After the princes had completed their training in the martial arts, Drona felt that they should now be able to compete against anyone in the country. So, after consultation with Dhritarashtra, Bheeshma, Vidura and Kripacharya, he announced a day of national competition, open to any prince from anywhere in Bharatavarsha.
It was a day in early winter. Warm sunshine spread all over the open ground like a red woollen carpet. On the dais sat, under a gold-threaded canopy, King Dhritarashtra, flanked by Bheeshma and Drona. Near them were seated Vidura, Kripacharya, Queens Gandhari and Kunti. On the ground sat several princes, with their bows, maces, swords and javelins. The occasion carried the fanfare of a svayamvara, although the prize to be won was not a beautiful princess but the glory of being declared the unrivalled national hero.
Then, suddenly, the royal trumpet blew, signalling the commencement of the competition. The first to enter the arena was Duryodhana, the Crown prince, who strutted in like a matador. He brandished his golden mace over his head, challenging anyone to a fight. He had already assumed the air of someone who was invincible – such was the glow of pride on his face. As he strode around, waving his golden mace, he was cheered loudly by his brothers.
A hush descended as Bheema entered the arena. His body was huge like that of an elephant and his eyes glowed like two suns. Brandishing his silver mace, he advanced towards Duryodhana, who now leapt to his feet. As they started to fight, they looked like two lions, roaring and clawing at each other. In the beginning, Bheema let his adversary feel at ease. Then, suddenly, he raised his mace and lunged at Duryodhana, who somehow managed to dodge the blow. As the two maces clashed against each other, it seemed as if Yama were sounding the death knell of the world. With each round, the duel became bloodier and fiercer. Soon, Duryodhana began to reel under Bheema’s blows. As he gradually became unsteady, Bheema suddenly knocked him to the ground, leaving him squirming in the dust. A tumultuous applause rose from the crowd.
There was now some whispering on the dais, between Gandhari and Kunti.
‘I guess it was a duel between Duryodhana and Bheema,’ Gandhari whispered into Kunti’s ears. ‘I could recognize them by their hollers.’
‘Yes, sister,’ responded Kunti. ‘I don’t like this game. It is like watching two wild animals out to tear each other apart.’
After a brief silence, Gandhari said, with a lump in her throat, ‘Tell me who has been knocked down.’
‘It is Duryodhana, but I see him trying to gather himself up on his feet. It is very distressing…’
‘I should have guessed it, Kunti. Because my son is just a windbag, all pomp but no substance. I am glad Bheema is doing so well. He is as dear to me as my own son.’
Kunti stayed silent.
Drona then rose to his feet and called off the duel, which had ended with Duryodhana’s defeat.
Then entered Arjuna, holding his Gandiva in his right hand. He twanged his bow and fixed an arrow, which he shot at the feet of his guru, Drona, as his salutation.
He then released into the air his second arrow that exploded in mid-air in multiple colours – crimson, yellow, purple and orange. A loud cheer rose from the gathering. This was followed by another arrow, which circled above the dais, leaving a trail of fire behind it. Then an arrow penetrated deep into the sky, as if to tear it apart. All eyes turned heavenward to see where the arrow would fall. Each time the Gandiva twanged, the crowd burst into a loud cheer.
Arjuna then walked back to his seat, his eyes shining with the pride of an archer who had won the day.
Suddenly, a stranger appeared, threading his way through the crowd, his bow and arrows strapped to his shoulders. This created a flutter in the gathering.
All eyes were riveted on the stranger’s face, which glistened like the sun at midday. On his body was a strange armour and in his ears he wore a pair of gold earrings. As he approached the dais and bowed to Drona, an awesome silence fell all over the place. At the sight of the stranger, with his kavacha and gold earrings, Kunti fell into a swoon. She would have stumbled off her seat if Kripacharya had not held her back. Water was sprinkled on her face to bring her back to consciousness.
Meanwhile, the young stranger was heard saying that he could outdo each of Arjuna’s feats. He let his first arrow touch Drona’s feet as a gesture of respect, and then he started shooting from his bow. He shot an arrow into the sky that left a trail of snakes in the air. Next, he shot an arrow near the dais, that dug a crater in the ground from which gushed out a fountain of water. Thunderous applause rent the air.
‘Bravo!’ exclaimed Duryodhana as he leapt from his seat in unbounded joy. In the stranger’s superb performance, he felt himself vicariously vindicated. It was as though the gods had sent someone down to earth to avenge his humiliation.
But before the stranger could shoot his next arrow, a voice boomed from the dais. Drona was up on his feet. Pointing his finger at the stranger, he said, ‘I admire your talent, O young man. But who are you – a prince or a commoner? Remember, that this competition is open only to princes.’
Before the stranger could respond, Duryodhana hurried to the stranger’s side and said, ‘If he is not a prince, I offer him the kingdom of Anga, in my capacity as the Crown prince of Hastinapur.’
His announcement created a sensation in the crowd. Since everyone had been impressed by the stranger’s dazzling performance, Duryodhana was applauded for his generous offer.
The stranger stared at Duryodhana’s face in awe and wonder. But when he bowed to him in gratitude, Duryodhana said, ‘Don’t embarrass me, please, because one prince should never bow to another.’
Duryodhana’s words touched a deep chord in the stranger’s heart and tears welled up in his eyes. Just then, a voice was heard from the dais.
‘Prince you may now be, O stranger,’ shouted Kripacharya, ‘but you must tell us your caste. Are you a Kshatriya or a Brahmin?’
‘Why should you ask me such a question?’ replied the stranger. ‘Isn’t this competition open to everyone?’
‘No,’ replied Kripacharya. ‘It is open only to those who are of noble lineage.’
The stranger lowered his head, his eyes fixed on the ground. He stood ashen-faced with anguish.
Just then, another stranger walked into the arena, hugged the young archer and said, ‘You have done me proud, my son.’ Turning towards Kripacharya, the man said: ‘He is Radheya, my son, O Lord. And I am Atiratha, a charioteer.’
A wave of surprise swept through the crowd. Someone hissed: ‘A low-born!’ Duryodhana stepped forward towards Radheya, as if to shield him. Then, raising his voice to a high pitch, he addressed Kripacharya: ‘Do the Vedas mention the castes anywhere? Haven’t these social barriers been devised to serve vested interests? And where would you place human relationships in your hierarchy of moral values, O Lord?’
The entire gathering was stunned by Duryodhana’s pungent forthrightness. Kripacharya was speechless. On the dais, Gandhari turned to Kunti and asked, ‘Wasn’t that my Duryodhana? Can anyone say that he is tainted, entirely?’
‘On the contrary, sister, he is shining today, like a pure crystal,’ responded Kunti. Gandhari nodded her head, her face glowing with pride.
Duryodhana embraced Radheya. Then, pointing towards the Pandavas, he said, ‘Look there, O friend, those are my cousins, my blood relations, but they are after my blood. On the other hand, as I look at you, I realize for the first time that water is thicker than blood.’
His words touched Radheya so deeply that tears flowed from his eyes. Wiping them off with the back of his left hand, he said, ‘I am speechless, O Duryodhana. I now fumble and falter for words. All I wish to say is that, in return for what you have done for me today, I offer you my body, my soul and my eternal gratitude. Hereafter, I will be at your service to do anything for you – anything, anywhere. Dying for you would open to me the portals of heaven.’ As Duryodhana led Radheya out of the crowd to his chariot, he said that the place was not worthy of their presence.