Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (10 page)

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.

You’re a nishada. It just wouldn’t do.”

Ekalavya bowed his head and, springing up,

was gone.

He ran, sure-footed, through the forest.

In a moonlit clearing at its heart,

lush with vigorous vines, there was a pool

lovely with lotuses. The boy scooped up

clay from the water’s edge and carefully

modeled a life-size figure of his master.

It took him many days and nights of work,

work informed by pure-hearted commitment.

When the likeness was complete, Ekalavya

slept. Then he rose, gathered perfumed flowers

and made a garland for his master’s neck.

“Bless me, Guruji.” And having touched

earth with his brow, he began to practice

with faith, devotion, and pure discipline.

Time passed.

One sparkling afternoon in winter,

the Pandavas rode out into the forest

to hunt wild boar. Their prized dog was with them

snuffling, bounding off ahead of them.

Suddenly they heard it growl, and then

a frenzy of barks, making birds fly upward

in alarm. Then stifled whines. The hound

slunk from the bushes, bleeding and subdued,

and the princes found it had been silenced

by seven evenly spaced arrows clamping

its muzzle shut. They were amazed—surely,

at the first wound, the dog would have bolted.

These arrows must have flown from the bowstring

in unimaginably quick succession.

And so precisely! Even Arjuna

could never have accomplished such a feat.

Following the track the dog had taken

they came upon a clearing in the wood

where a dark-skinned youth, his crude bow raised,

was shooting a cascade of arrows, calmly,

gracefully, and with such dazzling skill

the brothers were astounded.

“Who are you?

And where could you have learned to shoot like that?”

The youth replied, “My name is Ekalavya,

my father is the chief of the nishadas,

and I owe my skill to the great Drona,

my master.”

Soberly, the brothers rode

back to the city. Pale with jealousy,

Arjuna took Drona to one side.

“Did you not promise me, not long ago,

that I would be the world’s greatest archer?

How, then, can you be teaching, secretly,

that lowborn boy—an archer so accomplished

he makes me look like a mere beginner!”

Drona was mystified, then called to mind

the forest boy he had refused to teach.

With Arjuna, he set off for the forest

and there they came across Ekalavya

calmly practicing, his rough-hewn arrows

clustering in a line of perfect circles

on a straw target.

He fell at Drona’s feet,

surprise and joy lighting his dark face

at seeing his master. Drona, for his part,

had never witnessed such unearthly skill—

he could understand Arjuna’s despair.

He framed what he must say. “Ekalavya,

if I am your teacher, you should now

give me my fee.”

“Name it—anything!”

the boy cried, flooded with happiness

that he had been acknowledged by his guru.

“There is no gift I shall withhold from you.”

“Then,” said Drona, “give me your right thumb.”

Ekalavya’s smile did not falter.

With an arrow’s single downward slash

he sliced off his right thumb, and placed it, dripping,

at Drona’s feet. From now on, he would never

shoot with such breathtaking speed. And Drona’s

words would not be falsified—Arjuna

would be the greatest archer in the world.

The Pandava glowed with confidence restored.

Without a word, the two then strode away

and out of Ekalavya’s small story.

But we may imagine this: Ekalavya

bound the throbbing socket of his thumb

with herbs and soothing leaves, then sat in thought.

Sunlight left the forest canopy,

dusk came, then darkness. Still he sat alone.

He listened to the creatures of the night

as they went about their earnest purposes

constrained, and free.

In the dawn light, he rose

and bathed, then stood in front of Drona’s statue.

In respect, he touched its feet. Then, straightening,

he took his bow, began again to practice.

Who was the extraordinary youth,

the strong young eagle, child of nobodies,

who dared aspire to outclass Arjuna?

Born in sorrow, born to encounter trouble,

even as a child he was a stranger

in his own skin. The shining gold cuirass

he was born with, the luminescent earrings,

seemed incongruous for a driver’s son.

And with his tawny eyes, the nobility

of his demeanor, he looked so unlike

his humble parents, he was often mocked

by others, so preferred to walk alone.

To understand who Karna really was

we must now uncover Kunti’s secret.

Some time before her birth, Kunti’s father,

ruler of the powerful Vrishni clan,

had made a promise to a childless cousin,

“You shall have the first child born to me

to bring up as your own.” That child was Kunti,

and she grew up in her foster father’s palace

loved and loving, modest and beautiful.

It happened that one day a famous brahmin,

known for his short temper and ready curses,

came to visit. He was tall, formidable,

curt in his demands. Kunti’s foster father,

extremely anxious not to give offense,

said to him, “Great brahmin, my house is yours.

My daughter, who is of excellent conduct,

will satisfy your needs in every way.

You only have to ask.”

So, night and day,

putting aside all wishes of her own,

Kunti served the brahmin. He tested her

by making rude, unreasonable requests

but at all times, promptly and cheerfully,

she waited on him, and the uncouth guest

grew fond of her. When a full year was up

the brahmin was preparing to move on.

“Lovely one, you have served me perfectly.

You may choose a boon and I shall grant it.”

“Sir, that you and my father are pleased with me

is boon enough.”

“Then,” said the great brahmin,

“I shall teach you a mantra; with these words

you can summon any god you like

to give you a son.” And, having taught her,

he disappeared, to everyone’s relief.

Kunti was curious. Could the brahmin’s mantra

really summon the celestials?

At this time, she noticed her first period

and felt ashamed that she was now a woman,

and yet unmarried. One day, as the sun

rose in its glory over the distant hills,

the mantra came into her mind. At once

Surya, the sun god, in human form

blazed before her, the most beautiful

creature she had ever seen. Immense,

armored in gold, he said, “Speak, charming girl,

you summoned me, what shall I do for you?”

Kunti cried out in terror, “Go back, my lord,

back where you came from! I was only playing.”

Surya frowned. “You cannot call forth a god

simply to dismiss him. I know your mind—

you wish to lie with me, and to bear a son

who will be unrivaled in his prowess.

Come now—if I simply take my leave

and do not give you the son your heart desires

I shall be ridiculed by all the gods,

and I shall curse you—and your father too.”

Kunti sobbed, “But I am just a child,

a virgin. The good name of my family

will be ruined. Spare me! To lie with you

would be a dreadful sin.”

“Not at all,

sweet and comely woman,” said the sun god.

“How could I urge you to do something wrong,

when I have the welfare of the world at heart?

Besides, after we have lain together,

you will remain a virgin.”

“And will my son

have golden armor as you have?”

“He will,

and, in addition, he will be endowed

with divine earrings to protect him from harm.”

“Then,” said Kunti, “I will lie with you.”

She managed to conceal her state from all

except her nurse, and when she came to term,

Kunti gave birth to a boy, most beautiful,

wearing a cuirass of gold, and earrings

that lit up his face. She wept—with joy,

but with grief too, since she must give him up,

play the part of the innocent, carefree girl

she was before. She placed him in a casket

and, at dead of night, she and her nurse

crept to the riverbank.

Holding the casket,

Kunti whispered a blessing to her son:

“May the world welcome you.

May no creature harm you,

neither those that walk on land

nor those that lurk in water.

May your shining father guard you.

May you perform heroic deeds.

May you be loved, my son.

How fortunate you are to have a father

who will watch over you. How fortunate

is the woman who will nurture you,

hear your first words, guide your first tottering steps

and see you blossom into glorious manhood.”

Then, in tears, she floated him adrift

in his casket on the shining water

and he was borne up by the gentle current,

carried on the black breast of the river

drifting onward calmly, silently,

as one river flowed into another

joining, at last, the broad, majestic Ganga.

Eventually, the casket caught in reeds

and there its journey ended.

At that time,

a worthy chariot driver, Adhiratha,

went with his wife, Radha, to the Ganga,

to pray and worship at the sacred river,

as they always did when evening came.

They were a devout and devoted couple

but they had no children—a great sorrow.

Radha had tried every remedy,

always disappointed. On that evening,

she saw the casket by the riverbank

and, when Adhiratha brought his tools

and levered off the lid, they were amazed—

they saw a baby, glowing like the sun,

with golden armor and bright, sparkling earrings

that were joined to him. The man and wife

were overcome with joy, “A miracle!”

said Adhiratha. “This is certainly

the child of a god, given us by the gods.”

They took the baby home and, after this,

Radha bore other children of her own.

The boy grew strong, devoted to the truth.

They named him Vasusena, “armed with riches,”

later known as Karna. When he was older,

his parents told him how he had come to them.

They would often talk about that day

and speculate about his origins.

All through Karna’s life, although his birth

was unknown to him, he was attracted

to the sun god as his special deity.

The brazen heat of day, which drove most others

to seek the shade, slapped him on the shoulders

like a call to action. And at evening

the horizontal fingers of the sun,

piercing the forest foliage, appeared

to beckon to him. Every morning, early,

as the ascending sun, breasting the hills,

painted the world blood-red, he stood alone,

facing east, worshiping Surya.

And in the evening, as the sun declined,

he stood in contemplation, his palms joined

in prayer and devotion. At such times,

if brahmins came to him begging for alms,

he would always give them what they asked.

This was his lifelong practice, and his vow.

No parents could have cherished a child more

than Karna’s; none were more worthy of respect,

and he in turn loved and revered them.

He was very different from his brothers.

Rather than being a driver like his father,

his natural talents and his inclinations

tended toward a hero’s martial calling.

He listened avidly to the old tales

told by his father, of heroic conquest

and courageous deeds. At night, he dreamed

he was the greatest archer in the world.

His father understood what must be done.

When the boy grew old enough, Adhiratha

took him to train at Drona’s weapons school—

and you have heard what happened to him there.

At Hastinapura, he learned many skills,

but he also learned humiliation.

His obsession, his defining passion,

was resentment of the Pandavas—

the careless way they seemed to feel entitled

to be, and have, the best of everything.

His envy fixed, above all, on Arjuna.

Wormwood entered his soul; he became

proud and bitter, and these qualities

remained with him, lifelong.

After he left

the City of the Elephant, he traveled

to where the legendary weapons teacher,

Rama Jamadagnya, had his home—

a hermitage set in a tranquil forest

close beside the sparkling western sea.

This Bhargava, both divine and human,

belonged to another age. Long, long before,

to avenge his father, killed by kshatriyas,

he had slaughtered the whole warrior race

many times over. But these days, he lived

in peaceable retirement. Karna knew

he still hated kshatriyas—though once,

long ago, he had been Bhishma’s teacher.

How would Karna best present himself?

Probably not as a driver’s son.

He abased himself at the master’s feet,

begging to be taken as his pupil.

“I am a brahmin, master,” he declared—

only half a lie since, as a suta,

he was of mixed descent. The weapons master,

touched by the youth’s desperate entreaties,

agreed to teach him.

So began the years

of training with the celebrated teacher.

Never again would Karna be as happy

as he was then, learning the arts and skills

that most accorded with his deepest nature.

His master loved him, valuing his grace,

his devotion, above all, his truthfulness.