The sun hung high over Hastinapura, a fierce orb that turned the courtyard into a cauldron of heat and dust. The cracked tiles beneath the princes' feet shimmered, reflecting the midday glare, while the palace walls loomed white and unyielding, their shadows sharp against the ground. Around the deep stone well at the courtyard's center—its rim worn smooth by generations of hands—a crowd was swelling. Servants hovered near the arches, their whispers buzzing like flies, and townsfolk pressed in, drawn by tales of the morning's chaos. The air thrummed with the shouts of the Kuru princes—Pandavas and Kauravas alike—still raw from their violent spar just hours ago, a clash that had left bruises on their skin and fire in their eyes.
Bhima, broad and towering, kicked a leather ball with a grunt, his sandal scuffing the tiles. A fresh cut above his eyebrow glistened, but his grin was wide, unstoppable. "Let's shake off that fight," he called, his voice a rumble that rolled over the chatter. "Who's quick enough to catch this?" The ball skittered across the ground, bouncing once, twice, then soared high with a wild twist as Bhima's strength sent it flying. It arced toward the well, and a gasp rippled through the onlookers as it plunged over the edge, vanishing into the shadows with a faint, taunting splash.
"Wonderful," Duryodhana said, his voice sharp and biting. He stood with his arms crossed, dark hair clinging to his sweat-damp forehead, his fine tunic smudged from the earlier brawl. "You've lost it in two kicks, you lumbering fool. Someone fetch a rope before he dives in and breaks the whole thing."
Bhima laughed, a deep, hearty sound that shook his massive frame. "Lost it, have I? I'll get it back. Just watch!" He lumbered toward the well, peering into its dark depths, then swung a thick leg over the rim. The stone creaked under his weight as he lowered himself, his broad shoulders scraping the sides. "Plenty of room," he said, though his voice tightened as he sank deeper, his sandals slipping on the mossy walls. A growl of frustration burst from him, loud enough to shake loose a sprinkle of dust, and he thrashed, wedged halfway down.
"Get out of there, Bhima," Yudhishthira said, stepping forward. His tone was calm, measured, the kind that could soothe a tempest, though his brow creased with concern. His tunic remained neat despite the morning's tumult, a mark of his restraint in the spar. "You'll collapse it if you keep that up. Let's sort this sensibly."
"Sort it?" Bhima shot back, twisting to glare up at his elder brother. "I'm nearly there! Just need a hand—or a shove. Someone grab my arms!"
Arjuna, lean and quiet, slipped past the others, his bow still slung across his back from their training. His dark eyes flicked to the well, then to Bhima's flailing bulk, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Hold on a moment," he said softly, his voice steady and warm. He unslung his bow, notched an arrow, and took aim into the shadows. The string twanged, a clear, sharp note, and the arrow streaked downward, skimming the water with a hiss. It grazed the ball, sending it bobbing, but didn't catch it. Arjuna's brow furrowed, his fingers already reaching for another arrow. "Almost had it," he murmured to himself.
"Almost isn't good enough," Duryodhana said, his lip curling into a sneer. He waved a hand at a nearby servant, a lanky boy with jittery hands. "You. Bring a rope. A decent one, not that rubbish we had last time." The servant scurried off, sandals slapping the tiles, and returned with a coil that looked barely sturdier than a thread. Duryodhana snatched it, tossing one end into the well. "Pull it up, Bhima. Unless you fancy living down there."
Bhima grabbed the rope, his knuckles whitening as he tugged. The fibers stretched thin, then snapped with a loud crack, sending him lurching back against the well's wall. His bellow of annoyance echoed up, rattling the stones. "Useless piece of string!" he roared, heaving himself upward with a grunt. The crowd tittered, some hiding grins, as he clambered out, his massive frame dripping with well water, his tunic clinging to his skin.
Yudhishthira sighed, pressing a hand to his temple. "This is getting us nowhere. We're turning into a laughingstock. There's got to be a better way."
"There is," a voice said, low and steady, slicing through the noise like a blade through silk. The crowd shifted, heads turning, as a figure stepped forward from its edge. He was lean, almost wiry, his white robes patched and frayed at the hem, fluttering faintly in the hot breeze. His gray hair was tied back in a tight knot, and his dark eyes gleamed with a quiet, unshakable calm. In one hand, he held a simple staff, its wood worn smooth by years of use; the other hung empty at his side. He moved with a purpose that drew every eye, stopping beside the well as if he belonged there.
Bhima blinked, wiping water from his face with a meaty hand. "Who's this now? Another bright idea with a rope?"
"May I have a go, young princes?" the man said, his voice gentle but firm, carrying across the courtyard without strain. He knelt beside the well, his robes pooling around him, and plucked a few blades of grass from a crack in the tiles. The princes exchanged looks, their puzzlement plain.
Duryodhana snorted, his arms still folded tight. "A go? With what? Grass? You'll need a better plan than that to impress anyone here."
The man didn't answer. He picked up a fallen twig, no longer than his forearm, and ran his fingers along its length, testing its bend. With a deftness that belied his worn appearance, he twisted the grass blades into a thin, taut string, threading it onto the twig to craft a makeshift bow. The crowd hushed, leaning in, as he pulled a single blade free, holding it like an arrow. He nocked it, drew back the string, and aimed into the well's depths. His breath was even, his focus a palpable force. The grass blade flew, its faint whistle cutting the silence, and struck the ball with a soft, resounding thwack. It lodged deep in the leather, pinning it against the water's surface with a precision that seemed impossible.
Arjuna's jaw dropped, his bow slipping slightly in his hands. "How…" he breathed, stepping closer, his eyes wide with wonder. "How did he manage that?"
"He's not finished," Yudhishthira said quietly, his gaze sharpening as the man nocked another blade.
The second shot followed, swift and sure, piercing the end of the first blade and linking them. A third came, then a fourth, each one embedding into the last, forming a delicate chain that dangled from the ball like a thread of green light. The man gave a gentle tug, his fingers steady as stone, and the ball rose from the water, dripping and gleaming in the sunlight. He caught it in one hand, standing as the courtyard exploded into cheers. Bhima clapped, his massive hands thundering like drums, while Arjuna stared, awe lighting his face. Nakula and Sahadeva, hovering near the back, traded a quick, thrilled grin. Even Yudhishthira's calm cracked into a rare, warm smile.
"Well, I'll be a bull's breakfast," Bhima said, his laugh booming again, this time with pure joy. "That's the cleverest thing I've ever seen! Who are you, stranger? You've got to tell us!"
The man turned the ball in his hands, his expression still and unreadable. "Skill is no jest, prince," he said, his voice carrying a weight that quieted the crowd. "It's earned through years of trial."
Duryodhana's smirk faded, his dark eyes narrowing as he stepped forward. "Earned, is it? You're no common wanderer, that's clear enough. What's your game, Brahmin?"
"Game?" the man said, raising an eyebrow. He handed the ball to Arjuna, who took it with careful reverence, turning it to study the grass chain. "I seek no game. I saw a challenge and met it."
Arjuna looked up, his voice soft but eager. "You've met it better than any of us could. That was incredible. Will you show us how you did it?"
Before the man could reply, a heavy shadow fell across the tiles, silencing the murmurs. The crowd parted once more, this time for Bhishma, the grand patriarch of the Kurus. His silver armor clanked with each measured step, his white hair flowing like a banner in the breeze, and his presence filled the courtyard like a storm held in check. He had watched from a balcony above, drawn by the uproar, and now stood before the stranger, his piercing gaze fixed and unyielding.
"Who are you, Brahmin?" Bhishma said, his voice deep and commanding, resonating with the authority of a man who had shaped kingdoms. "Speak your name."
The man met Bhishma's eyes, unflinching, though he inclined his head in a gesture of respect. "I am Drona," he said, his tone steady and clear. "Son of Bharadvaja."
Bhishma's stern face shifted, a flicker of recognition passing through his eyes. He stepped closer, his armor glinting in the sun. "Drona," he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue like a memory unearthed. "I've heard that name. Tales of a disciple of Parashurama, my own teacher. They say he trained a Brahmin whose skill rivaled the gods themselves. Is that you?"
Drona's lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile. "Parashurama was my guru," he said simply. "He taught me what I know."
Bhishma's gaze sharpened, taking in the tattered robes, the makeshift bow still in Drona's hand, and the ball now cradled in Arjuna's grasp. "Then the tales are true," he said, his voice lowering. "A man of such mastery, here in Hastinapura. Why have you come?"
"I wander," Drona said, his tone even. "I seek no purpose beyond the day."
Bhishma studied him, the silence stretching thick and heavy. Then he turned, his eyes sweeping over the princes—Bhima's dripping bulk, Arjuna's quiet awe, Duryodhana's guarded stance, Yudhishthira's thoughtful nod, Nakula and Sahadeva's eager glances. "These boys need a teacher," he said, his words firm. "Their spar this morning nearly ended in blood. They're raw, wild, full of promise but no direction. You could forge them into something great."
Drona tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "They're princes," he said. "Surely they have masters aplenty."
"Not like you," Bhishma said, his voice dropping to a quieter, more insistent note. "Not with skill like that. Come with me. We'll talk." He gestured toward the palace, a broad hand cutting through the air, and turned without waiting for an answer.
Drona hesitated, his staff tapping the ground once, a faint thud against the tiles. The crowd watched, breathless, as he glanced at the princes, then back to Bhishma's retreating figure. After a moment, he followed, his steps measured but resolute.
The princes clustered together as the two men disappeared into the palace, their voices rising in a tangle of excitement and curiosity.
"He's something else, isn't he?" Bhima said, slapping a wet hand on Arjuna's shoulder. "Grass arrows! I'd never have thought of that in a hundred years."
"He's more than clever," Arjuna said, his voice barely above a whisper, though his eyes shone with a hunger to learn. "He's a master. Did you see how steady he was?"
Duryodhana stepped forward, his chin lifting. "Master or not, he's just a Brahmin. I'll match him one day. You'll see."
Yudhishthira smiled faintly, his voice warm. "He's brought us a wonder today, Duryodhana. Maybe he'll bring us more."
Inside the palace, Bhishma led Drona through a cool, shadowed corridor, its stone walls etched with faded carvings of warriors and kings. They stopped in a small chamber, its single window overlooking the Ganga's silver ribbon below. Bhishma turned, folding his arms across his armored chest.
"You're no wanderer," he said, his tone blunt but not unkind. "A man trained by Parashurama doesn't drift without purpose. Tell me why you're here."
Drona leaned his staff against the wall, his hands clasping behind his back. "I told you," he said. "I wander. Life has taken much from me. I've no grand plans left."
Bhishma's eyes narrowed. "I don't believe that. I saw what you did out there. That wasn't the act of a man who's given up. That was a demonstration. A claim."
Drona's lips twitched again, a flicker of amusement or perhaps defiance. "A claim? To what? I've no riches, no lands. Just what I carry."
"You carry skill," Bhishma said, stepping closer. "Skill I haven't seen since Parashurama himself. Those boys out there—they're the future of this kingdom. Pandavas, Kauravas, all of them. They're strong, clever, but they're tearing each other apart. This morning's spar was proof. I need someone to shape them, Drona. Someone who knows what a warrior should be."
Drona looked out the window, his gaze distant. "I've taught before," he said quietly. "Small lessons, here and there. Never princes. Never a kingdom's heirs."
"Then start now," Bhishma said, his voice firm but laced with a rare warmth. "You're Parashurama's legacy as much as I am. He'd want this—his knowledge passed on, not buried in the dust of your wanderings. Stay here. The palace will house you, feed you. You'll have everything you need."
Drona turned back, his dark eyes meeting Bhishma's. "And if they won't learn? Princes can be stubborn. I've seen it."
Bhishma chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "They'll learn. They're stubborn, yes, but they're hungry too. You saw their faces out there—Bhima's grin, Arjuna's awe, even Duryodhana's pride. They'll follow you if you lead them."
Drona stood silent for a long moment, his fingers tightening briefly around his staff. Then he nodded, a single, decisive motion. "Tomorrow, then," he said. "I'll see what they're made of."
Bhishma clapped a hand on his shoulder, the sound echoing in the small room. "Good. Tomorrow it is. You won't regret this, Drona."
Outside, the courtyard had emptied, the sun sinking lower, casting long shadows across the tiles. The well stood quiet, its depths undisturbed, but the air hummed with a new energy. Drona's arrival had sparked something vast, something epic, and as the princes scattered to their quarters, their voices carried on the wind—Bhima's laughter, Arjuna's quiet wonder, Duryodhana's sharp-edged resolve, Yudhishthira's steady hope. The grass blade miracle was only the beginning.