The Wrath of the Humble

नारायणं नमस्कृत्य नरं चैव नरोत्तमम्

 देवीं सरस्वतीं चैव ततो जयम् उदीरयेत्

महाभरत

Mahābharata

As retold by

Michael Dolan, B.V. Mahāyogi

Humiliation

Droṇa's ears burned. He could feel the stares of the guards on the back of his head as he hurried out of the palace. His heart pounded inside his chest. He was furious. He had been conceived in a moment of passion when his father, the great sage Bharadwaja had lost his patience. And now he was impatient to revenge himself on this insolent cur, Drupada. Drupada was not worthy of the name king. He had violated dharma. Kings were supposed to protect the brahmanas, not celebrate their death by starvation. Humility was useful in doses, but Droṇa's humiliation was complete. He had come to see his an old friend and to ask for a helping hand. He had not come as a beggar. But he had been abused.

Ancient Kings of the Mahabharata

This would not stand. He would have his revenge. Droṇa had been trained in humility. He knew that anger was corrosive to the soul. Still, this king had to be taught a lesson. 

The arrogant little man who sat on the throne was not the friend he had known in childhood. Droṇa had the education of a brahmana, but the character of a kshatriya. He had learned the art of war from his father alongside Drupada. 

Whatever lessons were given Drupada in the use of sword and mace, Drona learned and mastered. 

Drona had been trained to teach, not to use the art of war as a conquerer. But Drupada was a despot and despots must be destroyed. Droṇa stalked the halls of the palace, revenge burning his heart, until he reached the gates of Panchala.

Still he could not breathe. Oblivious to his surroundings, he continued on, until he reached the forests. There, surrounded by the tall trees and blue skies, he could rest for a moment. As the sun began its decline, Drona found a place by the banks of the holy river. He made a sacred fire. Intoning mantras learned from the sage Bharadwaja, Drona invoked Shiva. Only Shiva would give him the proper adjustment. How could he, a powerless brahmana, practically dying of hunger, confront a powerful king like Drupada? 

An offering to the river

Droṇa had no weapons. True, he could train a man in swordsmanship, but he had no sword of his own. After all, brahmanas were dedicated to peace. But there was no peaceful means of correcting a despot like Drona. 

Night fell. The moon rose over the tall trees. The sacred fire burned low. Drona sat in yogic meditation, invoking the Lord Shiva. Gradually he entered into a trance, chanting the mantra slowly. At length, Drona had a vision. In a dream, Shiva came to him. He was riding a bull. He came close to Drona, sitting quietly on his bull, Nandi. He sat for a long time. He was neither angry nor joyful, but spoke in measured tones. 

"My son," said Shiva.

Shiva's voice reminded Droṇa of his father, Bharadwaja.

A Rishi

"You are angry."

"Yes," said Drona.

"But is anger a good thing?" said the lord of destruction. "Will it bring a good end?"

"I can't say," said Drona. "But Drupada is a despot who humiliates brahmanas. His reign must come to an end."

"But Drupada is your friend."

"Was my friend. He said there can be no friendship between those who are not equals. Perhaps if we are equals..."

"You want to make war on Drupada?"

"Yes," said, Drona, "Perhaps if I defeat him. If I show him that brahmanas can be equals with kshatriyas, perhaps then we can be friends." 

"You want to teach him a lesson?"

"Exactly? but how? I am powerless. I have nothing. My son Asvatthama doesn't even have milk!"

"Perhaps there is a way." said Shiva.

"But how?"

Shiva mounted on Nandi

"The great and terrible Paraśurāma, hater of Kings, is tired of a life of war and conflict. He wishes to retire. Even now, at his ashram in the Himalayas he is laying down his weapons. He wants to renounce violence and live a quiet life of contemplation. But before he does, he wants to share the secrets of his power with a disciple. Before he leaves this world, he wants to bequeath his magical weapons and the secrets of his martial arts. As I am god of destruction, I know this as a fact. I was responsible for his training. I personally gave him his most dangerous weapons, that he would do battle with the most terrible of despots and rid the earth of their bloody footsteps. Go to Paraśurāma. Explain your mission. He will help you."

"Yes," said Droṇa. "I will go to Paraśurāma." And as he spoke these words, Shiva, mounted on the bull Nandi, smiled at him and returned whence he had come. Drona blinked.

When he opened his eyes, he saw that the fire had burned out. It was now daytime and the dawn's light was reflected in the waters of the holy river. Drona could feel the cold. Had he fallen asleep? Perhaps it was just a dream. But he had to seek out Paraśurāma. Only the enemy of the kshatriyas would understand the need to rid the world of a despot like Drupada. 

Parashurama

And so it was that, desperate and poor, thirsty for  revenge, now with a glimmer of hope Droṇa set out through the dark forest for the ashram of Paraśurāma seeking both martial instruction and excellence in weaponry. He walked for days, living on herbs he found in the forest. At night he lit the sacrificial fire and prayed to Shiva. But he did not have another vision. Perhaps it was all just a dream; but Shiva had spoken truth. Paraśurāma was his only hope. As he travelled from the forests of Panchala to the foothills of the Himalayas, Drona was exhausted. 

But there the fire of hate for his old friend burned within him. He could see Drupada defeated in chains before him. That arrogant son of Pishata would beg him for mercy. Just as he had humiliated the son of Bharadwaja. Drona would not rest until he gained the mountain caves where Parashurama kept his weapons. His quest for vengeance was like a cancer on his soul that burned him from within. Vengeance was against dharma, but the kshatriyas had insulted brahmanas too many times. The meek are blessed, but it was time for the weak and humble to rebel against the proud and powerful. As his feet were bloodied and calloused by his long pilgrimage, he reached the craggy snow-peaks that hide the ashram of the slayer of kings. He would find the killer of kshatriyas and seek his shelter. 

Parashurama, killer of despots