As the golden rays of dawn danced upon the surface of the Yamuna, the students of Dronacharya’s ashram busily filled their water pots, the rhythmic splashes echoing in the serene morning air. Each student was engaged in this daily chore, the humble task grounding them despite their noble lineage.

Each boy clutched a pot with a narrow opening, an oddity that seemed to spark curiosity yet was accepted without question. As they dipped their pots into the cool, flowing river, one by one, they encountered the same challenge: the slender opening slowed the water's ascent, transforming a simple task into a test of patience.

Despite the frustration of the cumbersome design, none dared to question it. Perhaps it was a lesson in perseverance, or a challenge set forth by Dronacharya to teach them the value of diligence.

However it seemed, that whatever it was it wasn't meant for Ashwathama, who stood apart with a pot that boasted a generous mouth. His task was effortless; water flowed freely into his vessel, filling it quickly while the others waited and waited.

In truth, the choice of pots wasn’t a teaching method or a challenge, but a ruse. Dronacharya had devised this peculiar arrangement not to teach his students but to shield Ashwathama from their eyes. The boy’s rapid returns to the ashram were not merely for water; they facilitated clandestine lessons in the art of secret weapons—knowledge reserved only for the guru's son.

While the rest of the students grumbled as they tipped the pots, watching droplets trickle down like time slipping away, exchanging knowing glances, convinced this was yet another lesson in virtue from their guru, Ashwathama sauntered back to the ashram.

He dashed past the thorny bushes, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the soft earth beneath. The ashram loomed ahead, a sanctuary of knowledge, where Dron awaited him. He felt a thrill at the thought of mastering arcane weapons, secrets that would remain hidden from his peers.

Arriving at his hut, he carefully placed the pot down and quickly made his way to the tree, where Dronacharya waited, his presence both commanding and serene. Dron raised his hand, gesturing for Ashwathama to come closer.

"Baitho putra." He said, a hint of approval in his voice.

Ashwathama obeyed, eager to learn the art of secret weapons. Dron gestured to a scroll spread before him, filled with diagrams of intricate weapons and techniques. Ashwathama knelt, absorbing the knowledge with fervor. His fingers traced the lines of ancient symbols, and he felt an exhilarating rush of understanding coursing through him.

The lessons were brief yet profound, allowing just enough time for Ashwathama to grasp the essence of the techniques shared before the other students arrived. Dron’s teachings weaved together ancient strategies and techniques that would grant Ashwathama power and prowess beyond his peers. The Guru-putra absorbed every detail, acutely aware of the privilege of this hidden knowledge.

Yet, Dron's eyes betrayed his unease; they darted repeatedly to the pathway, vigilant for any sign of the other students. Each moment stretched, fraught with the possibility of discovery.

As the lesson concluded, the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed through the trees, signaling the return of the other students. 

"Tumhe yeh samajh aa gaya ?" Dron asked, a sense of urgency in his voice.

"Ji Pitashree." Ashwathama nodded.

Dron swiftly handed him the scrolls, their contents imbued with power and secrecy. Ashwathama took them, and slipped away, the weight of secrets resting heavily on his young shoulders.

Dron, his heart now a mixture of pride and apprehension, closed his eyes, sinking into a meditative state. Meanwhile, the students returned to their huts, their water pots clinking softly. After stowing them away, they moved in unison towards Dron.

Their hearts beating with a mix of anticipation and reverence, they approached Dronacharya, who sat cross-legged beneath the tree, an image of calm authority. Bowing deeply, they offered their respects, palms pressed together. Dron raised his hand in a gentle gesture of blessing, a serene smile gracing his lips as he beckoned them to sit.

The students settled around him, eager eyes reflecting the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. Little did they know that while they sought knowledge and mastery, Dron, with focused intent, had reserved the most profound teachings for Ashwathama, not because he was better than them, but because he was the Guru's son. The rest remained blissfully unaware, their hearts heavy with devotion as they sat, waiting for wisdom that would perhaps never come their way.

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A/N

Kya acharya~
Baaki students bhi toh aapke putra samaan hai 👁️👁️