Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  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.

  Emotion cracked my voice as I greeted him,

  ‘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.