10 October 2026 · Ramcharitmanas
Every disagreement turns into a contest I have to win — and I'm exhausted from never backing down.
On his way across the sea, Hanumān Jī meets someone whose mouth grows wider every time he grows. He matches her, doubling each time — and then ends it by becoming very small. The Ramcharitmanas does not call that losing: the one who was testing him calls him a storehouse of strength and wisdom, and blesses him.
The email thread is on its fourteenth reply-all. It began as a question about a delivery date. It is now about tone, about what was 'clearly agreed in March', and about who copied in whose manager. You have a paragraph drafted. It is devastating. It is also 11.40 at night.
It is the same at home. A disagreement about the dishwasher becomes, within four exchanges, a hearing on who said what three summers ago. You do not start these things. But you cannot be the one who lets go, because letting go feels exactly like losing.
So you win. You win most of them. And you are tired in a way sleep does not fix, with a growing suspicion that you are winning arguments and losing everything else. The Ramcharitmanas has a scene for this. It is a few lines long, and it happens in mid-air.
जोजन भरि तेहिं बदनु पसारा। कपि तनु कीन्ह दुगुन बिस्तारा॥ सोरह जोजन मुख तेहिं ठयऊ। तुरत पवनसुत बत्तिस भयऊ॥ जस जस सुरसा बदनु बढ़ावा। तासु दून कपि रूप देखावा॥ सत जोजन तेहिं आनन कीन्हा। अति लघु रूप पवनसुत लीन्हा॥ बदन पइठि पुनि बाहेर आवा। मागा बिदा ताहि सिरु नावा॥ मोहि सुरन्ह जेहि लागि पठावा। बुधि बल मरमु तोर मैं पावा॥ राम काजु सबु करिहहु तुम्ह बल बुद्धि निधान। आसिष देइ गई सो हरषि चलेउ हनुमान॥
jojana bhari tehiṁ badanu pasārā, kapi tanu kīnha duguna bistārā॥ soraha jojana mukha tehiṁ ṭhayaū, turata pavanasuta battisa bhayaū॥ jasa jasa surasā badanu baṛhāvā, tāsu dūna kapi rūpa dekhāvā॥ sata jojana tehiṁ ānana kīnhā, ati laghu rūpa pavanasuta līnhā॥ badana paiṭhi puni bāhera āvā, māgā bidā tāhi siru nāvā॥ mohi suranha jehi lāgi paṭhāvā, budhi bala maramu tora maĩ pāvā॥ rāma kāju sabu karihahu tumha bala buddhi nidhāna, āsiṣa dei gaī so haraṣi caleu hanumāna॥
“She opened her mouth a yojana wide; Hanumān Jī made his body twice that size. She made her mouth sixteen yojanas; at once the son of the Wind became thirty-two. However far Surasā stretched her jaws, he showed a form twice as large. Then she made her mouth a hundred yojanas wide — and the son of the Wind took a very small form. He went into her mouth and came out again, bowed his head to her, and asked her leave to go. [Surasā said:] 'The gods sent me to find the measure of your wit and your strength, and I have found it. You will accomplish all of Lord Rāma's work, storehouse of strength and wisdom that you are.' She gave him her blessing and went, and Hanumān Jī went on his way rejoicing.”
Source: Ramcharitmanas
Every time she grew, he doubled
Hanumān Jī is crossing the sea to find Mother Sītā. He has just declined a rest — rāma kāju kīnheṁ binu mohi kahāṁ biśrāma, he says in the dohā before: until Lord Rāma's work is done, where is rest for me? Then Surasā, mother of serpents, rises in his path. The gods have sent her to test him, and she announces that he is her meal.
Notice his first move. It is not a fight. He asks: let me finish this errand, and I will come back and walk into your mouth myself — I am telling you the truth, māī, mother. She will not let him pass. Only then does he say: very well, swallow me.
And the contest starts. A yojana (जोजन) is an old measure of distance, many miles long. She opens her mouth one yojana wide; he becomes twice that. She makes it sixteen; he is thirty-two at once. Jasa jasa, says the poet — as she grew, so he grew, always double.
You know this rhythm. It is the reply-all thread: each answer bigger than the last, each a reasonable response to the one before, and no size at which it ends. He could have doubled for ever. So could she.
Then he became very small
At a hundred yojanas he does something else. Ati laghu rūpa (अति लघु रूप): he takes a very small form. He slips into her mouth and out again. Then — māgā bidā tāhi siru nāvā — he bows his head to her and asks leave to go.
Look at what that move is not. It is not surrender: he is not swallowed. It is not retreat: he is still going the way he was going. He has given her the one thing she demanded — he did enter her mouth — in the smallest form that would do. Her terms are met. Nobody has been beaten.
And it was chosen. The one who becomes small had just out-grown her at every step. Smallness forced on you is humiliation; smallness chosen by someone who could have gone bigger is something else, and Surasā names it. She was sent to measure his budhi and bala — his wit and his strength. The doubling showed the strength. The shrinking showed the wit. She calls him bala buddhi nidhāna, a storehouse of both.
Why could he do it, when we cannot? Because he had somewhere to be. Rāma kāju, the errand, was never 'defeat Surasā'. Once you remember what the work is, the contest is only something standing between you and it.
Now the honest part. Surasā was a test, and she ends it with a blessing; the person on your thread may not. Nor does the poem say 'always shrink'. A few lines on, a demoness of the sea seizes him by his shadow, and he does not make himself small for her. Some things are to be stopped, not slipped past. But most of our daily contests are Surasās.
This week
First, name the errand. Before the next reply, finish this sentence: 'What I actually need from this is…' A delivery date. A calm dinner. If your reply does not serve that, it is a doubling.
Second, count. One answer, fine. Two, perhaps. By the third round you are in jasa jasa — and that is the signal to change size, not to push harder.
Third, find the small form: one true sentence that gives the other person what they are really asking for, with no 'but' attached. 'You're right, I should have told you sooner.' 'Friday works.' In, and out again.
Fourth, bow on the way out. He asked leave; he did not take the last word. 'I'll leave it there' is a complete sentence.
None of this is easy. The paragraph you drafted at 11.40 really was devastating. Delete it anyway. You have somewhere to be.
He was big enough to win it and wise enough not to — and that is how he got across the sea.
Frequently asked questions
- Why do I feel I have to win every argument?
- Usually because backing down feels like losing. The Ramcharitmanas offers another picture: Hanumān Jī matches Surasā's widening mouth, doubling each time, then ends the contest by becoming very small, slipping in and out, and bowing to her (Sundar-kāṇḍa, the caupāīs after dohā 1). She calls him a storehouse of strength and wisdom.
- How do I stop escalating arguments with my partner or my colleagues?
- Name what you actually need before you reply, and notice when you are answering bigger for the third time. In the Ramcharitmanas, Hanumān Jī stops doubling against Surasā and takes a very small form (Sundar-kāṇḍa, after dohā 1). The everyday version is one true sentence that meets the other person's real demand, with no 'but'.
- Is backing down in an argument a sign of weakness?
- Not when it is chosen. In the Ramcharitmanas, Hanumān Jī becomes small only after showing he could keep growing, and Surasā blesses him for both his strength and his wit (Sundar-kāṇḍa, dohā 2). The text does not say always yield — only that winning the contest was never the errand.