The Untold Story Of A Forgotten Archer

By Ritika Chand

# The Fall Of A Mighty Archer

The wind raged violently across the battlefield, wreaking havoc on the bloodstained land,

forcing the two sides to halt mid-battle. Yet even these ferocious winds could not harm the

two figures standing steadfast, gazes locked on each other.

The deity with a peacock feather in his hair was the first to break the silence; sorrow clouded

his eyes. “Mighty Archer,” he asked softly, “ why do you side with the enemy?”

Eklavya gripped his bow tighter in response. His eyes did not waver, nor did his face betray

any emotion. There was no fear in his eyes, only devotion.

“O Lord, the one you call enemy is my supreme benefactor. King Jarasandha took me in

when everyone else closed their doors on me. It is for him I live and for him I die.”

The peacock feather on the deity's head stopped swaying. The wind had ceased, and the air

around the archer had come to a standstill. The archer notched his arrow between his index

and middle finger– a feat honed after years of practice– and prepared to shoot. The

conditions couldn’t be more favourable. His eyes flicked towards his missing thumb and

recalled the sting of the blade cutting into his flesh and pain so unbearable that he was

surprised he was still standing.

He was ready to give anything as guru dakshina, even his life, yet his teacher had

demanded his thumb. An archer's fingers were more precious than life itself. But a promise

was a promise.

Eklavya’s veins crackled, and suddenly all he could see was blood flowing from his thumb

like a river, enveloping the battlefield and–

“Eklavya.”

His name echoed like thunder. It was the deity.

Suddenly, everything blurred, and the air...he couldn’t breathe.

“You must fall, for you have aligned yourself with adharma. A force that will shatter the

equilibrium of the cosmos, and you stand as the final grain tripping the scales towards ruin.”

Through the haze, Eklavya saw him– the deity’s true form. Four arms and an aura so

powerful, it was blinding. The Sudarshan Chakra in Krishna’s hand was spinning too fast, as

if at any moment it would leave his finger and strike Eklavya’s neck.

“Is it adharma,” Eklavya whispered, “to fight for one who has given me all that I am today? Is

it not adharma to betray one's own?"

He thought he heard the deity answering, but it was lost beneath the screams of his soldiers.

And then his vision went white. But instead of screams, he heard the sweet melody of a

flute. A voice as lovely as the flute whispered, “I know your story, Eklavya, and for that, you

will meet a peaceful end. Despite losing your thumb, you still befit the title of the greatest

archer. Rest now, for you have fought enough battles.”

But Eklavya wasn’t done with his life. Not yet.

Sensing this, Krishna spoke again. “Drona has been the reason for your struggles, and he

will continue to be the reason for many more. If the fire within you refuses to calm, then you

shall be reborn as his slayer. But know then that death shall not be peaceful.”

As his vision faded, the last thing he saw was a river of blood enveloping the battlefield and

taking him under.

When Eklavya opened his eyes, he was back in the forest– his home. Yet the trees looked

different–unfamiliar. Mist covered the tree tops, and the wind never changed direction. It was

as if the world were at a standstill. Hanging between life and death. The only assurance that

Eklavya was alive was his bleeding stump, where his thumb used to be.

# The Birth Of A Warrior Forged Of Fire

Seasons passed, the trees changed colour, and the fire in his veins calmed to a steady hum.

The trees whispered tales of the epic battle between the Pandavas and the Kauravas.

Eklavya envied Arjun, a mighty archer who was not only taught by Guru Drona but also had

the blessings of Lord Krishna.

Why Arjun and not him? Was it his caste?

And then he heard about Karna. His kindred spirit. But before he could listen to more, he

was finally called upon to make a choice.

To be reborn as the slayer of Drona or rest in the afterlife.

It won’t be a peaceful death. He recalled Krishna’s words.

A warrior scared of death is still a warrior, but a warrior who refuses to fight because of that

fear is no warrior at all. And so he was born from the flames with a different name.

Dhrishtadyumna. But his soul was the same.

This time, he was born for one purpose only: to slay the one responsible for his missing

thumb.

Eklavya was of the forests, but Dhrishtadyumna? Though draped in silks, he could never set

foot in the forest alone. Some nights, he would wake up screaming, his thumb throbbing in

pain. Shikandi was the only one who could calm him then. It was as if he understood not

only Dhrishtadyumna but also Eklavya.

As Dhrishtadyumna, he had the honour of having Guru Drona as his teacher.

Why? he had once asked.

“Because you are the son of Draupad.” Guru Drona had replied. Without his right thumb as a

fee, he had achieved what Eklavya couldn’t.

“Why do you nock your arrow like that?” Drona would say. “Use your thumb.”

“Why do you teach me when you know I will kill you?”

In response, he only received a pat on the head. “I will tell you once you defeat me.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Drona’s teachings were everything Eklavya had

imagined and more. But he wasn’t Eklavya now.

On the battlefield, he met his slayer again. But this time, it was a different battle, and they

stood on the same side. For a moment, Krishna’s eyes flashed in recognition; he smiled, but

it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Dhrishtadyumna saw the deity’s mouth quiver, and his eyes

were moist, as if–

“You shouldn’t have come,” was the only greeting the deity gave before he turned away from

him and returned to his tent.

Eklavya. Dhrishtadyumna's heart raced. Why?

But in the midst of the ongoing battle, this encounter was all but forgotten.

Though they were on different sides of the war, he wished to meet Karna. But his duty as the

slayer came first.

Each victory carried the stain of deceit. Illusions, sacrifices, and even curses—every shady

tactic possible was employed to defeat the enemy. The day Arjun used Shikandi as a shield

to kill Bhishma was the day Dhrishtadyumna became the equivalent of Yamraj, leaving death

in his wake. The greatest of his anger was reserved for Arjun alone. But Krishna was on their

side. They had to be right.

Krishna finally presented his plan to kill Drona, and Dhrishtadyumna agreed to it even

though his heart was torn in anguish. It was no battle strategy.

He had agreed to kill a grieving father, his guru.

A father who had slain his own father, a father who had kept silent after hearing his sister’s

cries, and a father who had asked for his thumb as gurudakshina, despite refusing to teach

him.

As the wind whispered in his ears about a curse that would befall him for killing an unarmed

man, he looked toward Krishna. They stared at each other once again, as if back on the

battlefield where they had first faced each other and suddenly a harmonious melody echoed

in the air, drowning all whispers. He tore his gaze away from the deity and glanced around,

but no one seemed to have noticed the tune. His eyes found the deity again; they seemed to

whisper, ‘It is for Dharma. Do not fear.’

But he did not fear the curse. He feared himself–the man he was becoming. Fire roared in

his veins, begging for release, promising to burn everything in its path, even if it was Eklavya

himself. The blade in his hands felt foreign, almost alien. He missed his bow and arrows, but

he didn’t want to taint his beloved weapon with the blood of his Guru.

Drona’s exposed neck called to him as if taunting Eklavya. Even as he drove the blade into

his neck, Eklavya believed the illusion would shatter– that Drona would strike him the minute

the blade touched his neck.

But the blade slid clean through flesh, severing the head from the body. The blade clattered

from his hands. The universe was twisted. How could committing such atrocities in the name

of dharma ever be justified?

The fire inside him did not calm; it raged and raged, threatening to consume Eklavya. But he

couldn’t die. Not yet. Not before meeting Karna.

After what seemed like ages, amidst the clashing of swords and the nauseating odour of

dead bodies, he caught a glimpse of Karna. Armed with a bow and arrow– just like a

forgotten archer with a missing thumb– he radiated power, as if he were the sun god himself.

Even when covered in blood, sweat and grime, he emitted an aura that could rival the gods

themselves.

The only thing missing was his kavach and kundal.

The raging flames inside Eklavya, which had calmed to that of burning embers, suddenly

engulfed him once again, with even more ferocity as he learnt of Karna’s death. But this

time, the deity wasn’t the one who had slain Karna. For a moment, he wondered why. Why

did Krishna not end Karna directly, but he did so for Eklavya himself?

#The Meeting Of The Fallen

Now all he could see was darkness, and then sunlight. He was back again in the forest. The

faint smell of earth when it rained and the pollen from the unusual flowers –that he had never

seen on earth– drifted towards him as if welcoming him back.

He could not remember how he had died. Only the burning heat of flames all around him and

the son of Drona standing before him. Untamable fury in his eyes.

And Dhristadyumna had only one thought in his mind as he surrendered himself to his fate:

‘Ah Karma. It comes for the righteous too.’

But he wasn’t alone in the forest anymore. In front of him stood Karna, radiant even in death,

even without his armour. And the first thing Eklavya did was laugh.

“Why do you laugh?” Karna spoke, wearing a puzzled expression. “And who are you?”

Eklavya laughed again, and Karna looked at him as if he were a madman.

“What do I appear to you as?” Eklavya answered, himself curious to know what he appeared

as. Was he Eklavya, the one with the missing thumb, who had yet to see the atrocities of

war, or was he Dhrishtadyumna, the man who killed not only his guru but also an unarmed

man?

Karna gave him a once-over. “You appear to be a human to me.”

Eklavya looked at his right hand. The stump no longer bled, but his thumb was still missing.

Eklavya felt a sense of relief, an emotion he couldn’t explain at the moment. Perhaps he no

longer wanted to be associated as the slayer who took his guru’s life but as the obedient

disciple who cut off his own thumb for his guru.

Seeing a stump of flesh instead of a thumb, Karna’s eyes sparkled, and his mouth twitched

trying to recall a name, but in vain.

“I am Eklavya,” Eklavya said, bringing his palm to his chest.

“You are the one who...”

“Who gave his right thumb to Guru Drona. I am surprised you know of me.”

“Like you, I too was denied the opportunity to learn from him, but it was Krishna who spoke

of you.” He glanced at Eklavya’s missing thumb.”’There was once a mighty archer just like

you’ he had said.”

Eklavya’s lips quivered, unsure whether to curl up into a smile or a frown. Did he tell you that

he was the one who killed me? He wanted to ask.

Instead, he chose to say what he always wanted to say.

“I have always wanted to meet you, Karna.” He paced around Karna in circles.

“You who were raised by another mother,” he counted, “the one whom Guru Drona declined

to teach and the mightiest archer to ever exist.” Eklavya's gaze pierced into the depths of

Karna’s soul. “You and I are the same.”

Karna let out a hollow laugh, “So, you too were condemned for the sin of loyalty?”

Eklavya sat down, stretching his back against the bark of a tree.

“We were abandoned,” he said, another laugh slipping from his lips, “You and I.”

Then Karna sat down opposite Eklavya and grabbed a broken tree branch. Eklavya follows

the movement of Karna’s hands, carving the tree branch with a knife. “Is it wrong to fight for

the one who took us in and gave us more than we could ever imagine?”

Karna’s blade paused mid-cut, “No, I suppose. But we knew who we were siding with.”

“So you say.” Eklavya's voice was low, almost distant, as he traced something in the sand.

“But if the good too won with deceit, what does it matter who we side with?”

He was drawing something, too. A fire, and–

“I laughed after seeing you. Do you know why?” Eklavya asks, but he does not wait for

Karna’s answer. “ Two lives I have lived. Yet I meet you here. In death.”

“Dhrishtadyumna..?” Karna whispered. Eklavya watched Karna’s eyes flicker from confusion

to understanding as Eklavya briefed him about his death at Krishna’s hands. Silence hung in

the air that seemed to stretch for an eternity.

“You and I are different, Eklavya.” Karna says at last,” You died a warrior’s death and carry

no regret, while I? I am filled with regret.”

Eklavya thought of Ashwatthama standing over him, and suddenly, he could feel the pain of

each of his punches vividly. He wouldn’t call that a warrior’s death.

He thought of his thumb, which he gave to his guru. He did not regret that. What he regretted

was killing his Guru the way he had.

“Forgive me.” Karna bends his head, his ears red. “I did nothing when Draupadi...” He could

not finish the sentence.

Eklavya’s stomach turned, the contents of his stomach threatening to come out. One. Two.

Three... after taking a few practised breaths, Eklavya closed his eyes. And for a long time,

there was only the sound of the wind between them.

“You were the only one I thought might have spoken.” Eklavya continued, the words coming

faster as if his tongue was on fire. “You let a woman, a princess, my sister, be dragged

through the mud, through the shame, while you did nothing at all for the sake of friendship

with a man like—”

“I know!” Karna’s voice cracked. His whole body trembled. “I have relived the moment a

thousand times! And her pleading face haunts me in every nightmare.”

As it should. Eklavya thought.

Karna fell to his knees. “I did nothing,” Karna whispers, barely audible.

He opens his mouth and closes it again. He repeats it, tries again, but no sound comes out.

“Draupadi had refused to marry me.” He finally said. Words tumbling out from somewhere

deep in his mind. “Because of my low birth.” He continued, shaking.”And as they dragged

her through the hall, all I could think was–

His voice cracks. Eklavya couldn’t see Karna’s expression.

“All I could think was that if she had married me, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Eklavya’s heart throbbed. He knew he should hate Karna, but how could he when he

understood the pain of being born into a lower caste all too well? He knew what it felt like to

be shackled by loyalty. To friendship. As Dhristadyumna, he would have killed him, but as

Eklavya, he only saw him as a mirror.

He turned towards a mountain. A mountain so huge, its peak disappeared into the clouds.

The path they were to climb to reach heaven. Was it the deity’s blessing that had granted

them a path to heaven?

Eklavya pointed towards the mountain. “Will you not climb it?” he asks instead.

Before Karna could reply, a melodious flute began to play, followed by divine light that

temporarily blinded them.

Several seconds passed before their vision returned, and in front of them stood Lord Sri

Krishna... in all his divine glory and bleeding from his foot.

“So even gods die,” Karna stated, amused.

Krishna offered a wry smile. “I have gathered too much sin to continue living. Karma finally

caught up to me.”

“What Karma?” Eklavya asked, frowning.

“One of my previous lives.”

Eklavya stared at him, bewildered. What misdeeds could the Lord have committed?

And why should one pay for their misdeeds in another life?

Krishna, the ever-knowing, replied without Eklavya having to ever open his mouth.

“You, of all people, should know that, Eklavya.”

Eklavya’s eyes bulged in surprise. And then he remembered his death as Dhrishtadymna.

Two bodies, one soul, and Ashwatthama landing the killing blow.

Karna let out a dry, almost bitter laugh. “You are cruel.” His face twisted as he eyed the deity,

“You have made bodies incapable of remembering the memories of multiple lives, so how is

it that a human will ever repent from their Karma if they never remember their deeds?”

“What is cruel to you is a blessing to me.” Krishna smiles at Karna. But Eklavya could feel

the weight of the smile. The weight of his soul.

Karna said nothing, only resumed his carving.

“But, Lord,” Eklavya pressed this time, “how does the universe decide who must bear their

karma in the same life and who in their next?”

With each question, he walked closer to the deity, “Who will be the sacrifice and who the

tool? Whose adharma done for dharma is righteous and whose is not?” Now he found

himself standing just inches away from the deity. A familiar scene.

The silence stretched like an infinite loop until a laugh as sweet as honey broke it. The deity

was laughing even as his foot bled.

“Eklavya”, he whispered with a tone full of mischief, “You remind me of someone.”

Eklavya’s first thought was: Arjun?

Just then, thunder clouds crackled with static, and lightning struck a flower, burning it to a

crisp.

“When thunder strikes, it does not choose where it will strike.”

Krishna reached towards a tree, against which Karna sat. One of its branches was infested

with insects, the rot slowly spreading towards the other branches. Krishna raised his palm,

and the branch lit up, the fire limited only to the rotten part of the tree. Minutes passed. And

when the flames died, the branch was nothing but ash, which fell upon an annoyed Karna.

He groaned and quickly dusted off the ash from his shoulders– glaring at Krishna. The deity

seemed to be enjoying every minute of this.

The tree was saved.

Krishna gestured at the ash collected at the bottom of the tree—the sacrifice.

Eklavya’s gaze dropped to the stump where his thumb had once been.

“Karma comes for both,” Krishna says in a tone of finality.

Eklavya thought of Karma coming to him as Dhrishtadyumna. Ashwatthama was but a tool.

Then would Ashwatthama’s Karma too be delivered by someone else? Are we all creatures

controlled by Karma, living a life already written?

This was an endless cycle. A cycle that would only end with death.

Every time the Lord answered a question, five more would pop up in Eklavya’s mind. This,

too, was an endless cycle.

But instead of asking these, Eklavya chose another question. One that will not cause him to

question the ways of the universe.

Eklavya’s eyes traced the form of the mountain as it disappeared into the clouds.“Are you on

your way to heaven?” he asked.

“Are you not?” Krishna replied. But his eyes told him that he already knew the answer.

Eklavya looked in the opposite direction to the mountain, and Karna followed his gaze.

“So you have decided.” Krishna’s mouth tips up into a smile, or was that a frown? Eklavya

couldn't tell. His gaze too caught up in the deity's eyes, which held the entire universe in

them.

Krishna hadn’t answered all his questions. Perhaps he knew of the path he would take to

seek those. After all, the best learning is from experience.

Eklavya glanced at Karna, wondering which path he would take. But he didn’t have to. Karna

turned to face the direction opposite to that of heaven.

“I need to repent.” He said, “Besides, I don’t want to look at the faces of my brothers for at

least a few thousand years.”

Karna was wrong.

We are the same.

And as they walked away from the heavens, the distant melody of the flute remained with

them as if a third companion.

Eklavya paused, turning back one final time to look at the deity, and as he did, light engulfed

him from head to toe.

Somewhere in a distant land, two brothers were born– archery in their veins.

By Ritika Chand