Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus did Droṇa, the mighty son of Bharadvāja, continue to instruct the princes in the divine science of warfare. Ever watchful and methodical in his training, he designed each lesson with hidden tests. To every pupil he gave a narrow-mouthed vessel for drawing water—so that time would be consumed in the task, and their discipline refined. Yet to his own son Aśvatthāman he gave a wide-mouthed vessel, that he might return swiftly and receive secret lessons in superior arts known only to the initiated.

But Jishnu, the keen-eyed Arjuna, noticed this silent distinction. Unmoved by envy and guided by sharp intelligence, he invoked the Varuṇa astra to fill his vessel swiftly, returning side by side with Aśvatthāman. Thus, he too came to receive the inner teachings. No longer was the son of Pṛthā behind in mastery.

Tireless in duty, devoted in heart,

He rose each day before the start.

No toil could break his willful fire—

Arjuna shone like Dharma’s sire.

So profound was his reverence for his preceptor and his craft that Droṇa began to favor him above all others. One day, calling the palace cook in secret, the guru whispered, “Never serve Arjuna in the dark. And speak not of this command to anyone.” The cook obeyed.

Yet fate too bows to diligence. For one evening, as Arjuna dined, a sudden gust of wind extinguished the flame. But his hand, accustomed by habit, found his mouth without pause or spill. In that moment, the son of Indra realized a truth:

“If habit can guide me in darkness so,

Why not the string and shaft and bow?”

And so he began to practice at night, loosing arrows by the sound of breath, by the feel of motion. And in the silence of deep night, the twang of his bow rang like a sacred bell.

Droṇa heard the sound and came. He beheld the boy—alone, tireless, radiant with tapas. The master embraced him with joy and said:

“O Arjuna, child of Dharma’s path,

No equal shalt thou have in wrath.

I vow this day to make thee known—

As earth’s unmatched archer, fully grown.”

Thereafter, the sage instructed him in every martial mode: warfare on horseback, upon elephants, in chariots, and on foot. He taught the use of mace and sword, spear and lance, dart and arrow. He taught him how to fight one man or many, in duel or in swarm.

News of this instruction spread like fire across the land. Princes and kings, drawn by fame, came by the hundreds to learn from the master.

Among them came a dark-skinned youth—Ekalavya by name—prince of the Niṣādas, son of King Hiraṇyadhanus. Though low-born by caste, he was noble of spirit and fierce in resolve.

Ekalavya bowed before Droṇa and humbly asked to be accepted as a pupil. But Droṇa, guardian of dharma and conscious of royal lineages, refused. For he feared that one not of kṣatriya birth, if trained, might one day outshine the royal heirs of the Bhārata line.

Yet the boy, with soul unbowed,

Took leave without a bitter word.

Into the forest wild he went,

With purpose fixed and heart unbent.

There, in a quiet grove, he fashioned an image of Droṇa in clay—eyes kind, form serene, with arms raised as in instruction. Day after day, he worshipped that image like the teacher himself, bowing low and practicing in solitude.

By sheer devotion, he mastered the sacred triad of archery:

The stringing of the bow,

The aim of the arrow,

The letting go—

And all these he perfected without guidance or praise, guided only by love and fierce determination.

O king, such was the fire in his will,

That even without a teacher’s will,

The bow obeyed, the shaft took flight—

As if the gods themselves taught by night.

And one day, O grinder of foes, the princes of the Kuru line—sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Pāṇḍu—obtained the permission of their preceptor Droṇa and set forth in their chariots upon a hunting expedition. Along with them followed an attendant, walking leisurely behind, bearing the usual implements of the chase and leading a dog.

Through forest and glade they wandered, their eyes sharp with purpose, their bows strung for game. But as the royal sons pursued their sport, the dog, left to roam, wandered farther into the wooded heart of the forest.

There, in a clearing where silence breathed like breath held still, it came upon a solitary figure—a young man of dark complexion, clothed in black garments, his matted hair bound atop a head smeared with forest dust. He stood upright, bearing a bow with the ease of a seasoned warrior. This was Ekalavya, prince of the Niṣādas.

The dog beheld him, and as is the way of hounds,

Barked aloud, its voice rising and echoing through the grounds.

But ere its jaws could close again,

Seven arrows flashed and found their den.

With astonishing swiftness and flawless precision, Ekalavya shot seven arrows into the open mouth of the barking dog, silencing it—not in death, but in stunned stillness. The animal, pierced and mute, staggered back through the underbrush, and soon reached the Pāṇḍavas and their kinsmen.

Beholding the dog thus struck—its mouth sealed by shafts so artfully placed that no blood flowed—the princes were astonished. Their hearts stirred with wonder and their pride, tested by the sight, yielded to awe.

"Such skill!" they said, speaking among themselves. "Whose hand can wield such power? Whose eye can guide with such divine precision? Surely this is no ordinary archer."

And so, urged by curiosity and a spirit that thirsted for mastery, the sons of Kuru began to search the woods for this mysterious marksman. They moved with haste, scanning the trees and glades, until at last they came upon a youth practicing with steady hands—loosing arrow after arrow in swift succession, each finding its mark.

He was not known to them. His features bore the marks of toil and discipline, and his demeanor was one of focus untouched by vanity.

Approaching him, the princes asked, “Who art thou, noble archer, and whose son? From what line dost thou spring, and by whose guidance hast thou attained such skill?”

The youth replied, his voice firm yet respectful:

“O heroes of the Bhārata race, I am Ekalavya, son of Hiraṇyadhanus, king of the Niṣādas. Know me also to be a disciple of the venerable Droṇa. Though he accepted me not in form, I have worshipped him in spirit, laboring day and night to master the art of arms.”

“No lips he moved to give me lore,

No hand he raised to guide my bow.

Yet in his shadow did I train—

My guru’s image in forest's glow.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

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The Pāṇḍavas, having uncovered the secret of that hidden archer in the woods and marvelled at his astonishing feat, returned to the city of Hastināpura. Straightway, they went to Droṇa, their preceptor, and recounted all they had seen. Arjuna especially, his heart troubled and mind heavy with doubt, approached Droṇa in private.

He bowed low, and with words weighed in affection and reverence, he spoke:

“O Master, thou who once did clasp me to thy bosom

And swore that none among thy pupils would be my equal—

Why then do I hear of one, a son of the forest-born Niṣāda king,

Who bends his bow with such grace as to surpass my skill?”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Hearing Arjuna’s words, Droṇa was silent for a time. Deep in thought, he turned over his decision like a fire hidden in smoke. At last, he resolved upon his course. Taking Arjuna with him, he journeyed into the forest and came to the place where Ekalavya, ever steadfast, practiced his archery.

There he stood—body smeared with dust, his matted locks wild like forest vines, clad in rags, a bow in hand, releasing shafts in steady rhythm. Though untaught by word or gesture, the youth’s precision was as that of one trained by celestial sages.

As Droṇa approached, Ekalavya beheld him with reverence and joy. Rising from his seat, he stepped forward and bowed low, touching the master’s feet. Prostrating himself to the ground, he stood with folded hands and said with humble pride:

“O revered preceptor, though thou didst not accept me,

I have ever seen thee as my guru in spirit and in soul.

Before thy clay image have I practiced day and night—

All that I know is by thy grace, though given not by hand.”

Moved neither by praise nor resentment, Droṇa, his resolve hard as a thunderbolt, spoke solemnly:

“If indeed thou claimest to be my disciple, O noble one, then render unto me guru-dakṣiṇā, the rightful fee due from pupil to preceptor.”

At these words, Ekalavya’s face brightened with joy, for to serve his teacher was his highest dharma.

He bowed and said with devotion:

“Command me, O Brāhmaṇa of infinite wisdom.

There is nothing, however dear, that I shall not give.

My life, my limbs, my kingdom, all are thine—

Speak thy desire, and it shall be done.”

Then Droṇa, unflinching in his vow to Arjuna, said:

“If thou would truly honor me as preceptor,

Then, O Ekalavya, give me thy right-hand thumb.”

Thus spoke the sage—without anger, without haste, but with an iron will shaped by promise and design.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Hearing the harsh demand of his revered master—harsh, yet spoken in calm detachment—Ekalavya, noble of heart and unwavering in truth, did not falter. The words, though cruel in form, he received with a radiant face, for his soul was anchored in dharma and in the vow he had sworn as a disciple.

Without the least sorrow, without a tremble in hand or tear in eye, the forest-born prince took up his blade. And there, in silent witness of the trees and sky, he severed his own thumb—his right thumb, the very nerve of his archery—and laid it in his master’s hands.

No cry he gave, no sign of pain,

No curse he uttered, no complaint.

As if the flesh were dust and straw,

He offered it—his sacred law.

And thus Ekalavya, shining in self-sacrifice, gave guru-dakṣiṇā beyond all measure—more than gold, more than arms, more than kingdoms. In him was the fire of loyalty that burns even the fruits of one's own greatness.

But when he returned to his bow, and sought once more to release arrows with his maimed hand, the skill that had dazzled the princes of Hastināpura was no longer his. The fluid grace was broken; the lightness of touch, now heavy.

And seeing this—

Arjuna’s heart grew light again,

Jealousy, like fever, fled.

For none, it seemed, in heaven or earth

Would rival him till death.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus did Drona, the preceptor of princes, having trained the sons of Kuru in all the divine and human weapons, seek to assess the fruit of his instruction. Among them, two—Bhīma and Duryodhana—excelled in the heavy art of the mace, yet their rivalry ran deeper than skill, for envy and pride poisoned their veins. Aswatthāman, Drona’s own son, grasped secrets none else could fathom, for to him were revealed the veiled mysteries of astral warfare.

Nakula and Sahadeva, the sons of Mādrī, shone with blades in hand, swift and precise, their movements like flowing water. Yudhiṣṭhira, firm in mind and steady in hand, surpassed others in the chariot arts, a master of the field’s vast logic.

But Arjuna—O king!—Arjuna alone blazed like the midday sun. In every form of arms, in discernment, endurance, subtlety, and speed, he outshone his peers. No prince could match his devotion, no warrior his dexterity. He became an Atiratha, a slayer of multitudes, one who could stand alone against sixty thousand.

By day he trained, by night he honed,

His bow sang out in secret hours.

A lion cub among mere deer—

Arjuna bloomed with hidden powers.

And the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, their eyes clouded with jealousy, burned at the sight of Bhīma’s strength and Arjuna’s fame.

Then, desiring to test them all, Drona—wise in judgment—arranged a trial. He summoned the princes to the forest clearing where he had fixed an artificial bird, high atop a distant tree. It was to be their target.

Standing before them like the sun before its rays, he said:

“Take up your bows, O sons of Kuru. String them, fix your arrows, and prepare to strike down that bird’s head the moment I give command. I shall call you forward, one by one. Let me see whose mind is steady, whose aim is true.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then Drona, the sage among warriors and first among the sons of Aṅgirasa, resolved to test the vision and focus of his pupils. Turning to Yudhiṣṭhira, eldest of the sons of Kuntī and calm of heart, he said:

“O irrepressible one, take up thy bow. Aim at the bird that rests upon the high branch. When I give the word, strike true and sever its head.”

Yudhiṣṭhira, obedient to command, took up his bow and fixed his gaze. Yet before the order to loose his shaft, Drona asked:

“Tell me, O prince, what dost thou see?”

The son of Dharma replied, “I see the bird upon the tree, I see thee, my brothers, and the tree itself.”

Drona, repeating with emphasis, said, “And now, O prince, what dost thou see?”

Still Yudhiṣṭhira answered the same, “I see the bird, the tree, thee, and my brothers all.”

Frowning with displeasure, the preceptor said:

“Stand aside, Yudhiṣṭhira. This task is not for one who sees too much. He who strikes must see only the mark.”

Thereafter, one by one, he summoned the rest—Duryodhana of harsh words, Bhīma of mighty limbs, and all the other sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, along with those princes who had come from distant lands seeking knowledge at Drona’s feet. Each approached in turn, with bow and shaft.

“What dost thou see?” the ācārya asked,

“The bird? The branch? Or more?”

But each one spoke of tree and kin,

And missed the sacred core.

None among them could still the world from their sight, none could see the bird alone, and thus Drona, reproaching each, made them all step aside.

Vaiśampāyana said:

When all the princes had failed in their aim, Drona, the foremost of preceptors, smiled gently and summoned Arjuna, son of Pṛthā, whose heart was steady as his hand.

“O Arjuna,” said the master of arms, “thou must strike the mark. Fix thine eyes upon it and stand ready with bow drawn. Let fly thy arrow when I give the command.”

Then Arjuna, ever obedient, took up his bow and stood, his gaze unwavering. The string was taut, the shaft poised for release. As with the others, Drona questioned him.

“Tell me, O Arjuna, what dost thou see? Seest thou the tree, the bird, myself, or thy brothers?”

The son of Indra replied calmly, without hesitation:

“O Ācārya, I see the bird alone—

Not the bough, not the sky, not even thee.

Its body fades from my single sight—

Only the head remains for me.”

Hearing these words, Drona’s heart swelled with joy, and the hair on his body stood on end like the bristles of an awakened lion.

“If thou seest the head,” he said, “then shoot.”

At once Arjuna loosed the arrow. Swift as thought and straight as destiny, the shaft flew—severing the head of the bird and bringing it down to the earth, even as all stood watching.

Drona then rushed forward and embraced Pārtha.

“Drupada is slain already in my heart,”

Thought he, “for with Arjuna by my side,

No foe shall stand in battle’s tide—

The bow’s true master now is mine.”

Some days passed. Then, seeking refreshment and ritual purity, Drona went with his pupils to the sacred banks of Gaṅgā. As he descended into her purifying waters, a great alligator—like an agent of Yama—rose from the depths and clutched his thigh.

Though he was mighty enough to free himself, Drona, desiring to test his disciples, cried out:

“O sons, aid me! Slay this beast and rescue your preceptor!”

But while the others stood confused and still,

Arjuna moved with fearless will.

Five arrows flashed from his hand like light—

And struck the beast with perfect might.

Before the others could lift a finger, the crocodile was pierced through and through, its massive body torn apart in the river’s swirl. Drona’s thigh was freed. He rose from the waters and looked upon Arjuna with wonder.

Then, in a voice choked with emotion, he said:

“O mighty-armed Arjuna, thou art worthy of what no other shall possess. Receive from me now the divine weapon Brahmāśira, supreme among celestial arms—fierce, flaming, and unmatched in all the three worlds.

“None may withstand it but one of equal might;

If loosed upon the weak, it scorches all life.

Use it not on mortals—never in vain;

For it may set the cosmos aflame.”

Arjuna bowed low, palms joined, and vowed to guard its use with utmost restraint.

And Drona, gazing with pride upon his disciple, declared:

“Among all men, thou shalt excel,

In battle, no enemy shall thee quell.

Bowman supreme, the gods shall see—

The glory of arms perfected in thee.”

Thus was Arjuna established as foremost among all Drona’s disciples, not merely by might, but by focus, discipline, and grace.

Vaiśampāyana said:

O scion of the Bharatas, when Drona, the son of Bhāradvāja, beheld the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Pāṇḍu fully trained and radiant in their martial discipline, his heart swelled with satisfaction.

Then, in the presence of Bhīṣma—the son of Gaṅgā, wise and steadfast—alongside Kṛpa, Somadatta, Vālhīka, the sage Vyāsa, and the discerning Vidura, Drona addressed King Dhṛtarāṣṭra with solemn respect.

“O King of Kuru’s line,” he said, “thy children have completed their study of arms. The time has come for them to display their prowess before the world. With thy leave, let a trial be held—a gathering to reveal the fruits of discipline and instruction.”

Hearing these words, the blind monarch was moved with joy. Though sightless, his heart saw visions of glory.

“O Brāhmaṇa of holy vows,” said he,

“What thou hast done, no reward can equal.

Command the place, the hour, the way—

And let this rite be arranged without delay.

Alas! that I am blind, for my soul aches—

That I cannot behold my sons with mine own eyes.”

Turning to Vidura, the king added:

“O Kṣattṛ, most virtuous of men, carry out Drona’s will. Let the people witness what my heart longs to see.”

Thus instructed, Vidura bowed and departed swiftly to fulfill the king’s command.

Then Drona, master of sacred order and worldly art alike, selected a plot of land—broad, clear of thickets, rich with wells and springs, fit for a royal display. On that auspicious soil, he consecrated the ground, choosing a lunar day under a star most favorable, and offered yajña to the gods with proper rite.

The altar smoked with fragrant ghee,

As chants arose in harmony.

The fire leapt high to greet the skies,

While sacred mantras purified the eyes.

At his command, the royal artisans—skilled in the lore of architecture—erected a grand arena in accordance with śāstric rules. Elegant and vast, the stage was adorned with all manner of weapons and devices of war. A separate, graceful pavilion was also constructed for women of the court and noble households, rich in ornament and shaded for comfort.

All about the arena, the citizens, eager with anticipation, built raised platforms, while wealthy nobles and lords erected lofty tents—decked with banners, silken canopies, and festal garlands.

Drums were readied, trumpets shone,

Banners fluttered in the sun.

All Hastināpura’s people came—

To witness skill, and earn their fame.

Thus did Drona prepare the ground for the great display, where princes of two great lines would soon unleash their art in arms.