Q.Imagine that you are an author and rewrite the story of Ekalavya from a perspective of your choice.

The question asks you to step into the role of an author and retell the story of Ekalavya from a chosen perspective. This is an exercise in perspective taking — seeing an event through someone else's eyes, not just reporting facts.

To do this well, you must first decide whose perspective you will adopt. The NCERT textbook presents the story from Dronacharya's viewpoint, where Ekalavya's devotion is admirable but his demand for the guru's thumb is a necessary sacrifice to protect Arjuna's promise. You could choose a different lens:

• Ekalavya's perspective: Focus on his unwavering dedication, the injustice of being denied training because of his birth, and the quiet dignity with which he accepts the demand. The story becomes one of resilience and self-made mastery.
• Arjuna's perspective: Explore his insecurity and guilt. He is the favoured student, yet he sees a rival who surpasses him through sheer will. His demand for the thumb is not just about being "best" but about a deep fear of being eclipsed.
• Dronacharya's perspective: Emphasise his conflict between his duty as a teacher to keep his word to Arjuna and his admiration for Ekalavya's devotion. He is not a villain but a man bound by a promise, making a painful choice. …

Imagine you are Ekalavya, a young Nishada boy born into a forest tribe, far from the glittering courts of Hastinapura. Your world is the deep woods, the rustle of leaves, the flight of birds — a world where skill with a bow is not a luxury but a necessity for survival. From childhood, you have heard whispers of a legendary warrior-teacher, Dronacharya, who trains the Kuru princes in the art of archery. You dream not of palaces or thrones, but of standing before him, your bow in hand, and learning the secrets of the arrow’s flight.

One day, you gather your courage and travel to the guru’s ashram. You see the young princes — Arjuna, Bhima, Yudhishthira — practicing under the master’s watchful eye. Your heart pounds as you approach Dronacharya, bowing low and offering your humble request: “Teach me, O Guru. I wish to become a great archer.” But the guru’s face hardens. He looks at your dark skin, your simple clothes, and says, “I teach only Kshatriyas. A Nishada boy cannot learn the Vedas or the art of war from me.” You feel a cold stone settle in your chest. You are not angry — you are too young for anger. You are simply… dismissed.

But you do not give up. You return to the forest, and there, under a banyan tree, you build a small mound of earth. You shape it into the likeness of Dronacharya — a silent, unmoving idol. Every day, you bow to it, offer flowers, and then practice. You shoot at distant targets, at falling leaves, at the very shadows of birds. You learn to judge wind, distance, and the heartbeat of your prey. The forest becomes your gurukul. The animals, your fellow students. The silence, your teacher. And in that silence, you grow. Your arrows fly truer than any prince’s. Your aim becomes so sharp that you can hit a target you cannot even see — guided only by sound.

Years pass. One day, the Kuru princes are hunting in the forest. Their dog strays and comes upon you. You are practicing, your body still, your mind focused. The dog barks, and without thinking, you shoot seven arrows into its mouth — not to kill, but to silence it, to show your control. The princes are astonished. They find you, and Arjuna, the proudest of them, is shaken. He runs to Dronacharya and says, “Guru, there is a boy in the forest who shoots better than me. You promised I would be the greatest archer in the world. You have broken your word.”

Dronacharya comes to you. You see him approach, and your heart leaps — your guru, the real one, has come to you at last. You fall at his feet. He looks at you, then at the mud idol you have worshipped all these years. He is moved, but his mind is cold. He knows that if you remain, Arjuna’s pride — and his own promise — will be broken. So he speaks: “If you are truly my disciple, then give me my fee, my gurudakshina.” You are overjoyed. “Anything, Gurudev,” you say. “Ask for my life, and I will give it.”

Dronacharya’s voice is flat. “Give me your right thumb.” …