For the past few days, in Dronacharya's ashram, the air had grown crisp, and the light of the sun has begun to fade sooner, casting long shadows over the training grounds. The sound of rustling leaves hinted at the approaching chill, a stark contrast to the warmth of the afternoon sun that still dared to linger.

Inside the modest confines of his hut, Arjun sat cross-legged, a scroll of Dhanurveda unfurled before him. His fingers traced the ancient text, absorbing the wisdom of archery with unwavering focus. The crackling of dried leaves outside was a distant murmur, yet Arjun was oblivious, lost in the intricate teachings of his revered art. Time lost its meaning as he immersed himself wholly in the wisdom of the ancients, oblivious to the winds creeping in from outside.

A gentle knock interrupted his reverie, and a servant entered, balancing a platter of steaming food. Arjun glanced up, a flicker of awareness breaking his concentration. As usual, he was served first, the fragrant rice and lentils steaming in the dim light. He accepted the food without a second thought, having grown accustomed to the privilege and its unspoken significance.

As the servant departed, the soft rustle of the thatched roof echoed in the stillness, leaving Arjun enveloped in a cocoon of solitude. The aroma of the food lingered in the air, a contrast to the sharp focus that had consumed him moments before.

He carefully rolled up the scrolls of Dhanurved, their intricate illustrations of bows and arrows swirling in his mind like the dance of fallen leaves outside. Glancing through the small window, he noticed the horizon awash in hues of deep crimson and violet. Today, the sun had surrendered its reign earlier than usual.

Thus he reached for the earthen lamps nestled on a wooden shelf. The first flicker of the flame leapt to life, illuminating the scrolls, and casting playful shadows that flickered like the spirits of ancient warriors. He lit another lamp, then another, until the room glowed warmly against the encroaching dusk. As the last lamp flickered to life, the shadows receded.

Arjun returned to the low table, his stomach rumbling softly, and began to eat. But his mind was elsewhere—captured by the teachings of Dhanurveda. He barely registered the golden hues of rice and lentils as they lay untouched, his thoughts dancing between the precision of the bowstring and the tension of the arrow poised for flight.

Outside, the last vestiges of daylight surrendered to a deep twilight, shadows lengthening across the ashram grounds. Arjun’s fingers fidgeted around the rim of his plate, tracing unseen patterns, as he envisioned the perfect stance—his body steady, the bow flexing in his grip, the target unwavering and resolute. He could almost hear the whispers of Dronacharya’s teachings, echoing through the quiet of the evening, urging him to perfect each movement.

Soon an icy breath of wind surged through the thatched walls, a sudden gust, wild and unyielding. It swept into the room, snuffing out the flames one by one, plunging Arjun into a velvety blackness. He blinked, momentarily startled, yet his hand continued to scoop food into his mouth, guided by instinct rather than sight.

As Arjun sat in the enveloping darkness, the taste of the food became secondary to the rhythmic dance of thoughts of archery in his mind. Each morsel felt mechanical, a habit etched deep from years of training. Suddenly, a spark flickered within him—a realization that cut through the shadows. If he could consume his meal without the benefit of sight, what else could he achieve in the shadows ?

He paused, the morsel halfway to his lips. The idea danced tantalizingly at the edge of his consciousness.

"O Maheshwara...." He muttered, "Yadi bina dekhe bhojan kar sakta hu toh kya bina dekhe dhanush bhi chala sakta hu ?"

The thought spiraled, a tempest of madness. What if archery transcended mere physical sight ? What if intuition and instinct became his arrows, guiding him to the target even when he couldn’t see it ? His heart raced with newfound fervor. Could he rely on the echoes of nature to guide him, the rustle of leaves and the whisper of the wind ?

A smile crept onto his face as he imagined the thrill of such mastery. Common sense whispered of the eye’s necessity in aiming true, yet Arjun’s heart thudded louder with each pulse of that mad devotion. The idea took root, overpowering reason. It consumed him, clawing at the edges of his sanity.

Arjun’s heart raced with fervor. He hastily finished his meal, his hands moving instinctively, even as his mind spiraled deeper into an abyss of devotion. He set aside the plate, and stepped barefoot onto the cool earth, the chill biting at his skin, but his senses were ablaze.

The other students gathered at the shed, their laughter and chatter fading into the background, mere echoes of a world he was determined to transcend. With frantic energy, he washed his hands, the water refreshing against his skin, but his thoughts remained anchored in the realm of the bow.

He dashed toward the archery field, his heart racing, each step a drumbeat of fervor in the quiet night. The wind whispered secrets around him, and with every gust, he felt the pull of the bowstring tightening in his mind. The field lay still, illuminated only by the faint silver glow of the moon, casting shadows that danced like phantoms.

Bows and arrows lay in silent anticipation, and he seized one, the wood cool and familiar in his grasp. A shiver raced down his spine, igniting a wild spark within. He squinted through the darkness, a faint outline of the target beckoning from afar. With a breath that seemed to stretch eternity, he released the arrow into the abyss. The thud that followed resonated in his chest, a sound of promise and challenge.

Breathless, he rushed to the target board, the adrenaline coursing through him. As he approached, the truth laid bare: the arrow had missed the center, landing far from the mark. Yet, instead of disappointment, an electric thrill surged within him.

"Ho sakta hai.... Ho jaayega ! Bas abhyas chahiye." He murmured to himself.

The night air was thick with promise, and Arjun was consumed, body and soul, by the insatiable hunger to transcend the limits of sight and become one with his art.

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A/N

This is Arjun 🤌🏻