light.
Drupada, half paralyzed with shock,
tried even harder, but found his jeweled bow
split by a silver shaft. It was the end.
He prepared himself for death, but Arjuna
leapt onto his chariot and seized him,
holding him fast so he could not escape,
as an eagle grasps a snake in its talons.
Bhima would have indiscriminately
razed the city, killing all he met,
but Arjuna restrained him, now the purpose
for which they had attacked had been accomplished.
While his brothers covered his retreat
he galloped back to Drona with his prisoner.
The shame he had suffered at the tournament
was dissipated now. In this real battle
he had salvaged his lost honor from the dust
and amply paid his master what he owed.
Drupada, when he had time to think,
was quite astonished by the whole onslaught
since he had no quarrel with the Bharatas.
Now, thrown at Drona’s feet, he understood.
He rose in silence, and stood with his head bowed.
For Drona, who had waited long for this,
it was the sweetest moment.
“Drupada,
you once said friendship was impossible
except for equals. We are not equals now.
Remember ‘time’? Remember ‘circumstance’?
You are defeated, and your entire kingdom
is forfeit, given me by my disciples
as my fee. Your very life is mine
if I should choose to take it. But instead,
I choose forgiveness. You should know, we brahmins
are not vindictive. I’ll make you my equal
by giving half the kingdom back to you;
as equals, we two may be friends again.”
No kshatriya ever would have made
such an unwise proposal—Drupada
allowed to live, humiliated, certainly
would seek revenge at some time in the future.
But Drona was a brahmin, and remembered
the happy times in his father’s ashram.
Unbearably insulted, burning with rage
which he concealed with a glassy grin
Drupada swallowed the demeaning terms.
The people were one people— his people
as of right, bequeathed by his ancestors.
Now half of them would have to learn to bow
to Drona as their lord. Border families’
lives would be split, kinsmen tilling land
on different sides would slowly grow apart.
The body politic of Panchala
would be deformed beyond all recognition.
He would continue to live in Kampilya
but rule over an amputated kingdom,
while Drona took the city of Ahicchatra
and the extensive countryside around.
Bitter as he was, he thought of Arjuna
with admiration, rather than resentment.
“O mighty gods,” he prayed, “give me a son
who will become a formidable warrior
and kill Drona for what he has done to me.
And give me a daughter, who will become
the wife of this noble son of Pandu.”
With the insult always gnawing at him,
Drupada became gloomy and thin.
None of his existing sons was capable
of defeating Drona—that he knew.
“Miserable brood!” he thought. He summoned
learned brahmins, hoping to find one
with perfect knowledge of the rituals
that would produce a son. Such a son
would have to be exceptional in his prowess
to be able to avenge his father,
for Drona was unrivaled in his knowledge
both of weapons and of sacred lore.
Above all, he had the Brahma weapon.
Drupada knew that, to achieve his purpose,
no ordinary warrior would do.
Finally, he tracked down an ascetic,
Yaja, who would conduct the complex ritual
in return for eighty thousand cows.
A towering sacrificial fire was built
and customary ritual objects brought.
Drupada’s queen played her required part.
Yaja offered well-prepared oblations
and from the fire emerged an awesome youth,
the color of fire, crowned with a diadem
and carrying a shield and splendid weapons.
A disembodied voice from heaven announced,
This unrivaled prince of the Panchalas
has been born for the destruction of Drona.
Then from the center of the altar
stepped a girl of such heart-stopping beauty
all were amazed. She was dark-skinned and shapely,
with eyes like pools and lustrous curling hair.
She had the fragrance of a
Drupada, half paralyzed with shock,
tried even harder, but found his jeweled bow
split by a silver shaft. It was the end.
He prepared himself for death, but Arjuna
leapt onto his chariot and seized him,
holding him fast so he could not escape,
as an eagle grasps a snake in its talons.
Bhima would have indiscriminately
razed the city, killing all he met,
but Arjuna restrained him, now the purpose
for which they had attacked had been accomplished.
While his brothers covered his retreat
he galloped back to Drona with his prisoner.
The shame he had suffered at the tournament
was dissipated now. In this real battle
he had salvaged his lost honor from the dust
and amply paid his master what he owed.
Drupada, when he had time to think,
was quite astonished by the whole onslaught
since he had no quarrel with the Bharatas.
Now, thrown at Drona’s feet, he understood.
He rose in silence, and stood with his head bowed.
For Drona, who had waited long for this,
it was the sweetest moment.
“Drupada,
you once said friendship was impossible
except for equals. We are not equals now.
Remember ‘time’? Remember ‘circumstance’?
You are defeated, and your entire kingdom
is forfeit, given me by my disciples
as my fee. Your very life is mine
if I should choose to take it. But instead,
I choose forgiveness. You should know, we brahmins
are not vindictive. I’ll make you my equal
by giving half the kingdom back to you;
as equals, we two may be friends again.”
No kshatriya ever would have made
such an unwise proposal—Drupada
allowed to live, humiliated, certainly
would seek revenge at some time in the future.
But Drona was a brahmin, and remembered
the happy times in his father’s ashram.
Unbearably insulted, burning with rage
which he concealed with a glassy grin
Drupada swallowed the demeaning terms.
The people were one people— his people
as of right, bequeathed by his ancestors.
Now half of them would have to learn to bow
to Drona as their lord. Border families’
lives would be split, kinsmen tilling land
on different sides would slowly grow apart.
The body politic of Panchala
would be deformed beyond all recognition.
He would continue to live in Kampilya
but rule over an amputated kingdom,
while Drona took the city of Ahicchatra
and the extensive countryside around.
Bitter as he was, he thought of Arjuna
with admiration, rather than resentment.
“O mighty gods,” he prayed, “give me a son
who will become a formidable warrior
and kill Drona for what he has done to me.
And give me a daughter, who will become
the wife of this noble son of Pandu.”
With the insult always gnawing at him,
Drupada became gloomy and thin.
None of his existing sons was capable
of defeating Drona—that he knew.
“Miserable brood!” he thought. He summoned
learned brahmins, hoping to find one
with perfect knowledge of the rituals
that would produce a son. Such a son
would have to be exceptional in his prowess
to be able to avenge his father,
for Drona was unrivaled in his knowledge
both of weapons and of sacred lore.
Above all, he had the Brahma weapon.
Drupada knew that, to achieve his purpose,
no ordinary warrior would do.
Finally, he tracked down an ascetic,
Yaja, who would conduct the complex ritual
in return for eighty thousand cows.
A towering sacrificial fire was built
and customary ritual objects brought.
Drupada’s queen played her required part.
Yaja offered well-prepared oblations
and from the fire emerged an awesome youth,
the color of fire, crowned with a diadem
and carrying a shield and splendid weapons.
A disembodied voice from heaven announced,
This unrivaled prince of the Panchalas
has been born for the destruction of Drona.
Then from the center of the altar
stepped a girl of such heart-stopping beauty
all were amazed. She was dark-skinned and shapely,
with eyes like pools and lustrous curling hair.
She had the fragrance of a
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