Arjuna — The Burdened Prodigy
Author’s note: I have immense respect for the epic and this is just a fictional perspective of what might be going through this great warrior’s mind and heart.
The character of Arjuna from the epic Mahabharata was on my mind for a while now. I wasn’t always a fan of him when I was younger, but now his character has started to intrigue me — specifically the weight of being an exceptional archer and a highly skilled warrior, who still finds his life’s decisions being made by others. I’ve finally put those thoughts into words, here’s the first part of a series. Do let me know what you think.
— — —
Arjuna — The Burdened Prodigy
Part 1
“How did it come to this?”
I asked myself as an excruciating pain started tearing my soul, as I stood on the edge of the abyss, the greatest battle formation the world has ever seen. While I, an undefeated warrior completely paralyzed by what I am about to do in the name of duty.
Get Smitha Tallapragada’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
Gandiva, the majestic bow in my left hand was a celestial arc of divine craftsmanship, meant to feel weightless, a natural extension of my own sinew and bone. But today, it felt as though I were holding the world from collapsing. I looked down at my grip. My knuckles were stark white, the tendons in my forearms pulled violently taut, trembling under a gravity that had nothing to do with physical mass. The bowstring bit deeply into my calloused fingers — fingers that had spent a lifetime seeking absolute, geometric perfection in the art of war, only to realize they were now tasked with the ultimate butchery. Gandiva was awake. It demanded blood, and my hands, for the very first time, were refusing to offer it.
I forced my gaze upward, seeking an anchor across the terrifying sea of armor and chariots. Through the haze of golden morning light and chariot dust, my eyes locked onto a familiar banner cutting through the sky.
And then, I saw him.
Acharya Drona.
Even across the vast, chaotic expanse of Kurukshetra, the greatest battlefield the world has witnessed so far, I can know in an instant. I recognized the precise architecture of his stance — the rigid set of his shoulders, the unyielding, disciplined line of his spine. It was the exact posture I had memorized as a boy, the foundational form of every movement I had ever mastered.
A cold, physical sickness settled in my chest. The universe was demanding that I take the very breath he taught me to harness, pull the very string he taught me to loose, and drive a shaft through his heart. How could two absolute truths exist at once? How could my duty require the annihilation of the man who built me?
My breath grew ragged. The deafening roar of war elephants, the clashing of spears, and the piercing wail of the conch shells began to blur, receding into a dull, rushing hum like water filling my ears.
The heavy, polished grip of Gandiva in my hands seemed to soften, narrowing, until it felt like the rough-hewn, splintered wood of a simple training bow. The blinding, golden armor of the general across the battlefield melted away in the morning light. The dust settled into the damp, green quiet of a forest, and standing before me was no longer an enemy commander, but a teacher in simple white cloth, looking down at a young, eager boy.
Part 2 coming soon.
