment where you felt the weight of his destiny? That perhaps you weren’t prepared for what lay ahead for him?

Anjana: Every moment. Every time I held him in my arms, I felt both joy and fear. I could sense that his path would be filled with challenges beyond anything I could protect him from. There were times when I wished he could just remain my little boy, free from the weight of the world. But deep down, I knew that was never possible. Hanuman was born for a purpose greater than any mother’s sheltering arms could provide.

The Sherpa: That must have been heartbreaking—to know that your love could never truly shield him from the trials of his destiny. Did you ever struggle with that? Wanting to hold on but knowing you had to let go?

Anjana: Yes, there were moments of struggle. What mother doesn’t want to keep her child safe? But my love for Hanuman also meant that I had to trust his path, trust the divine plan laid out for him. Letting go wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. I had to accept that Hanuman’s greatness, his role in the world, would come with its own set of trials. And though I couldn’t always be by his side, I took solace in knowing that his strength would see him through.

The Sherpa: Your strength, too. I imagine Hanuman’s resilience comes in part from you, not just Vayu. Your devotion, your sacrifices—they are as much a part of his makeup as the divine essence he carries. Do you feel that your devotion shaped him in ways that go beyond the physical?

Anjana: I’d like to think so. Devotion isn’t just about rituals or prayers; it’s about embodying love, faith, and surrender in every moment. I believe that my unwavering dedication to Vayu, and to the idea of a child who would serve a higher purpose, infused Hanuman with a sense of duty, a sense of boundless devotion to Lord Rama and the dharma he was destined to protect. Hanuman’s loyalty, his tireless efforts in service of Rama, all stem from the seed of devotion planted long before he was born.

The Sherpa: You bring up an interesting point—devotion, service, and duty. Hanuman’s story, in many ways, is about these very qualities. But I wonder, Anjana, do you ever feel that your own story, your own sacrifices, have been overshadowed by the enormity of his deeds?

Anjana: I won’t deny that sometimes it feels that way. Hanuman’s devotion to Rama, his mighty feats, have become the stuff of legend. It’s only natural that my own role fades into the background. But I have come to accept that. The story is not just mine. It is part of something much larger. I have played my role, and that role is one of the foundation stones upon which Hanuman’s story—and by extension, Rama’s—was built.

The Sherpa: And yet, without your story, without your sacrifices, Hanuman’s tale wouldn’t exist. It seems to me that your devotion mirrors Hanuman’s in many ways, but whereas his was visible in action, yours was quieter, more internal. How do you reflect on that?

Anjana: You are right. Hanuman’s devotion manifested in grand, heroic deeds—leaping across the seas, carrying mountains, burning down Lanka in service of Rama. My devotion was more quiet, more internal, but no less profound. It is the devotion of a mother, of someone who sacrifices without recognition, who prays in silence, who waits in patience. Perhaps it is because of this that my story has remained quieter. But I believe that silent devotion holds as much power as any heroic act. It is the devotion that nurtures, that sustains, that gives life.

The Sherpa: Silent devotion… there’s something so powerful about that, something so often overlooked in tales of heroism. We often celebrate the visible acts—the leaps across oceans, as you say—but it’s the quiet endurance that often lays the foundation for those leaps to happen at all. Do you feel that there’s a lesson in this for the world today?

Anjana: The world today moves so quickly, so loudly, and in many ways, people are drawn to those grand gestures, the acts that make noise, that demand attention. But true strength often lies in the quiet acts of love and devotion—the mother who raises her child with care, the person who prays for others in silence, the one who sacrifices without asking for anything in return. There is profound power in patience, in faith, and in quiet endurance. It is these silent acts that shape the future, just as mine shaped Hanuman’s.

The Sherpa: That resonates deeply, Anjana. Your journey, your quiet strength—it offers a powerful reminder of the unseen forces that shape the world. I want to shift gears slightly. You mentioned earlier that you were once a celestial nymph, an apsara, before becoming Anjana. Does that past life ever feel distant, or do you still carry remnants of your life as Punjikastala with you?

Anjana: That life feels both distant and near, if that makes sense. It was a life of beauty, of pleasure, and of freedom, but it lacked the depth that comes with struggle and devotion. When I look back on my time as Punjikastala, I remember it with fondness, but I no longer long for it. My life as Anjana, as the mother of Hanuman, has given me a far greater sense of purpose and fulfillment than any celestial life could. There is a richness to the vanara existence, a connection to the earth, to love, to service, that I cherish far more than the ethereal pleasures of the heavens.

The Sherpa: That’s quite profound, Anjana. It seems like you’re saying that it’s the struggles, the sacrifices, and the devotion that give life meaning, more than the pleasures or freedoms of the celestial realm. Do you think that’s a truth that applies to all beings, not just those who have lived in the divine sphere?

Anjana: Yes, I believe so. Struggle and sacrifice are universal truths. Whether one is a god, a human, or a vanara, it is through hardship that we grow, that we find our deeper selves. Pleasure, ease, and freedom have their place, but they are fleeting. It is only through love, devotion, and sometimes suffering that we discover the true essence of who we are. For me, becoming Anjana, bearing Hanuman, and enduring the trials of motherhood—all of that has brought me closer to the divine than any celestial dance or pleasure ever could.

The Sherpa: And yet, you were once cursed to become a vanara. Do you ever see that curse as a blessing now, given all that you’ve learned through that transformation?

Anjana: What I once saw as a curse has indeed become a blessing. At first, I resented it, feeling that I had been unjustly cast down to a lesser form of existence. But now I see that it was precisely what I needed to fulfill my greater purpose. Being a vanara allowed me to bring Hanuman into the world, and through him, to serve a role in the cosmic order that far surpasses anything I could have done as an apsara. What seemed like a fall from grace was actually a rise into a deeper, more meaningful existence.

The Sherpa: It’s interesting how life often unfolds like that, isn’t it? What we perceive as a curse, a downfall, can sometimes be the very thing that propels us into our true purpose. Do you think that’s something Hanuman himself experienced? His form is, after all, that of a vanara—a monkey, a creature often considered less than divine by many standards. And yet, he became a hero. Do you think his vanara form played a role in his greatness?

Anjana: Without a doubt. The vanara form, with all its wildness, its connection to the primal forces of nature, is precisely what allowed Hanuman to become the hero he was. The vanaras are not bound by the rigid rules of divine beings or the frailty of humans. They exist in that in-between space, where instinct and strength coexist with intelligence and devotion. Hanuman’s vanara form gave him the freedom to be bold, to act without fear, to leap where others hesitated. His wildness was not a flaw—it was his greatest strength. It allowed him to serve Rama with a heart full of courage and love, unburdened by the expectations of either gods or men.

The Sherpa: It’s fascinating how you describe the vanara as existing in this in-between space—wild and free, yet deeply loyal and devoted. I wonder, Anjana, if this sense of being ‘in-between’ is something you’ve felt yourself? Being born into divinity but living as a vanara, does that duality ever create tension for you?

Anjana: It has, at times. I’ve often felt like I didn’t fully belong to either world. As Punjikastala, I was of the heavens, but now, as Anjana, I live on the earth. There are moments when I feel the pull of both—the desire for the celestial beauty I once knew, and the deep connection to the earth I’ve come to love. But I’ve learned to embrace that tension. It’s part of who I am. In many ways, that duality has given me a unique perspective—one that allows me to see both the divine and the mortal as interconnected, rather than separate.

The Sherpa: That’s a beautiful way of looking at it. I suppose it also gives you a unique understanding of your son, Hanuman, who himself bridges the divine and the earthly. Do you think that your own duality has helped you guide him in his journey?

Anjana: I hope so. Hanuman, like me, carries both the divine and the earthly within him. He is the son of Vayu, yet he was born into a vanara body. I believe my own experience of navigating those worlds has helped me understand his struggles and his strengths. I’ve always encouraged him to embrace both sides of his nature—the divine power he inherited from Vayu, and the wild, untamed energy of his vanara form. It is through the union of those two forces that his true greatness emerges.

The Sherpa: It’s clear that your wisdom has shaped Hanuman in profound ways. Before we wrap up, I want to ask you something personal. You’ve spoken so much about devotion, sacrifice, and duty. But what about your own desires, Anjana? Do you ever long for something beyond the role of mother and devotee? Is there a part of you that still dreams of the life you once had, or perhaps dreams of something new?

Anjana: (pauses) That’s a question I’ve asked myself many times. There was a time when I longed for the freedom of my apsara days, for the lightness and joy that came with it. But now, as I reflect on my life, I realize that I wouldn’t trade this journey for anything. My desires have shifted. What I once craved—freedom, beauty, pleasure—no longer holds the same allure. Now, my heart is filled with the quiet satisfaction of having played my part in a greater story. I don’t dream of returning to the heavens. My place is here, in the world I’ve helped shape, even if my role is often unseen.*

The Sherpa: Your words carry such a deep sense of peace, Anjana. It’s a rare thing to find someone who has truly come to terms with their place in the universe. Thank you for sharing your story with us today. It’s been an honor to hear your journey—from the heavens to the earth, from nymph to vanara, and ultimately, to the mother of one of the most beloved figures in history.

Anjana: Thank you, Sherpa. It has been a gift to reflect on my story, and I hope that, in some small way, it brings insight to others. We all have our roles to play, and there is no greater joy than finding peace in that truth.

The Sherpa: Indeed, there is. And I think your journey, with all its trials and triumphs, leaves us all with a profound message—even if it’s one that, like your devotion, is quietly spoken.