(For John Berryman, one of poetry’s invisible Dronacharyas, for this grim era)

When he wakes to dew On the grass and deer Drinking at the creek He hears his mother Call out to him:

“Son, get ready quick! The band is headed out To gather honey, berries, Firewood. Here is your Sack with something to Eat on the way.”

This is normal. Her kiss On his forehead, the gruff Voice of his father, chief Of the band, dispensing Advice on how to track Beasts by telltale signs Left behind in their passing.

Such has been the history Of his people: watching The seasons, gathering food, Dancing around bonfires, Appeasing the forest spirits, And if one is ambitious, becoming Chief or his right hand man.

Yet in the dark something Had pierced his heart like A steel javelin goring The side of a placid bull. How he twists and turns Even as he walks in the file Singing the band’s songs.

He had been to the edge Of the forest, and there he saw The princes training at arms: Horse riding, mace and sword, Spear and shield, bow and arrow.

Blood quickened in his youthful Muscles as something entered; A demon-god who wouldn’t be Appeased by wine, feasting, Flirty lasses, his mother’s stories At night about great chiefs who Led their people to safety
Through droughts and blazes.

He now has to become The most perfect archer. So this morning finds him At the fringe of the royal School, seeking out The master for instruction. But what can he offer In return? Honey combs, Plumes of paradisiacal birds, Pelts of spotted deer?

As he prostrates at the feet Of the master, he is coolly Rebuffed for the secrets Of the bow are for warriors Alone. No, most definitely Not for forest punks.

….

This is the clearing In the forest I come To every morning. My father calls me A fool, lazy bones and Other unmentionables.

My girl thinks I am Never going amount To much. My friends Laugh at me as they Plaster their huts with Clay and dung. How Does one explain hunger To those who have never Been hungry? Or in pain?

I have fashioned a master For myself out of mud And straw, an effigy Of the master who couldn’t Accept me as his student. Here is the bow I had hewed Out of a sisal tree. My hands Have smoothened it like A shell. Here is my sheath.

I shoot arrow after arrow Into the tree trunk At the far field, hour after Hour. My breath flows Out each time I circle My arms and bring The bow’s twine to sights. This is death and birth, Music, happiness and tears.

I shall never be chief. I shall never have a wife, Children or oxen - the whole Catastrophe. My hut shall Have no roof. I shall lie Face to face with the stars, Dreaming of the arcs of Arrows leaving my bow As they speed towards, And into, my soul.

….

The princes go out for a picnic. Horseplay, eats, swimming, Naps under pepul trees, the day Passes in such inactivity.

Towards afternoon a mongrel Approaches the creek smelling Food. Stones and twigs hurled At its hunger fail to keep it Away with its wagging tail And low whimpers. So a prince, The best archer in the bunch, Picks his bow and lets it fly. The dog runs, tail between Its legs, an arrow in its mouth Followed by the laughing princes Deeper into the glade. And then As swiftly, it comes running back, Much to the surprise and amazement Of the princes, carrying a bouquet Of dozen rough arrows in its throat.

They investigate. They find a clearing In the glade, find an effigy of their master, See the ground worn smooth by bare feet, See a great neem tree at the far end riddled With holes, hear the echoes of endless arrows Shot from a bow that had not stop twanging For days now, perfecting those hands. ….

I am here practicing the scales. Notes flash. Everything is slowly Becoming music, the bow, arrows In the air, arrows in my sheath, My fingers on the twine, my sight. I am possessed. It is this haunting That birds and deer come to watch.

I hear my name being called. I turn And see my master entering this place Where he has been teaching me every Day since we last met. I prostrate at His feet. And he hugs my dusty body. My heart is singing. I have lost language.

….

The master watches with the birds, deer And his band of pupils, with wonder This soaring symphony of archery. Who is this lad? And who has taught him? Is it for real or has a god given him this boon? But no! Such symmetry can be no gratuitous Gift. This surely required wrestling with The angel till he became an angel himself.

This train of thought is broken by muffled Sobs. He looks down at his feet and sees His favorite pupil, one who had shot That first arrow into the mongrel, Weeping. Yes, the pitiful human heart Full of wonder and jealousy was crying.

Without asking the master knows What his heart desires and weeps For, yet he asks him to speak.

….

O Master! You had promised to make Me into the greatest of archers who have Ever lived or will ever live. And yet now How can that be! See this wild lad With his impunity, with his hands Made to gather berries or play drums, See how he is weaving such dazzling.

I know he doesn’t study with us Yet it is your effigy that adorns This otherwise bare place. Then you Surely are his master and he is your Finest student, not me, not me!

….

The master, with a heart full of praise And heaviness for what he will soon do, Addresses the lad, quivering with joy, Who stands like the angel in front of him:

“Weren’t you the son of a forest chief Who came to me many months ago seeking Instruction in the art of bow and arrow? Yet, I see that you have learned well. Who has Taught you these secrets, those for which warriors Spend many long years in study and penance? Speak, for I would like to congratulate your master For having trained such an accomplished archer.”

….

I hear my master speak just as he spoke Every night to me in my dreams and every day Out on the field, instructing me, correcting me. Yet how strange, he still asks me who Taught me all these days, all that I know!

Master, it was you who were my door To the day, my spiraling stair to the stars.

….

With great gladness the master embraces His perfected, yet unknown student, thinking It must be the gods themselves who have Wrought this noble and guileless lad.

And with a voice heavy with sadness, knowing The heavy cost of that bitter promise he had Made to the prince, his pet student, which can be Kept only by destroying this perfect art, Addresses the son of the forest chief:

“Bravo, my student! I see that you have learnt All that I could have taught you myself, and more. Yet you forget the etiquette of a student!”

….

Master! Pardon my error! Pray Tell me what is that I forgot?

….

At the end of teaching, the student Pays what the master asks of him.

….

Master! All I have is yours. Yet if You desire anything else, ask and I Shall labor till the end of days for it.

….

Then give me the thumb Of your drawing hand. That shall be my fee.

…. A deeply grooved thumb, Glistening red like a rare ruby, Falls at the master’s feet

The skies shower flowers. Gods gather to watch this Nobel lad’s happy face, The master’s face is wet With tears, the prince hangs His head in shame.

….

The Master speaks, slowly:

“Your fee is paid in full. May you be blessed!”

And gathering his voice adds:

“Let the seven worlds, gods, Demons, spirits of oceans, Forests, nether worlds and all of Mankind now and to come hear me: As long as there are teachers And students, as long as there is Something to be learned and Something to be taught, this true Prince among men will be exalted”

Ekalavya! Ekalavya! The worlds still shout.

Notes: Man requires something as a stay against despair, the belly of the beast, against death. Some find it in an incohate God and so on. This morning I find it in retelling this story - one of the many detours - from the epic Mahabharata. And in the recall of Philip Levine's masterful homage/ essay to his guru, Berryman, in his memoir "The Bread of Time".

In one version of the story, Which perhaps is the one and Only truth, a rib was pulled Out of me to create you. Here the story doesn’t say Why. Did I ask for you? Was solitude then as heavy As it is this evening?

My heart swells in and out Of this gap in my ribcage, (just as the tongue keeps Licking, once more, the gap That was once filled with Ivory) seeking you.

Other sages, this time seated On the opposite end, intone, In their telling of the story, That I already possess you Inside of me, a small benign Cancerous dot hanging like A bat inside my white belly.

Yet why doesn’t this hunger vanish When I touch myself wishing It was you touching me There, everywhere?

Then others, as if one can Believe such preposterous Nonsense, claim that in the beginning There was no I and no you, that we Lived in the same body, were the same Jolly body thumbing our jointed nose At a jealous god, who logically split Such a mirthful creature into two.

Supposing this for a moment is true, It explains why we keep entering and Leaving all those airy rooms with a piano, Searching for that perfect music which We perfectly well know doesn’t exist.

However more simply, And biologically, I came Hurtling out of a tormented You. And from then on I am Compelled to seek you out, In spite of the ways you can, And do, wound me, in order to Enter you again and again,

Seeking to bite the apple, seeking To submerge in earthy darkness, Seeking that momentary music Heard just before we cleave, Seeking to bring forth another You or another me.