Chapter 16: The Forgotten Friend and the Promise of a Guru
The events surrounding Bheem's poisoning had shaken the palace to its core. Bhishma could feel the cracks growing deeper between the Pandavas and Kauravas. And if something wasn't done soon, the next time it wouldn't be a poisoning—it could be war.
He knew what had to be done.
Discipline. Structure. Training.
The boys needed a guru.
Someone who could train them not just in warfare, but in wisdom and dharma.
And so, Bhishma turned to the man he trusted the most in matters of war and learning—Kripacharya.
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The Discussion
In the royal gardens, beneath a blooming kadamba tree, Bhishma and Kripacharya sat together.
"The boys are growing wild," Bhishma said. "If left unchecked, they'll destroy each other."
Kripacharya nodded. "They are full of fire. Especially Bheem and Duryodhan. Strong arms, but no direction."
"I want them trained," Bhishma continued. "But not just by anyone. They need someone strong. Focused. A man of dharma, but also a man who's tasted the hardship of life."
Kripacharya smiled slightly. "Then I know exactly who we need."
Bhishma looked at him.
"My brother-in-law," Kripacharya said. "He's my wife's brother. A Brahmin by birth, but trained in warfare by none other than Bhagwan Parshuram himself. He was my gurubhrata. And yours too."
Bhishma raised an eyebrow. "You speak of Dronacharya."
Kripacharya nodded. "Yes. Dronacharya."
Bhishma's eyes lit up with recognition. "I haven't heard of him in years."
"He lives in poverty now," Kripacharya said softly. "But his skill... his knowledge... unmatched. And he is in need of money. If we call him, he will come."
Bhishma sat silently for a while, then nodded. "Send word. Let him come to Hastinapur."
And with that, the course of destiny shifted again.
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Dronacharya's Story
Far away, in a quiet forest outside a small village, lived Drona—a tall, stern-looking man with deep-set eyes and a presence that made even wild animals pause.
He once studied in the ashram of the great sage Bharadwaja, his own father. There, he met a young prince who would become his best friend—Drupad, the son of the king of Panchala.
As boys, they trained together, studied together, and shared meals. On cold nights, they huddled near the same fire.
One evening, under a moonlit sky, Drupad placed a hand on Drona's shoulder.
"When I become king," he said, "half my kingdom is yours, my friend. We'll rule as equals."
Drona smiled. "Let's survive our guru's punishments first. Then we'll talk kingdoms."
They laughed.
But time has a way of testing promises.
Years passed. Drupad returned to Panchala to rule as king.
Drona, on the other hand, took a different path.
He married Kripi, the sister of Kripacharya, and soon, they had a son—Ashwathama.
Ashwathama wasn't just any child.
He was born with a glowing mani, a celestial gem, embedded in his forehead—a sign that he was blessed by Lord Shiva himself. A part of Mahadev's own power lived within him.
But blessings don't feed hungry mouths.
Despite his knowledge, Drona lived in poverty.
They had no lands. No riches. He taught students in exchange for alms. His robes were torn. His hut was made of dried reeds.
Yet, he never begged.
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The Milk Incident
One afternoon, little Ashwathama saw other children drinking milk. They laughed, shared sweets, and even spilled some on the ground.
Ashwathama came home, eyes sparkling. "Mother, can I have milk too?"
Kripi's heart broke.
They had no milk. Nothing close to it.
But she didn't want to disappoint him.
So she quietly mixed rice flour with water, trying to mimic the texture. She handed it to Ashwathama with trembling hands.
Ashwathama drank it silently.
"This doesn't taste the same," he said.
Kripi don't know what to say. She can only silently cry seeing her helplesness.
Behind a nearby pillar, hidden in shadows, Drona watched it all. He had returned from seeking alms, only to witness this moment.
He saw his wife's helplessness.
His son's innocent disappointment.
And he wept quietly, clenching his fists.
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The Insult
That night, Drona made up his mind.
He would go to Drupad—not for glory or gold, but for help.
He reached Panchala and stood before the palace gates.
He was dusty. Worn. His robes were faded.
But his spirit stood tall.
He waited until the royal court allowed him in.
Drupad looked at him with mild surprise.
"Drona? Is it really you?"
Drona smiled. "It's me, friend."
"I barely recognized you. What brings you here?"
"I've come to ask for help," Drona said honestly. "You once said we'd share your kingdom. I don't ask for half. Just a small house, a bit of land around it, and some cows. Enough for my son to drink milk... and for us to live with dignity."
Drupad's expression changed.
He laughed.
"You took that seriously?" he scoffed. "That was childhood talk. We were boys, Drona. You were a Brahmin's son. I'm a king now. You can't expect me to treat you as an equal."
The court chuckled.
"If you really want that then ask me like a begger does then can only I will think to donate you all that." Drupad replied with arrogance.
Drona felt something break inside.
He looked into Drupad's eyes.
"I see," he said, voice cold now. "Then hear me, O King. I will not beg again. But remember this moment well. The next time I come to Panchala, I will not come with empty hands. I will come with students. And they will defeat you."
He turned and walked away.
Drupad waved him off.
But destiny had already taken note.
And a new chapter was about to begin.
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