But Arjuna would not have been the greatest archer in the world.
One evening, Drona was out alone in his garden, breathing the scents of lotuses growing in his
tank, when a lithe figure darted out from the bushes and prostrated itself at his feet. Drona saw it was a young boy, who now turned up his face, darker than moonless nights, to gaze at him. Such rever- ence shone in those stark white eyes; Drona had never had a look like that from any of his disciples.
The boy had bathed before he came here, but he smelled of wild places. Drona felt sure that he would soon be caked with mud and leaves again from head to foot, tameless as the jungle that was his home.
He was drawn to the dark youth, who looked some three years younger than Arjuna. The brah- mana said kindly, "Who are you, my child?"
In his musical dialect, the boy replied, "I am Ekalavya." And then, added in a whisper, as if he could hardly believe where he was, "And you are Drona. The master."
"Yes, I am Drona. Now say what you want from me."
"I am the son of Hiranyadhanush, king of the nishadas of the forest." His eyes never left Drona's face, as if to imprint every feature on his heart.
"Say what you would have of me," said Drona impatiently.
"Take me for your sishya, teach me archery!" The youth breathed his dream.
Drona sighed. "I feared as much. But I teach only kshatriyas and a nishada could never learn beside them. The princes I teach will rule the earth one day. I am sorry, but I must refuse you."
He saw tears glimmer in the unwinking eyes. Ekalavya crouched there in silence. Then he said, "At least bless me once, Guru!" and laid his tousled head at Drona's feet.
Moved, Drona bent and placed his hand on the boy's head, "Bless you, child."
A smile as white as his eyes lit his long black face. Ekalavya cried, "Now I will not fail!" and, jump- ing up, he was gone.
Drona stood staring after him uneasily and was filled with an unaccountable sadness. Kripi called from the lamplit doorway that the night meal was served and he turned to go in.
Ekalavya flew through the forest like a joyful wind. A golden moon unfurled above him, engaging wakeful trees in supernal converse. He plunged on, deep into the familiar jungle, past trees who were friends, among whom he had grown and roamed since he was a child, out of whose branches he had shot fruit and birds with his wooden bow. This was the rarest night of his life: the great Drona had blessed him; now there was no dream the darkling child of the forest couldn't turn into reality.
He arrived in the very heart of the jungle, where even birds and beasts were rare visitors and exotic plants grew in surreal profusion. Strange crocuses thrust phallic stamens at the moon and resplendent lotuses mantled satin pools hidden away from the world as if they were too precious to be seen. Beside one of those inmost pools, Ekalavya stopped.
He was unconcerned by the time of night. He was used to hunting at all hours, with sight such as only those creatures have that depend on it for their lives. He began to scoop up wet earth from the mossy bank of the pool, its face alight with violet and crimson blooms in the flowing moon. He car- ried this earth to a tree that grew apart from its fellows, alone, much like intense Ekalavya himself.
Through the night he worked, pausing just once, briefly, to eat some lotus-stems. Under his fine touch, a figure began to take shape. On he worked, past the dawn, at times in silence, feverishly, at others singing softly in his wild tongue—of trees, birds and beasts that have never known restriction, but life, love and death, in perfect freedom and danger. He worked with absolute passion.
Past the feet and the long, powerful legs, grew the figure Ekalavya was making with such love; up past the erect waist and back, the deep, supple chest, right up to the neck. Then he began on its long arms, one hanging at the side, fingers almost to the knee, the other raised, its palm open in a blessing. When he finished the arms and the hands, it was evening of the next day. He fell asleep at the feet of his headless clay figure. But in his dreams, he saw, lucidly, the noble head he must still fashion.
He awoke at midnight and resumed his obsessive labor. By now his dusky skin was covered in pale clay, his curly black hair was streaked with it. While he had worked in frenzy on the body, now he was slower, more careful; it took him two days before he finished the head. He picked up his bow and bamboo-quiver, in which the arrows lay straight as bands of light and hunted a young wild pig. He roasted it on a spit and devoured it hungrily. Then he slept and now dreamt only of the face he had yet to make: most of all, the unforgettable eyes in that face, eyes like live coals.
He awoke again and took up the light clay from the pool of lotuses. He scooped it up uniformly, leaving no ugly pit to mar the beauty of the wild spot. More painstakingly still, often pausing to shut his eyes to recall some tiny wrinkle at the corner of its mouth, Ekalavya worked on the stern, gaunt face. It took form under his subtle fingers and was eerily life-like. He was impatient to be done with his unfamiliar task. Only when he had finished making this figure could he begin with the other call- ing that raged in his blood, the one that would make his wild name immortal.
He toiled for a week, often sobbing in frustration when he had to break off some feature because it was not perfect. Most of all, the eyes eluded him. It was their expression he could not capture: because he wanted them to express all things, to be a mirror of the universe to him. Where else would he turn but to his master's eyes, when he wanted solace or instruction, approbation or love?
At last the figure was complete. Ekalavya went to the nearby jungle stream and bathed languor- ously in it. He came back to the clearing where the form he had made now stood, tall and command- ing: its enigmatic eyes were alive, they looked at him.
The boy went to the pool and pulled up some lotuses from its surface. He tied their stalks together to make a garland. He came to the clay figure and draped the garland of lotuses around its neck. With a lump in his throat, he whispered, "Bless me, Guru!" and prostrated himself at the feet of his precep- tor in the wilderness.
Ekalavya rose. With his hunting knife, which he used to carve the flesh of animals he killed, he cut a flat, round piece of wood from a dead log. Climbing nimbly into the tallest tree at the glade's edge, he secured the target to a high branch. He moved with the grace of a young jungle cat, lean muscles shimmering. He climbed down from the tree and walked to the opposite end of the clearing; now he could not see the target at all. With his guru's name in his fierce heart, the jungle boy raised his bow.
The years flowed by. In Hastinapura, the Kuru princes had their instruction from Drona and Ekala- vya studied with his earthen master in the forest clearing. Everyone said Arjuna was the finest archer in the world; the Pandava was confident of it himself, he knew even his great master thought so. One day, the princes went hunting in the forest with a hunting-dog, a lively animal with the keenest nose. They had come to hunt big game: a leopard, or even a tiger.
The restless dog dashed eagerly into the forest and the princes went after it. Its nose to the ground, the beast ran on, exhilarated with all the marvelous scents this jungle was suffused with. That dog sniffed a thousand tales of wild lives and encounters, as clearly as if he saw them with his eyes: some fading, some fresh and vibrant. He was fervid on the trail. Snuffling in rapture, he plunged deep into the vana, where not even foresters and honey-gatherers ventured and the princes were hard-pressed to keep up with him.
