Chapter 7: The Wrath of Sun and River
The heavens remained silent.
But not still.
Above the world, I—Surya, the radiant guardian of dharma—watched as truth and betrayal battled in silence.
A week had passed since the cruel abandonment of the child born from my light.
The world below did not know of him.
Only one soul, his mortal mother, Kunti, held the secret.
And she chose to bury it—by killing the only witness, a maid whose only crime was seeing the truth.
---
From the banks of the Ganga, the river herself had watched it all.
And so, when the child floated in her waters, discarded like a secret too shameful to keep, she trembled with fury.
She did not act immediately.
But when night fell, her wrath surged.
The sacred river overflowed silently at first, creeping into the edges of the Kuru Kingdom.
Then came the roar.
Torrents swept through villages under the cover of darkness.
Homes washed away.
Crops vanished into the flood.
Families prayed in terror.
But no voice could silence a mother's rage.
Not after what she'd seen.
---
When dawn returned, I joined her.
The people barely had time to recover before my fire began its descent.
I halted the sky.
The sun refused to set.
The heat grew unbearable.
Water dried from the land.
The air burned with unseen flames.
I punished them in daylight—merciless, searing, absolute.
And when dusk came again, Ganga's waters rose once more.
So it continued.
Day and night.
Sun and flood.
Burn and drown.
Together, we punished the land that sheltered betrayal.
---
The people trembled. Even the wise priests did not understand. They offered sacrifices, gold, food, even animals.
But the gods did not answer.
Only silence remained.
And in the palace of the Kuru kings, Kunti wept.
To all eyes, it was grief.
They believed she mourned the loss of her maid.
No one saw the faint smile she hid beneath her veil at night.
She believed the child was gone.
That the river had erased her sin.
That her secret was safe forever.
---
But he lived.
Saved by Ganga, who bore him up toward Swarga.
Though the heavens blocked her path, she did not stop.
And when she paused, wondering where to go—
I came.
I did not declare him my son. The words were not needed.
Ganga knew.
She saw the truth in my silence.
I spoke only of a couple—devoted, humble, and full of love.
They were my faithful believers.
They would raise him.
She agreed.
---
The floods receded. My sun returned to its path. The sky cooled. But the pain remained.
Still, I said nothing to Kunti.
Her trial would come.
In time.
---
Later that day, I returned to my home in Surya Lokam.
The grand gates of golden fire opened as my chariot arrived. I stepped into the divine hall, where two figures waited with grace and silence.
Sanjna, my first and eternal wife, stood tall, her presence like the first light of dawn.
Chhaya, my second, the shadow that bore her own pain, stood beside her.
They had watched everything unfold.
They did not ask questions.
They only looked at me—then toward the horizon where Karna now lived.
I sat upon the steps between them.
The silence lingered until Chhaya whispered.
> "This is all… because of me."
I looked at her, frowning.
Sanjna reached for her hand.
But Chhaya trembled.
> "It was my curse," she said. "I cursed you long ago… that your light would bring both glory and sorrow to your children. What if this was the sorrow?"
Sanjna shook her head softly.
> "No, sister. The child's path is one of greatness. This… was not your fault."
I placed my hand gently on Chhaya's shoulder.
> "He was born from my light.
But also from fate.
And fate bends even gods."
> "Do not carry this burden," I told her.
"For it is I who gave the boon.
It is she—Kunti—who betrayed it."
Tears glistened in Chhaya's divine eyes.
Sanjna pulled her close.
> "He will rise," she whispered. "He will shine brighter than us all."
I gazed out toward Bhoomi, the world below.
My son now lived among mortals.
But even hidden, he would not be forgotten.
Because when the time comes…
The sun never abandons its light.