The first light of dawn spilled across the horizon, painting the riverbanks in shades of gold. Karna stood by the water, bare-chested, his breath misting in the cool air. He dipped his hands into the river and sprinkled the icy droplets across his face. Then, with slow precision, he stepped into the flowing current.
The water surged around him, embracing him in its chill. He pressed his palms together and bowed toward the rising sun.
"Adityaya Namah," he whispered, eyes closed. "O Surya, father of light, guide me."
Each morning began like this—with a river bath, a prayer to the Sun, and then long rounds of Surya Namaskar. His body bent and straightened in perfect rhythm, the movements flowing with breath, strength, and surrender. The world around him was his temple; the earth, his mat; the sky, his ceiling.
The Life of a Wanderer
For two years, Karna walked the length and breadth of Bharat. From the fertile plains of the Ganga to the dense forests of Vindhya, from bustling towns to lonely mountain passes, he became a pilgrim of knowledge and strength.
His days followed a sacred rhythm:
Morning Rituals: Bathing in rivers, offering prayers to Surya, and meditating upon Mata Shakti, whom he honored as the mother of all strength. Often, he lit small earthen lamps by riversides or beneath trees, whispering:"Mata, guide my steps. Let discipline and dharma be my weapons."
Discipline of the Body: After prayers, he trained relentlessly. Hours of drawing his bow, releasing arrows into tree trunks until the shafts split from sheer force. Sword forms practiced against the empty air, each stroke sharper than the last. Wrestling against stone mounds and logs to strengthen his arms.
Discipline of the Mind: When weary, he sat cross-legged, steadying his breath, letting thoughts of envy or bitterness dissolve. "A warrior who loses to anger," he reminded himself, "is already defeated."
Discipline of the Soul: Each evening he sought knowledge. If a sage would not teach him, he watched from afar. If a temple priest spoke of dharma, he listened carefully. If a wandering poet sang of heroes past, Karna absorbed every word. His soul fed on wisdom as much as his body fed on food.
Encounters Along the Way
Traveling alone, Karna saw the full breadth of human life.
In small villages, he watched farmers bow to their fields with the same devotion he offered to his bow.
In market towns, he saw greed and deceit, but also kindness—an old woman once shared her meager meal with him when he had gone hungry for three days.
In forest hermitages, he saw sages guiding disciples with patience, though most refused to look upon him once they heard he was a sutaputra.
The world was vast, cruel at times, but also filled with moments of quiet grace. Karna carried all of it within him.
Evening Pooja
As twilight fell, Karna would halt his wanderings to light a small fire. He fashioned simple shrines from stone or wood wherever he rested.
To Mata Shakti, he offered wildflowers, whispering:"You are strength, the womb of gods, the force that births dharma itself. Let me walk in your shadow."
To Surya, he lifted his bow and declared:"May my arrows fly as rays of your light, swift, piercing, and true."
The crackling fire became his companion, the stars his guardians. Sometimes, alone in the night, he whispered to himself:
"I was not born to comfort. I was not born to be sheltered. I was born to struggle—and through struggle, I will rise."
Two Years Across Bharat
The seasons came and went. Karna learned to endure monsoon rains that soaked his skin to the bone, scorching summers that burned the earth beneath his feet, and winters where his breath froze in the air.
But the hardships only hardened him. His body grew lean and strong, his movements sharper, his gaze steadier. The boy who had left Adhiratha's home at fifteen was no more. At seventeen, Karna stood tall, a youth forged not in palaces or gurukulas, but in the wandering roads of Bharat, under the eyes of the gods themselves.
Yet, despite his travels, a hunger remained unquenched. He had discipline, he had strength, but not yet true knowledge. The greatest teachers still eluded him, bound by the chains of caste and prejudice.
Karna looked once more toward the setting sun and whispered:
"Father of light, mother of strength… I have wandered, I have endured. Now guide me to the master who will shape my destiny. Let me bend fate, as Shakti wills, not with arrogance, but with dharma."
The wind stirred, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood and smoke. Karna's heart stirred as well. He knew, though he could not see, that destiny was preparing his next step.
The road ahead would lead him not merely to knowledge, but into the crucible of fate itself.