THIRTY-ONE
But Arjuna would not have been the greatest archer in the world.
One evening, Drona was out alone in his garden, breathing the scents of lotuses growing in his tank, when a lithe figure darted out from the bushes and prostrated itself at his feet. Drona saw it was a young boy, who now turned up his face, darker than moonless nights, to gaze at him. Such reverence shone in those stark white eyes; Drona had never had a look like that from any of his disciples.
The boy had bathed before he came here, but he smelled of wild places. Drona felt sure that he would soon be caked with mud and leaves again from head to foot, tameless as the jungle that was his home.
He was drawn to the dark youth, who looked some three years younger than Arjuna. The brahmana said kindly, "Who are you, my child?"
In his musical dialect, the boy replied, "I am Ekalavya." And then, added in a whisper, as if he could hardly believe where he was, "And you are Drona. The master."
"Yes, I am Drona. Now say what you want from me."
"I am the son of Hiranyadhanush, king of the nishadas of the forest." His eyes never left Drona's face, as if to imprint every feature on his heart.
"Say what you would have of me," said Drona impatiently.
"Take me for your sishya, teach me archery!" The youth breathed his dream.
Drona sighed. "I feared as much. But I teach only kshatriyas and a nishada could never learn beside them. The princes I teach will rule the earth one day. I am sorry, but I must refuse you."
He saw tears glimmer in the unwinking eyes. Ekalavya crouched there in silence. Then he said, "At least bless me once, Guru!" and laid his tousled head at Drona's feet.
Moved, Drona bent and placed his hand on the boy's head, "Bless you, child."
A smile as white as his eyes lit his long black face. Ekalavya cried, "Now I will not fail!" and, jumping up, he was gone.
Drona stood staring after him uneasily and was filled with an unaccountable sadness. Kripi called from the lamplit doorway that the night meal was served and he turned to go in.
Ekalavya flew through the forest like a joyful wind. A golden moon unfurled above him, engaging wakeful trees in supernal converse. He plunged on, deep into the familiar jungle, past trees who were friends, among whom he had grown and roamed since he was a child, out of whose branches he had shot fruit and birds with his wooden bow. This was the rarest night of his life: the great Drona had blessed him; now there was no dream the darkling child of the forest couldn't turn into reality.
He arrived in the very heart of the jungle, where even birds and beasts were rare visitors and exotic plants grew in surreal profusion. Strange crocuses thrust phallic stamens at the moon and resplendent lotuses mantled satin pools hidden away from the world as if they were too precious to be seen. Beside one of those inmost pools, Ekalavya stopped.
He was unconcerned by the time of night. He was used to hunting at all hours, with sight such as only those creatures have that depend on it for their lives. He began to scoop up wet earth from the mossy bank of the pool, its face alight with violet and crimson blooms in the flowing moon. He carried this earth to a tree that grew apart from its fellows, alone, much like intense Ekalavya himself.
Through the night he worked, pausing just once, briefly, to eat some lotus-stems. Under his fine touch, a figure began to take shape. On he worked, past the dawn, at times in silence, feverishly, at others singing softly in his wild tongue—of trees, birds and beasts that have never known restriction, but life, love and death, in perfect freedom and danger. He worked with absolute passion.
Past the feet and the long, powerful legs, grew the figure Ekalavya was making with such love; up past the erect waist and back, the deep, supple chest, right up to the neck. Then he began on its long arms, one hanging at the side, fingers almost to the knee, the other raised, its palm open in a blessing. When he finished the arms and the hands, it was evening of the next day. He fell asleep at the feet of his headless clay figure. But in his dreams, he saw, lucidly, the noble head he must still fashion.
He awoke at midnight and resumed his obsessive labor. By now his dusky skin was covered in pale clay, his curly black hair was streaked with it. While he had worked in frenzy on the body, now he was slower, more careful; it took him two days before he finished the head. He picked up his bow and bamboo-quiver, in which the arrows lay straight as bands of light and hunted a young wild pig. He roasted it on a spit and devoured it hungrily. Then he slept and now dreamt only of the face he had yet to make: most of all, the unforgettable eyes in that face, eyes like live coals.
He awoke again and took up the light clay from the pool of lotuses. He scooped it up uniformly, leaving no ugly pit to mar the beauty of the wild spot. More painstakingly still, often pausing to shut his eyes to recall some tiny wrinkle at the corner of its mouth, Ekalavya worked on the stern, gaunt face. It took form under his subtle fingers and was eerily life-like. He was impatient to be done with his unfamiliar task. Only when he had finished making this figure could he begin with the other calling that raged in his blood, the one that would make his wild name immortal.
He toiled for a week, often sobbing in frustration when he had to break off some feature because it was not perfect. Most of all, the eyes eluded him. It was their expression he could not capture: because he wanted them to express all things, to be a mirror of the universe to him. Where else would he turn but to his master's eyes, when he wanted solace or instruction, approbation or love?
At last the figure was complete. Ekalavya went to the nearby jungle stream and bathed languorously in it. He came back to the clearing where the form he had made now stood, tall and commanding: its enigmatic eyes were alive, they looked at him.
The boy went to the pool and pulled up some lotuses from its surface. He tied their stalks together to make a garland. He came to the clay figure and draped the garland of lotuses around its neck. With a lump in his throat, he whispered, "Bless me, Guru!" and prostrated himself at the feet of his preceptor in the wilderness.
Ekalavya rose. With his hunting knife, which he used to carve the flesh of animals he killed, he cut a flat, round piece of wood from a dead log. Climbing nimbly into the tallest tree at the glade's edge, he secured the target to a high branch. He moved with the grace of a young jungle cat, lean muscles shimmering. He climbed down from the tree and walked to the opposite end of the clearing; now he could not see the target at all. With his guru's name in his fierce heart, the jungle boy raised his bow.
The years flowed by. In Hastinapura, the Kuru princes had their instruction from Drona and Ekalavya studied with his earthen master in the forest clearing. Everyone said Arjuna was the finest archer in the world; the Pandava was confident of it himself, he knew even his great master thought so. One day, the princes went hunting in the forest with a hunting-dog, a lively animal with the keenest nose. They had come to hunt big game: a leopard, or even a tiger.
The restless dog dashed eagerly into the forest and the princes went after it. Its nose to the ground, the beast ran on, exhilarated with all the marvelous scents this jungle was suffused with. That dog sniffed a thousand tales of wild lives and encounters, as clearly as if he saw them with his eyes: some fading, some fresh and vibrant. He was fervid on the trail. Snuffling in rapture, he plunged deep into the vana, where not even foresters and honey-gatherers ventured and the princes were hard-pressed to keep up with him.
Then, ahead of them and out of sight, the dog stopped dead in his tracks, his hackles raised, growling. He broke into a frenzied volley of barking, so gaudy birds came flapping out of the trees. As if he had gone quite mad at whatever he had seen, he bayed, a long howl, a terrible, nerve-wracking sound.
Certain that the beast had found a tiger or leopard, the princes came running, their bows ready. Suddenly the dog gave a shrill yelp and fell silent. With Arjuna ahead of the rest, the young Kurus crept through the trees, thinking that a big cat had killed their dog and now lay in wait for them.
But they had hardly gone a few yards, when the dog shot out of the thickets, whining piteously in his throat. Crowding round the hapless animal, the princes saw what had silenced the poor brute. Round his muzzle, in circle as perfect as the petals grow out of a flower, the dog's jaws had been shot shut with seven wooden arrows.
Arjuna knelt beside the beast and gently tugged the cruel barbs out one by one. The others saw his eyes fill with tears. They were not tears of sorrow, but envy! As he drew out those arrows, Arjuna's hands shook.
Once his jaws were free the wretched dog began to howl and blood gushed from his wounds. Every prince there knew how unlikely it was that someone, anyone, could have muzzled their animal like this. It would take an archer of unearthly skill; because once the first arrow struck him, the dog must have turned and run from his assailant.
Just one person might, conceivably, have attempted such a feat—Arjuna. He may have been able to shoot four or five arrows in less than a moment. But seven? And so symmetrically? Not even Arjuna could have done it. Anyway, the hidden archer was not he.
Finally, Bheema breathed, "Who did this? Is Drona out in the jungle?"
His face taut, Arjuna stalked ahead into the dense forest and arrived in a bright clearing. There, shooting a tide of arrows at an invisible target on a treetop, with grace and skill that took even the Pandava's breath away, stood the wildest young man. He was dark and sinuous as a black panther; his hair hung to his shoulders in unkempt straggles. He wore a spotted leopard-skin, was covered in jungle mud and loosed his arrows as effortlessly as he breathed. He was surely no kshatriya prince; but then, no kshatriya prince on earth was the marksman this youth was.
Choking with envy, Arjuna cried, "Fellow, who are you?"
The youth turned. He was handsome in his untamed way; his eyes were fine and sharp. Lowering his bow, he brushed the hair that had fallen across his brow and stood facing them. He was not in the least awed by the throng of princes, glittering with ornaments and carrying jeweled bows. He surveyed them with some slight interest. Arjuna repeated his question, desperately, "Who are you, archer?"
"I am Ekalavya. My father is Hiranyadhanush, king of the nishadas of this jungle."
Somehow, Arjuna controlled the trembling that had broken out over his body. "Who taught you to shoot like that?"
"At the target?"
Sensing the seismic tension between the youth and Arjuna, the others were silent. Arjuna said, "No, what you did to our dog."
White, even teeth flashed in a grin. "Oh, that. He annoyed me with his howling. I think he mistook me for a leopard."
"Who taught you archery?" cried Arjuna, his world crumbling around him.
"My master, of course."
"Who is your master?" the Pandava almost shouted.
"The greatest archer on earth."
Arjuna thought he would die from the pounding of his heart, the jealous coursing of his blood.
"His name, Nishada!"
"Why, Drona, prince. Who else would be my master?"
With a cry, Arjuna turned and fled from that clearing as if the black youth had shot him with an arrow. The other Pandavas and Kauravas followed Arjuna, some puzzled and others knowing. His eyes streaming hot tears, Arjuna flew back through the trees. At the edge of the vana, he leapt into his chariot and rode back to Hastinapura like one who would race the wind.
In the city, he drove straight to his master's house. Still sobbing, he stormed into Drona's presence. Arjuna stood red-faced and silent before his guru. Drona rose and came up to his favorite pupil. He saw tears flowing down the Pandava's face; he saw how the young kshatriya shook as if he had a fever.
"Arjuna, what is the matter? What happened to distress you like this, serene prince?"
Arjuna turned his face away from his acharya.
"Tell me what happened."
"You swore! You swore to me Acharya and you lied."
"What are you talking about? What did I swear?"
"You swore I would be the greatest archer in the world. But you lied, you lied."
Drona took Arjuna by the arm. "What are you saying, Arjuna? You are the best of all my pupils. Who is a better archer than you? No one on earth."
"Lies, lies, lies! Your sishya in the jungle, the nishada, is better than I am. I saw him today, Acharya, you can't hide him from me any more." He broke down and wailed, "He is so much better than me that he makes me look like a child."
Puzzled, Drona said, "Who is he in the jungle who is a better archer than you?"
"The nishada. Ekalavya."
Meanwhile, the other princes rode up to their master's house. They were also full of the wonderful archery of the youth in the jungle's heart: how he had sewn up the dog's mouth with seven arrows even as it ran from him and how unerring his aim was when he shot at the target in the tree. They all agreed: not even Arjuna could match the nishada.
But Drona knew that Arjuna was the hope of the world; he was the prince who could save the future. And here he was, already on the verge of destroying himself. Drona saw how blankness filmed Arjuna's eyes and how he toyed with his clothes, as if his mind was on the edge of some trauma. To be the best bowman in the world was more important to the Pandava than his life. It would break his spirit if there were anyone better than he was; and in this case, not even another kshatriya but a mere hunter.
Drona knew his time was short. He said to Arjuna, "Come, let us go and see this nishada of yours."
The others wanted to go as well, but Drona was firm, "Only Arjuna and I will go to the forest."
They climbed into the Pandava's chariot. Hope flared up again in Arjuna, that somehow Drona would relieve his agony. He drove back as swiftly as he had come, racing the wind once more. When it could go no farther, they alighted from the chariot. His fabled poise in shreds, Arjuna dashed through the trees toward the place where the dog had received its incredible punishment.
They arrived at the hidden clearing. Drona stopped Arjuna, laying a hand on the prince's arm. At the far end of the clearing stood Ekalavya. He had blindfolded himself and had his bow in his hand. He stood very still, his body relaxed and alert. As Arjuna and Drona watched breathlessly, that youth burst into a blur of movement that not even their trained eyes could follow. It was movement from another dimension, unreal.
He stopped almost as soon as he began and was still again. Yet he had shot ten arrows, drawing them from his quiver like lightning and he had brought down eight birds from eight different trees. The ninth and tenth arrows had flown back to him, one with a lotus from the pool at the heart of the clearing and the other with a fish from its water that had come up for a gulp of air.
Ekalavya set down the lotus and the fish; he undid the soft bark with which he had bound his eyes. Now he went from tree to tree, collecting the birds he had shot. He seemed satisfied and sat down to pluck the birds and gut the fish, which was a big one. Drona stepped into the clearing with Arjuna.
The boy had his back turned. But he was on his feet in a flash and spun round, his bow raised with an arrow at its string. Then he saw Drona and such a smile broke out on his face. With a cry of sheer joy, Ekalavya fell at Drona's feet.
"Acharya!"
Drona felt his feet bathed with the youth's tears. He, too, felt a surge of tenderness. There was no mistake: this boy was better than Arjuna, he was the best archer on earth. Yet, equally, he was neither a kshatriya, nor was he noble. Arjuna would never have silenced an innocent dog as cruelly as this dangerous nishada had. The forest boy could become a great threat; someday, he could change the course of fate. Not recognizing Ekalavya from the brief encounter he had with him, many years ago, Drona raised him up and said, "Who are you, son? How do you call me your guru? I don't recall ever having seen you."
"I am Ekalavya. It was dark that evening in your garden, when I came and asked you to take me as your sishya. When I told you I was a nishada, you said you could not have me. But when I set my head at your feet and asked for your blessing, you gave it to me. You are my guru and you have stood beside me all these years, showing me the archer's way."
He led them to the solitary tree. Drona laughed when he saw his own image, now a little worn with sun, wind and rain, but still a remarkable likeness. The acharya turned to Arjuna and saw only burning resentment in that sublime prince's face. Drona sighed. He knew what he must do. Slowly, he said to Ekalavya, "So I am your guru and no pupil has learnt better from me than you have."
His heart bursting with happiness, the boy stood before his master. His master was saying, "If you say I am your guru, Nishada, shouldn't I receive some guru-dakshina from you?"
Ekalavya cried, "Ask me for anything, my life is yours! At least, you will acknowledge I am your sishya if you take dakshina from me."
Arjuna still stood petrified, his eyes glazed. Sadly, Drona turned back to Ekalavya and said, "Give me the thumb of your right hand as my dakshina."
The smile never left that black youth's face. He said in his lilting tongue, "Archery is a thing of the spirit. My thumb is as nothing to give you for all you have taught me."
Arjuna did not say a word, though his master looked at him again to see if he relented. Ekalavya picked up the crescent-headed arrow that had fetched the lotus from the pool. Without a murmur, he sliced his thumb from his right hand and laid it, dripping, before Drona. He knelt at his master's feet for his blessing. It took Acharya Drona all his strength to keep his hand from shaking, as he laid it on Ekalavya's head. When he turned to look at Arjuna, he saw light in the Pandava prince's eyes again. The hollow stare, which did not see the world, was gone. Without another word to the kneeling nishada, they walked out of his life.
Ekalavya bound his bleeding hand with herbs mixed in a pack of mud. He set up his target again and began practising more rigorously than ever. Indeed, he quickly acquired incredible proficiency with just four fingers. But it was never the same; he would never be the matchless bowman he had been before.
Once more, Arjuna was the greatest archer in the world.