in wielding bow or sword required much more
than physical adroitness, or great strength,
more, even, than perseverance. Qualities
of heart were needed, stillness of mind and body,
complete focus.
Never an easy man,
quick to take offense, testy-tempered,
at this time he was nursing a great grievance
and, holed up in his brother-in-law’s house,
he brooded, eating little, hardly speaking.
Like Kripa’s, Drona’s birth had been unusual.
The great seer Bharadvaja once caught sight
of a lovely apsaras, fresh from her bath.
A breeze parted her skirt, and the seer’s seed
gushed forth spontaneously. Bharadvaja
placed it in a pot, and in due time
Drona was born (the name meaning “pot”).
One day, near the palace, the young princes
were playing catch, throwing a ball around,
when someone missed, and the ball went bouncing
into a deep, dry well. The boys brought sticks
and ropes and tried a dozen ways to lift it
but without success. Then they noticed
a cadaverous and shabby brahmin
standing near. “Call yourselves kshatriyas,
and you can’t retrieve a ball out of a well?”
the brahmin laughed. “I will get your ball
using nothing but these blades of grass
and—see this ring?” He took it from his finger
and dropped it nonchalantly down the well.
“I’ll rescue that too.” The princes were intrigued.
Then Drona (it was he) muttered a mantra
over the blades of grass and, with his bow,
shot one down the well and pierced the ball.
Then he shot another through the first
and a third into the second. In this way
he made a chain of blades, and drew the ball
up into the light—and then he loosed
a single arrow, which swooped into the well
and out again, encircled by the ring.
“Who can you be?” the princes asked, amazed.
“Tell Bhishma what you’ve seen,” Drona replied,
turning away. “He will know who I am.”
When Bhishma heard the boys’ account, he knew
this must be the great Drona. He had found
the teacher the princes needed. But he saw
that Drona was consumed by rage and grief.
“My friend,” said Bhishma, “it seems that some great ill
is troubling you. Let me share your burden—
tell me.”
“Prince,” said Drona, “you should know
I come here seething with a great obsession—
revenge! When I was young, I had a friend
so dear to me, and I to him, we were
inseparable. He was Prince Drupada,
eldest son of the Panchala king.
He had been sent to the forest where I lived,
to receive instruction from my father,
Bharadvaja. We spent every day
together—studied, played, practiced archery;
often we fell asleep in the same bed
hating to put an end to conversation
by going to separate rooms. He used to say,
‘Drona, when I am king of Panchala,
you will come and join me in my palace.
I’ll share with you everything I have.’
I can still hear his words!
“Not long ago,
I fell on times of crippling poverty.
Kripi, my sweet wife, was uncomplaining
but when we were too poor even to buy
milk for Ashvatthaman, our young son,
and other boys were taunting him—well, then
I thought of Drupada, of our friendship,
and I decided to take Ashvatthaman
and Kripi to Kampilya, where Drupada
has his court, now he is king. We traveled
for many days, and arrived collapsing
with exhaustion, ragged and half-starved.
I asked to see the king, telling the guard
my full name, confident that Drupada
would hurry out to greet me when he heard
his friend was here.
“But that’s not how it was.
Two days he kept us waiting by the gate,
despised and ridiculed by passersby,
hunkered with pye-dogs and foul-smelling beggars.
At last, my heart racing with excitement,
longing to see my friend, I was conducted
into his presence, where he sat, bejeweled,
lolling at ease on his ivory throne.
‘My friend!’ He didn’t smile, nor rise to meet me.
‘Scruffy brahmin, how dare you presume
to call me friend! Of course, we knew each other
when we were boys, but that was another life.
Friendship is a bond between equals
and, in those days, your friendship suited me.
But did you delude yourself we could remain
eternal boys, alike in innocence,
forever irresponsible, outside time?
No—time and circumstance change everything.
It’s sentimental to think otherwise
and a king should be above mere sentiment.
With time comes experience; with circumstance
comes parting of the ways.’ And he dismissed me.
“Bhishma, it was as if an icy hand
clutched at my heart and twisted it. My eyes
struggled to penetrate the scarlet mist
that swirled in front of them. ‘Time and circumstance
will give me a chance to speak to you again,’
I muttered; and left, stumbling blindly through
the marble courtyards, scoffed at by the guards,
out through the gates, fleeing that evil place,
never resting until we arrived here
in Hastinapura, where the blessed Kripa
has kindly welcomed us into his house;
and, truth to tell, we’ve nowhere else to turn.
“Kripi, wiser than I, is not surprised
at how the mighty ruler of Panchala
has treated me—but then, she never saw
how close we once were, Drupada and I.
I just can’t reconcile . . . Only revenge
can free me from the rage and hurt I carry
each waking moment, like a burning sore.”
Bhishma saw that Drona was a man
with too much pride for his own peace of mind.
Although advanced in spiritual disciplines,
he would not, could not, find it in himself
to overlook such crushing disrespect.
Only by humbling Drupada in turn
would he find rest.
“Drona, my friend,” said Bhishma,
“please consent to put down roots with us.
You are the teacher our young princes need.
Here, you will be honored as you deserve
and live in comfort with your family.
It seems to me that destiny has sent you.”
4.
LEARNING THE ARTS OF WAR
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.
Dron
a 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,
&n
bsp; 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.