A thousand-petalled lotus came riding on the wind, wonderfully fragrant. Bhīma was asked to bring back more like it.
So he took his weapons and followed the direction of the wind into the mountain forest.
Bhīma went loudly. He pushed through the growth, shouted across the slopes, and blew his conch.
He was looking for the source of the flower, and nothing in the forest had yet given him a reason to doubt that he could go wherever he chose.
Then the path narrowed. A monkey lay across it, his tail stretched over the way.
Bhīma told him to move. The monkey said he was old and had no strength to rise. Then move my tail aside and pass.
Bhīma reached down with his left hand.
The tail did not move.
He tried with both arms. Still nothing. Bhīma pulled until sweat covered him.
The strongest of the Pāṇḍavas could not lift one monkey's tail.
So he stopped. He bowed and joined his hands. Forgive my harsh words. Who are you?
The monkey answered: I am Hanumān.
Bhīma had just been boasting about Hanumān and calling him his brother. Now that brother stood before him.
Hanumān explained that the path ahead was dangerous and not a road for mortals. He had blocked it to protect Bhīma, and he showed him another way towards the flowers.
Bhīma asked to see the great form Hanumān had taken when he crossed the ocean for Rāma.
Hanumān granted his request. He grew until the Mahābhārata compares him to a mountain, shining so brilliantly that Bhīma could not keep looking.
Then Hanumān became small again and embraced his brother. Bhīma's weariness left him.
Before they parted, Hanumān promised that one day in battle he would add his own cry to Bhīma's roar and remain upon Arjuna's flagstaff.
Bhīma walked on, remembering the brother whose tail he had not been able to move.