Free Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling by Carole Satyamurti Page A

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