The baby's first cry did not belong only to earth.
It carried across the three realms—Bhūloka, Svarga, Brahmaloka. A sound that should have been ordinary instead rippled through the fabric of existence, a disturbance in the balance of dharma.
The devas paused in their duties. The rishis broke their meditations. Even the Trimurti stirred in their eternal realms.
Brahma, seated upon his lotus, gazed into the loom of destiny. The thread of time before him wavered strangely. He frowned, turning his thousand faces toward the single glowing strand. "The son of Surya is born… but something clouds the weave. His thread carries weight heavier than before."
In Kailasa, the stillness of meditation cracked. Shiva opened his eyes, his third eye flickering with a spark that could destroy worlds. He peered across the planes, glimpsing the infant afloat on the river. "The Sun-child has arrived. And yet… the river of fate is restless." His voice was a murmur, but in it was the gravity of thunder before a storm.
In Vaikuntha, reclining upon Ananta Shesha, Vishnu stirred. His eyes half-opened, calm as the endless ocean. "Strange indeed," he said softly. "The fragrance of dharma is altered, yet the flower appears unchanged. A tributary joins the river, yet the destination remains veiled."
But none of the three saw further. Their sight, endless as it was, met a curtain. A veil. Shakti's hand.
The Trimurti could sense that destiny trembled, but its cause lay hidden from even them.
On the earth, the basket drifted gently until it reached the muddy banks of the Ganga, where a humble charioteer and his wife came to bathe.
Adhiratha was a man of sturdy frame, his shoulders broad from years of service. The reins of royal chariots had hardened his hands, yet his eyes carried kindness. He was loyal, steady, the sort of man whom great kings might overlook but trust with their lives in battle.
Radha was his strength, his companion through every trial. Her beauty was not of jewels and silk, but of simplicity—the warmth of her smile, the gentleness of her voice, the devotion in her heart. Yet her eyes often clouded with sorrow. For though their home was filled with love, it was empty of children.
For years, Radha had prayed at temples, tied threads upon sacred trees, offered flowers into the river—yet the gods remained silent. Neighbors whispered behind her back. Some pitied, some mocked: "What use is a woman's womb if it bears no fruit?"
Radha bore it all in silence, her heart aching for the cry of a child in her home.
It was in such a morning, with the sky still gray and the air cool, that they heard the cry.
Adhiratha rushed forward, pushing reeds aside. There, in a small basket afloat upon the river, lay the child. Golden-skinned, adorned with earrings that shone like the sun, and armor fused upon his chest like molten gold. His tiny fists beat against the air, his cry loud and commanding.
Adhiratha froze. "Radha… this is no ordinary infant. His ornaments, his glow… he must be of divine birth. Perhaps abandoned by fate."
But Radha's eyes filled with tears the moment she lifted the baby. She pressed him to her chest, her body trembling with joy. The child quieted instantly, as though recognizing his mother.
Her lips quivered. "For years I prayed. For years the gods were silent. And now—now they send me a son from the river itself. Husband, he is ours. Whatever he is, whoever he is, he is mine now."
Adhiratha hesitated. Duty warred with desire in his heart. To take a child of divine birth was dangerous. Yet when he looked upon Radha's face—radiant in a happiness he had not seen in years—his resolve broke.
He laid a hand upon her shoulder, voice steady. "Then so be it. If the gods have placed him in our care, who am I to refuse? He shall be our son. He shall be raised as Karna, child of Radha and Adhiratha."
Radha smiled through her tears. She kissed the baby's forehead, whispering a vow. "No matter who abandoned you, my son, you will never be unwanted again. In my arms, you will always belong."
The infant stirred, his golden eyes fluttering open. For a fleeting instant, awareness flickered within them—something deeper, older. Ram's soul peered through, confused yet alive. He remembered the rooftop of his past life, his mother in Kali Yuga, his desperate wish.
And then—Shakti's voice, soft as a lullaby, filled his mind.
"Hush, child. Your truth is yours alone. The world shall not know you until the appointed hour. You may remember, but you shall not reveal. This silence is your protection, and your burden."
His lips opened, but only a baby's cry escaped. The weight of two lives pressed upon him, yet his tiny heart beat with fierce strength.
Radha rocked him gently, humming to soothe him. "There, there, little one. My Karna. My golden son."
Adhiratha watched them both, a strange warmth filling his chest. For the first time in years, his home would echo with laughter. For the first time, Radha's arms would not be empty.
And thus, the child of Surya, carrying the soul of Ram, entered their lives—not as a prince, not as a god, but as the son of a charioteer.
Above, unseen, the Trimurti pondered.
Brahma frowned. "Why does this child weigh heavier than mountains upon the loom of fate?"
Vishnu's smile was faint. "Perhaps dharma wishes to test itself."
Shiva's laughter rumbled softly. "Then let the dance begin."
But beyond even their sight, Shakti's smile lingered. She alone knew the truth. She alone had veiled the reincarnated soul.
"Walk your path, my son," she whispered, unseen, unheard. "Let the world believe you are only Karna. But within you, the fire of two lives burns. When the hour comes, your silence will break mountains."
And beneath her veil, the cosmos held its breath.
For Karna had been born again.
And this time… destiny itself would tremble.