4.
Drona never could have swallowed pity
even for the sake of his wife and child.
But he had been watching the young Bharatas
and, talking with Kripa, had become convinced
that these young men were ripe for the instruction
he could provide. So he agreed, with grace.
He moved into the mansion Bhishma offered,
with his wife and son, and made ready
to become the princes’ weapons master.
Drona gathered the royal youths together
and addressed them: “I have a driving passion
gnawing my heart, a task that will stab at me
until it’s done. Will you give me your word
that, when the time is right, when you have mastered
all the skills with weapons I can teach you,
you will help me carry out this task?”
The Kauravas shifted uneasily
and stayed silent, but brave Arjuna,
ambidextrous third-born son of Pandu,
promised without hesitation. Drona
embraced him warmly, and shed tears of joy.
Drona was a most exacting master,
demanding discipline from all his pupils.
The hundred Kauravas, five Pandavas
and Ashvatthaman, the stern teacher’s son,
were treated all alike in principle—
though now and then, Drona devised ways
of giving his son a little extra time;
and since Arjuna was exceptional
in his dedication, he became
the favorite among all Drona’s pupils,
cherished even more than his own son.
As was to be expected from their birth,
almost all the youths were competent,
or excelled, at one weapon or another.
They mastered the basic skills of archery,
of fighting with sword and javelin, with the spear,
dagger, mace, and the small hand-thrown dart.
They learned to fight on horseback and on foot,
and how to steer a chariot; they learned
every earthly weapon, and a few,
according to their inner aptitude,
were taught astras—for the proper use
of these occult weapons was dependent
on the depth of spiritual maturity
attained by the man who would summon them.
Drona arranged frequent competitions
so each boy knew exactly how he ranked
on the scale of skill, for every weapon.
Through this strategy, each prince possessed
something to aspire to, someone to beat.
Ashvatthaman, being his father’s son,
had outstanding knowledge of the lore
and mantras of the god-given astras.
Yudhishthira was the best charioteer—
no one could outmaneuver him at speed.
Bhima and Duryodhana, both stronger
by far than any of the others, shone
at wielding the spike-encrusted mace,
swinging its colossal weight with ease.
The twins, Sahadeva and Nakula,
were outstanding swordsmen, and they moved,
elegant as dancers, round each other,
perfectly matched.
But it was Arjuna,
tall, quick-moving, perfectly proportioned,
who was the best all-round kshatriya:
accomplished at each single form of combat,
and better by far at the art of archery
than all the others. You only had to see
his natural poise—the way he moved and stood,
his one-pointed attention as he drew
back the bowstring, letting the arrow fly
at just the right moment, and no other—
to know that this youth was extraordinary.
In him, natural genius was harnessed
to a fanatical determination.
A master can only teach a pupil
those things he is ready to receive.
Young Arjuna was like a water jug
thirsty for water. He learned everything
from Drona, sometimes indirectly.
One night,
the lesson went on hour after hour until
it grew quite dark. As Arjuna was eating
his late meal, a sudden gust of wind
blew out the taper light, and yet his hand
found its way to each dish in front of him
unerringly. Suddenly, he rose—
and running out into the moonless night
he flexed his bow, nocked an arrow, let fly,
although the target was invisible;
then, feeling his way through the inky darkness,
he found each arrow clinched into the place
he had intended.
Now he had understood
what it means to aim, but without straining.
He had a glimpse of how one may become
a channel for the world’s natural forces
to play themselves out. How, without striving,
without attachment to the end result,
abandoning desire and memory,
an arrow can be loosed, and find its home.
This he learned that night. It was a lesson
he would have to learn anew in great anguish,
years from now.
For hours each day, he practiced.
Even Drona, not easily impressed,
was awed by him, and told him privately,
“Arjuna, I shall do all in my power
to see that you become the greatest archer
in the whole world—this I promise you.”
The young man swelled with joy and, in time,
came to feel this honor was his right.
One day, Drona held a competition
in archery. He had a small wooden bird
placed high in a tree, and asked each pupil
to shoot it in the head with a single arrow.
One by one they stepped up to the mark.
“Tell me everything you see,” said Drona.
Some mentioned the tree, some the topmost limbs,
others the bird itself. Some got distracted
by trying to identify the species
and wondering if it was real. Drona
dismissed each one before he could take aim.
Then Arjuna stepped up. “What do you see?”
“I see the bird’s head.”
“What else?”
“Nothing, master.”
“Then loose your arrow, son.”
Calmly, Arjuna
took aim, released. The tiny bird splintered,
its head shattered, and the painted fragments
floated to earth. Drona praised him warmly.
“When the time comes, Arjuna, you will give
my lost friend Drupada what he deserves!”
Another time, the young Bharata princes
went swimming in the Ganga with their master
who, standing in the shallows, offered up
prayers to the gods, and for his ancestors.
Suddenly, one of the rough-hewn logs
that floated by the bank stirred into life—
a gigantic crocodile! Its cruel jaws
gaped hugely, then locked fast round Drona’s leg.
It began to drag him into deeper water.
Almost instantaneously, it seemed,
yet without haste, Arjuna raised his bow
and a stream of well-aimed arrows found their mark
in the monster’s eye and neck. Its vicious grip
slackened; it sank, bloodying the water.
Not a thought had ruffled Arjuna’s mind.
He had simply acted. For this feat,
Drona bestowed on him the Brahma Head,
a weapon so deadly it could not be used
against mere mortals without burning up
the whole world; it was to be reserved
for fighting supernatural enemies.
Ashvatthaman, jealous that his father
had favored Arjuna above himself,
pestered Drona for the supreme weapon,
nagging, wheedling until Drona, worn down,
taught him the mantra he had shown Arjuna,
the mantra that would summon the Brahma Head.
But in doing so Drona was uneasy,
suspecting as he did that Ashvatthaman
desired the weapon for ignoble reasons.
To be the favored pupil of one’s master
is what each disciple longs for, strives for.
But it may not be the blessing it appears.
Envy feeds the flames of enmity,
and when they heard Drona repeatedly
extolling Arjuna, the Kauravas
choked with resentment; to Duryodhana,
every word of praise for Arjuna
was bitterest wormwood. Great praise may also
lead to great pride, and young Arjuna
was not immune to that.
Drona’s renown
as a preceptor in the princely arts
spread throughout the kingdom, and beyond.
There was no finer weapons school than his,
and kshatriya boys traveled from near and far
to learn from him. There was a boy called Karna,
son of a driver, whom other boys despised
but feared as well. He was tall, aquiline,
and was distinguished by his gold cuirass
and golden earrings—features he was born with.
Wary of rebuff, he made no friends;
only Duryodhana was kind to him.
He was an archer of exceptional skill.
Seeing that Arjuna was the star pupil,
Karna sought to rival him in all things
and was painfully jealous of his prowess.
Arjuna scorned him, treating him with contempt.
Gathering his nerve, he went to Drona.
“Master, please teach me the Brahma weapon.”
“That ultimate weapon can only be learned,”
said Drona, “by a brahmin of stringent vows,
or a kshatriya who has undertaken
great austerities; no one else at all.”
Karna saw that Drona would never teach
the higher mysteries of a warrior’s skill
to one who was of lowly origin.
Angry and sad, he gathered his possessions
determined to seek out another teacher,
vowing that, one day, he would be back;
he would prove himself greater than Arjuna!
He left the city, passing through the gate
unremarked, and was soon forgotten.
One night, as he was walking in his garden,
Drona was startled by a rustling sound—
a boy leapt from the bushes and threw himself
at the guru’s feet. He turned his dark face
upward in adoration, and begged Drona
to accept him as one of his disciples.
He was a nishada, a forest tribal,
called Ekalavya, younger than the princes,
lithe, with a strange accent.
Drona sighed,
“I have to disappoint you—I only teach
youths who come from highborn families.
You’re a nishada. It just wouldn’t do.”
Ekalavya bowed his head and, springing up,
was gone.
He ran, sure-footed, through the forest.
In a moonlit clearing at its heart,
lush with vigorous vines, there was a pool
lovely with lotuses. The boy scooped up
clay from the water’s edge and carefully
modeled a life-size figure of his master.
It took him many days and nights of work,
work informed by pure-hearted commitment.
When the likeness was complete, Ekalavya
slept. Then he rose, gathered perfumed flowers
and made a garland for his master’s neck.
“Bless me, Guruji.” And having touched
earth with his brow, he began to practice
with faith, devotion, and pure discipline.
Time passed.
One sparkling afternoon in winter,
the Pandavas rode out into the forest
to hunt wild boar. Their prized dog was with them
snuffling, bounding off ahead of them.
Suddenly they heard it growl, and then
a frenzy of barks, making birds fly upward
in alarm. Then stifled whines. The hound
slunk from the bushes, bleeding and subdued,
and the princes found it had been silenced
by seven evenly spaced arrows clamping
its muzzle shut. They were amazed—surely,
at the first wound, the dog would have bolted.
These arrows must have flown from the bowstring
in unimaginably quick succession.
And so precisely! Even Arjuna
could never have accomplished such a feat.
Following the track the dog had taken
they came upon a clearing in the wood
where a dark-skinned youth, his crude bow raised,
was shooting a cascade of arrows, calmly,
gracefully, and with such dazzling skill
the brothers were astounded.
“Who are you?
And where could you have learned to shoot like that?”
The youth replied, “My name is Ekalavya,
my father is the chief of the nishadas,
and I owe my skill to the great Drona,
my master.”
Soberly, the brothers rode
back to the city. Pale with jealousy,
Arjuna took Drona to one side.
“Did you not promise me, not long ago,
that I would be the world’s greatest archer?
How, then, can you be teaching, secretly,
that lowborn boy—an archer so accomplished
he makes me look like a mere beginner!”
Drona was mystified, then called to mind
the forest boy he had refused to teach.
With Arjuna, he set off for the forest
and there they came across Ekalavya
calmly practicing, his rough-hewn arrows
clustering in a line of perfect circles
on a straw target.
He fell at Drona’s feet,
surprise and joy lighting his dark face
at seeing his master. Drona, for his part,
had never witnessed such unearthly skill—
he could understand Arjuna’s despair.
He framed what he must say. “Ekalavya,
if I am your teacher, you should now
give me my fee.”
“Name it—anything!”
the boy cried, flooded with happiness
that he had been acknowledged by his guru.
“There is no gift I shall withhold from you.”
“Then,” said Drona, “give me your right thumb.”
Ekalavya’s smile did not falter.
With an arrow’s single downward slash
he sliced off his right thumb, and placed it, dripping,
at Drona’s feet. From now on, he would never
shoot with such breathtaking speed. And Drona’s
words would not be falsified—Arjuna
would be the greatest archer in the world.
The Pandava glowed with confidence restored.
Without a word, the two then strode away
and out of Ekalavya’s small story.
But we may imagine this: Ekalavya
bound the throbbing socket of his thumb
with herbs and soothing leaves, then sat in thought.
Sunlight left the forest canopy,
dusk came, then darkness. Still he sat alone.
He listened to the creatures of the night
as they went about their earnest purposes
constrained, and free.
In the dawn light, he rose
and bathed, then stood in front of Drona’s statue.
In respect, he touched its feet. Then, straightening,
he took his bow, began again to practice.