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Fragments from a shattered Image: Fragment 14

Kripa welcomed Drona with open arms. Kripi too was happy to be with her brother, in the land where she grew up. Drona tamped down on the resentment he felt as he saw Kripa's house. How fortunate Kripa was! He was all but adopted by the King and was now the Guru to princes. He lived in luxury.

In contrast, he, Drona, spent his days in stark poverty. In spite of being superior to Kripa in both knowledge of weaponry and in skills, he was in the position of having to depend on his brother-in-law! It was galling.

Aswathama showed no visible enthusiasm for the changed surroundings. But he was grown now. The years that Drona spent with Parasurama seemed to have driven a wedge between him and his only son. Aswathama was a stranger to him now. But Drona was too caught up in his own plans to notice that.

Drona was resolved to change his situation. He would become the guru to the princes. And he knew Kripa well enough to know that he would not mind. He might even be glad.

Fragments of a Shattered Image: Fragment Thirteen

The palace of Panchala was too big. Drona had to crane his neck to see the standard of the King that flew from the ramparts of the surrounding fortress. The palace was nestled inside, a building that seemed to occupy as much space as his entire village.

The palace was built almost entirely of stone that had been polished so much that it shone like gems. Beautiful gardens surrounded it. The path leading to the palace was flanked with shady trees. The path was crowded just then, full of people going to meet the King's ministers or the council and to submit their grievances. Drona felt superior to them.

The guards looked at him with contemptuous sneers, but he did not mind that. He was above all that. He was the King's own friend. He chuckled inwardly as he thought of the expression on these guards' faces when Drupada would embrace him as a friend. Of course, he would tell Drupada he did not need half the kingdom. Revenue from one or two villages would be enough. And with the knowledge acquired from Parasurama, he could start a Gurukula where he could train Kshatriya princes. He would become famous all over the world as a teacher par excellence.

He was asked to wait a while when he said his business was with the King. He did not mind waiting. He refused to give his name to the heralds. He would go in unannounced, like an unknown Brahmana. How surprised his friend would be! He would probably jump up from the throne and come to embrace him!

He smiled to himself as a courtier beckoned him forward. The hall was very long and he paid no heed to the condescending, pitying or sneering glances by those who were seated there. He felt no shame about his patched clothes or beggarly appearance. He was in his friend's presence!

Drupada gave him a disinterested glance.

"Speak, Brahmana," said he, politely. "What do you wish from me?"

Drona smiled widely. "My friend," said he, "I am Drona. Do you not recognize me?"

Drupada's gaze turned cold. "Friend?" His voice was like a whiplash. "How is it possible for there to be friendship between one such as you and one such as me? Friendship is possible only between equals. Do you not know this yet, Brahmana? Now tell what it is you desire! I have weightier matters to attend to!"

Drona stared at his friend, stunned. Was Drupada serious? Was he testing him, perhaps? How could he speak so to him?

"But," he stammered, confused now. "We were in the Gurukula together! You said you would give me half the kingdom when you become King..." His voice trailed off as he saw Drupada's gaze becoming fiery.

"For uttering such words," spoke the King, "I ought to throw you in prison! Had you been of any caste but a Brahmana, I would have you beheaded for that!" Drupada controlled himself with an effort. "However, I am generous. I forgive you. If you require alms, state it. I shall be happy to provide such!"

Drona felt his face burning. Blood was pounding in his ears. Unbidden, came to his mind the mantra to invoke the most destructive weapon he knew, but he thrust it away. He could destroy this entire kingdom if he so wished, but that was no fitting punishment for the arrogance of Drupada.

"I do not come as a beggar!" Said he. "I come as a friend and you have seen fit to insult me! So be it, Drupada! But a day shall surely come when you shall be too glad to accept my hand in friendship!"

He turned around and walked away, trying to ignore the guffaws by the courtiers. He would show them! The outline of a plan began to form in his mind. But he needed a powerful patron. And students. And not just any students. Kshatriya students.

The solution came to him just as he was crossing the threshold of Drupada's palace. Hastinapura! His brother-in-law, Kripa was the teacher of the princes of that kingdom.

His eyes were blazing with joy as he left Panchala.

Fragments from a Shattered Image: Fragment Twelve

Drona was panting by the time he reached the abode of Parasurama. It was the rumours that sped him hence. He had heard that the warrior sage was giving away the wealth he had amassed over his life time to Brahmanas. And he had come there in the hopes of getting something, at least a cow or two. His face twisted as he thought of his abortive attempts to gain a cow till then. No one in their part of Bhatatavarsha seemed able to gift a poor Brahmana with a cow. All were too poor! His lips curled in contempt. The advent of Kali was too near if this was how Brahmanas were treated!

He wiped the sweat of his brow, catching his breath. The area was quite deserted. He wondered if he'd been hoaxed. Surely, if the sage was giving away his possessions, there ought to be a crowd of Brahmanas there? Had he been made a fool of?

Just then, a man came out of the hut. Even though Drona had only heard tales of the great sage, he could recognize him. The warrior-like stance, the scars on his arm, the fierce gaze, all told him that he was in the presence of the great Parasurama himself. He hurried to the sage and greeted him with folded palms.

"I am a poor Brahmana," said he. "Drona, the son of Bharadwaja. I have come on hearing that you are giving away your possessions. Please do not send me away empty-handed!"

A shadow crossed the serene face of the sage. The fierce eyes became sad.

"You have heard right, O Drona. But you have come too late. I have no possessions left in the world now."

Disappointment, starker than anything he'd known before filled Drona's heart. There was a bitter taste in his mouth.

"However," the sage continued. "I cannot send you away empty handed. Therefore I offer you to choose between the only two possessions I have left in this world: my life or my knowledge of weapons. I have nothing else to give you."

Knowledge of weapons? Drona had never aspired to that. He knew enough of warfare to impart basic training to any student who might come to him. But what Parasurama offered went beyond that. It was knowledge, the likes of which, he had never even dreamed of. The sage was the student of Lord Siva himself. The knowledge he could give was going to ensure that Drona would be unique. His skills and knowledge would be coveted. He would be sought after by all.

He bowed low, "Accept me as your pupil, O great one, and impart to me your knowledge of weapons."

Fragments of a Shattered Image: Fragment Eleven

The Brahmana was young, but not youthful. He was of medium height, and in spite of his young age, his hair and beard were shot with grey. He was thin, though not emaciated. His clothes were simple and patched in many places. The bundle he was carrying was also in a similar condition. He clutched it in one hand, the other held a begging bowl, which was half full of rice. The bundle held the vegetables and fruits he received in alms.

As he turned the corner, he could hear the loud laughter of the children. He smiled to himself as his steps quickened almost automatically. He could distinguish the laughter of his own son, Aswathama. Soon, the children came into sight. Aswathama came running to him.

"Father!" He cried in delight. "Father, I drank milk today! I drank milk!"

The suppressed giggles of the older children were not lost on the Brahmana. He looked at his young son with affection as he transferred the bundle to his shoulder and the bowl to the hand holding the bundle. Then he stooped down and picked up his son, carrying him in the other arm.

"Tell me all about it," said he, forcing a smile and feigning an enthusiasm he did not feel. He could hear the loud snickers of the older children, but he ignored them. The mocking glances sent his way confirmed his suspicion that his son had been made the butt of a practical joke, but he did not want to dampen his child's joy or his enthusiasm.

As he entered his small one room hut, his sharp ears caught a whisper one of the children, "The learned Drona's son can't even tell the difference between milk and water mixed with powdered rice!"

He felt his face burning and his hand clenched tightly on his bowl. Aswathama who was chattering away about how tasty the 'milk' he drank, was oblivious of his father's turmoil till then.

"Father," said he, "it pains,"

Drona noticed then that he was holding his son in a vice like grip too. He relaxed his grip, and put down the child.

"I didn't want you to fall," said he, putting the bowl and the bundle down and rubbing the boy's midriff gently.

Kripi came in just then, bringing water for him to wash his hands and feet.

That night, after Aswathama had slept, Drona told his wife that he was leaving.

"I see no benefit in the life we are leading now," he told her. "I shall go out into the world and make my fortune. My friend Drupada will surely help me."

Kripi kept her eyes lowered and Drona failed to see the anguish in them. He was too lost in what had happened that day to pay attention to her.

Fragments of a Shattered Image: Fragment 10

He came to, slowly, opening his eyes with difficulty. Everything appeared blurred. He was feeling disoriented and groggy, not feeling as he normally did. He also felt weak. There was a roaring in his ears. He tried to move and found something was restraining him. He was cold too and he shivered.

Slowly his vision cleared. He found he was lying on a grassy bank by a river. Some wild looking men with snake symbols tattooed on their bodies were standing around him. He was bound by cords.

He strained and the cords snapped. He tried to get up. One of the men pointed a spear at him and he swatted it aside. The man laughed and extended it again. He realized the man was trying to help him up. He caught hold of it and the man pulled him up.

He stood there looking around in confusion.

“Where am I?" He asked, his voice a hoarse rasp.

He was a boy and yet he was taller than most men. His face was beautiful, not unlike most children of his age, but now his face reflected bewilderment as he looked at the strangers.

The men too looked at each other in confusion. Then there was a commotion. The men bowed low as they parted way for an old man to come through. He was wrinkled and old. The image of a snake with raised hood was tattooed across his entire body giving him the appearance of a snake.

The man stood before him. "Who are you child, to venture into the land of the Nagas?"

He swallowed, hiding his fear and confusion behind bravado as he stood straight and answered, looking the man in the eye. "I am Bheemasena, son of Pandu and Kunti, the Prince of Hastinapura."

"Son of Kunti," murmured the old man. "Your mother is related to the Nagas by blood, though the relation has been forgotten by both our families. Vasuki, the King of the Naga people welcomes you to this land."

He turned to the others and said something in another language. The men broke into words in the same language. Vasuki's next words were sharp and the men said something in an emphatic tone. Vasuki turned back to Bheema, his face grim.

"You had been drugged and thrown to the river according to my men. You had also been bound with cords." He paused. "My men rescued you, not without difficulty, as you were fighting them in your unconscious state."

He sounded pleased and proud though Bheema felt abashed. But he was also angry. It did not take him much reflection to piece together what must have happened. It was obvious that his cousin had attempted to kill him.

Watch out Suyodhana! He thought. I am coming for you!

His hands had clenched into fists and his face was grim.

Vasuki looked at him with a smile. "Come, my child." He said. "You rest for today. I shall arrange for your return to Hastinapura soon."

Bheema lived with the tribe of Nagas for some time. He was too weak to return yet, Vasuki told him. Though he felt fine, he accepted the old man's argument. It was better to let Suyodhana think that he had succeeded. Bheema chuckled to himself thinking of the expression on his cousin's face when he would walk in.

Of course, thought he, Suyodhana won't have too much opportunity to be surprised. For Bheema was going to pound him to the floor as soon as he reached. He would break every limb of that loser.

The food was one added reason that tempted him to remain. It was the best he had ever tasted. The spices and condiments and herbs that the Nagas used were completely unknown to the cooks at Hastinapura. And the drink that they gave him every night after the meal tasted like nectar.

"It is a Naga medicine for restoring health," Vasuki told him. All Bheema could think was if all medicines tasted so good, he for one, would not mind being sick.

The Nagas also taught him how to row a boat and to make loops from rope. In the little time he had, he mastered the basics of whatever they taught him. He also haunted the kitchens often enough that the cooks too took to teaching them their way of cooking.

One day, Vasuki came to him and told him that one of his men will take him to Hastinapura.

"He will take you to the palace where your mother and brothers are," he said. "Do not confront anyone till you have met with them. I have informed your mother that you are safe in my care. But it is for you to apprise her of how you came here."

Bheema nodded. Pounding Suyodhana could wait after meeting with his mother. He could wait. He had time.

Fragments of a Shattered Image: Fragment 9

Satya sat down on a couch. Her limbs ached.

'I'm growing old,' she thought. But that was only to be expected. She grew more tired but less sleepy. She also felt less hungry these days, though her memory was still sharp.

Small mercies, thought Satya. Small mercies.

She sighed. Her tiredness and physical aches were less than the grief of her heart. The last rites of her grandson was over. His five sons were so small. She wondered if her step son and grandson would care for those.

She had no energy left to worry for them now.

She looked up as her son was announced.

"Krishna," she smiled at him. He was called Vyasa by all these days, Veda Vyasa. But to her he would always be Krishna.

"Mother," he bent down to touch her feet.

"Ayushman bhavah" she blessed him.

"Mother," he said as he sat down next to her on her invitation. "It is time you left the palace. It is time for you to leave the world behind."

She gazed at him. He was right of course. She should leave for the forest. It was the way of things, of life.

She sighed again. She had buried her husband, two sons and now a grandson. She did not want to watch more deaths. Her son was right. She should leave.

She gave him a faint smile and nodded.

"It is time," she echoed.