The house of Adhiratha and Radha was small, its walls of mud and stone, its roof of thatch. It had no riches, no ornaments, no treasures to boast of. But from the day the golden-skinned infant entered, the dwelling glowed with a light that no palace could rival.
Radha would often sit by the window, the child nestled in her arms, humming lullabies as the sun fell across his face. His skin seemed to drink the light, as though he were kin to the very star in the sky. Neighbors who passed their home paused to look in, whispering.
"Have you seen the child of Radha? His armor shines as though it were forged of molten gold.""And those earrings—no craftsman in Anga could fashion such a thing. Surely, he is marked by the gods."
Radha heard the whispers, but she never let them steal her joy. To her, he was not a mystery nor a marvel. He was simply her son. The one she had longed for, prayed for, wept for. Her heart swelled with every giggle, every grasp of his tiny fingers.
Adhiratha, too, though often stern, could not help but soften in the boy's presence. He would return from his duties at Hastinapura, weary from holding the reins of the royal chariot, only to be met by the child crawling eagerly to greet him. The moment the boy's little hands grasped his father's fingers, the burdens of the day melted away.
The boy grew swiftly, his steps steady sooner than most children. By the time he was one, he would toddle after Adhiratha, tugging at his dhoti, demanding to see the horses. The animals, usually restless, stilled at his touch. He would pat their manes, laughing, and they would lower their heads as though bowing to him.
"Look at that," Adhiratha marveled one evening, watching the scene. "The horses heed him as they would a seasoned charioteer. Blood speaks, wife. This boy was born to command."
Radha only smiled. "He was born to be loved, husband. Let that be enough for now."
But in her heart, she too sensed the unusualness of her child. At two years, his words came quickly, his questions endless. "Why does the river never tire of flowing, Amma? Why does the sun rise every day, even when he must be so weary? Why does the earth not break when it carries us all?"
Radha would laugh gently, brushing his hair. "Such questions from such a small mouth. You will know in time, my son."
But when he slept, curled against her, she sometimes wondered if the gods themselves had hidden a sage in the body of her child.
Not all eyes looked kindly upon him. The villagers, though fascinated, often muttered in envy.
"Golden skin, golden earrings, and armor at birth. He is not like us. What sort of omen is this?""Did Radha truly give birth to him? Or did she pluck him from the river? No child of mortals is born with such gifts."
Such words reached Radha's ears, pricking her heart. Once, at the well, another woman asked sharply, "Whence came your boy, Radha? Children do not fall from the heavens into charioteers' homes."
Radha's hands tightened on the rope she drew. Her voice, though calm, carried iron. "He came to me because the gods willed it. Do not question what is given by fate, unless you wish to be questioned for what fate takes from you."
The woman fell silent. Yet Radha returned home shaken. That night, she sat beside her sleeping son, her eyes wet. "Karna," she whispered—the name Adhiratha had chosen, meaning 'the earthen vessel.' "No matter what the world says, you are mine. Even if the heavens themselves came to claim you, I would not give you up."
The boy stirred in his sleep, as though hearing, and a small smile lit his lips.
By the time he reached his third year, Karna's presence had already become the center of his home. He laughed freely, filling the small dwelling with joy. His favorite moments were when Adhiratha lifted him upon his shoulders, pointing out to the horizon.
"See there, Karna? That is the road to Hastinapura. Someday, you may travel it yourself. And those are the fields our people plough. A king rides upon wealth like this."
Karna would clap his hands, eyes shining. "Then I too shall ride, Father! Faster than the wind!"
Adhiratha chuckled. "Patience, little one. The reins will come to your hands in time."
Yet even as he laughed, he marveled at the boy's confidence. Most children of three still stumbled when they spoke of dreams. But Karna spoke as though the future already belonged to him.
Inside Karna's small body, however, stirred the echoes of another life.
There were moments when, half-asleep, he would remember fragments—his school in Kali Yuga, the sound of traffic, the voice of his modern mother calling his name. At first, these memories frightened him. Who was he? Where was he?
But always, Shakti's voice soothed him in those moments, a whisper none but he could hear.
"You are Ram, and you are Karna. Both, yet one. This is your path, my child. Live it without fear. Speak not of what you were, for this world is not ready. Grow. Learn. And when the hour comes, you shall know why I chose you."
And though his small heart did not fully understand, her voice was a comfort. It steadied him, gave him peace. He would wake again to Radha's smile, and the confusion would fade.
For in those years, he needed nothing more than the love of his parents.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and the Ganga shone like a ribbon of fire, Radha carried Karna to the riverbank. She sat him upon her lap, pointing to the glowing horizon.
"Remember this, my son," she said softly. "The sun sets only to rise again. No darkness is forever. Even when the world forgets you, even when men turn against you, remember—the sun shall rise. And so shall you."
Karna looked at her, his golden eyes wide. He did not understand all her words, yet something in them sank deep. His small hand reached out, grasping hers tightly.
Radha smiled, tears shining in her eyes. She kissed his forehead, whispering, "My golden child. My gift from the gods. May no sorrow ever touch you."
The boy laughed, raising his arms to the sky, as though trying to catch the sun itself.
And in that laughter, pure and ringing, the river carried a secret promise:
That this child, though born in obscurity, would one day shake the pillars of destiny.
For he was not merely Karna. He was also Ram reborn.
And Shakti's veil held fast, guarding him until the appointed time.