Dhri laid a finger on my lips. For some paradoxical reason, he wanted to narrate the moment that pained him most, that laid bare his longing. Even in mortal danger, Drupad could not but admire the young man—his poise, his courtesy, his skill at arms. A fleeting yearning rose up in him: if only he were my son. “Don’t say that!” I interrupted angrily. “You’re the best son a father could ever desire. Aren’t you giving up your entire life to get King Drupad what he wants—senseless though it is?” “Go on with the story,” he said.
