The year he turned twenty-three, Karna stood on the balcony of his sprawling mansion in Anga, watching the morning sun rise above the eastern horizon. Its golden rays spilled across the tiled roofs, the busy courtyards, the fragrant kitchens where hundreds of cooks prepared food for the free stalls he had opened across the kingdom. Farmers were arriving with carts full of grain, merchants stood waiting for trade instructions, and singers in the courtyard rehearsed ballads that praised his name.
It was everything a man could dream of.And yet, Karna felt hollow.
He had conquered wealth. He had built farms more fertile than the dreams of kings, created food stalls where beggars ate like royals, and earned the respect of sages who blessed his name daily in their chants. Still, as he pressed his palm against his chest, he felt something was missing.
"Knowledge," he whispered to himself. "Not gold. Not fame. Knowledge is the true wealth. What I have built is not mine—it belongs to those who eat, those who farm, those who sing. What is mine, truly mine, is what I carry in my mind and heart. And that, I must still earn."
That night, he summoned Varunesh, his merchant friend, and the loyal men who had walked beside him since the days of selling spices on dusty roads. They sat cross-legged around a low wooden table, lamps flickering, the scent of sandalwood in the air.
Varunesh leaned forward eagerly, "Karna, what new venture do you plan now? Another chain of kitchens? Shall we open trade beyond the seas? I've had letters from Yavana merchants."
Karna shook his head slowly. His eyes, usually blazing with ambition, now held the calm stillness of a monk.
"No, my friend. The empire of food, farms, and gold—it shall all be yours. Manage it, grow it, protect it. From this day, it is no longer mine. The world praises me for my wealth, but wealth is dust in the wind. I have a greater hunger—the hunger for knowledge. From tomorrow, I set out once more, not as a king of merchants but as a seeker of wisdom."
The room fell into stunned silence. The men who had grown rich under his shadow looked at each other, uncertain. Varunesh's lips trembled.
"Karna… all this was built by you. Without you, we—"
Karna placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Without me, you will rise even higher. The seeds are sown. Tend to them. My path lies elsewhere. Remember, Varunesh, men remember not who fed them bread, but who taught them how to live. I must learn how to live according to dharma."
Tears glistened in the merchant's eyes, but he bowed his head. "Then go, my brother. The roads of Bharata are yours to walk."
The next morning, before dawn, Karna organized a farewell feast unlike any Anga had seen. Huge halls were filled with long rows of mats where men and women sat side by side—brahmins, kshatriyas, merchants, farmers, untouchables, beggars, wandering minstrels. All ate from the same vessels, all shared the same dishes. The fragrance of roasted grains, clarified butter, milk sweets, and steaming rice filled the air.
Karna himself walked among them with a brass jug, pouring water into clay cups. When the oldest sage in the hall tried to stop him, saying, "A lord should not serve," Karna smiled gently.
"I am not a lord," he said. "I am only a servant of Shakti, of Surya, and of this dharma that binds us all. Today, all eat together. For tomorrow, I walk alone."
His words spread like fire. People murmured blessings, some wept openly. In that hall, the golden son of Radha was not a merchant prince, but a saintly figure leaving his riches behind.
When the meal ended, Karna stood before the crowd and raised his hand. "Remember me not for the gold I gave, but for the lesson I leave—discipline, honor, dedication, respect, and dharma. These alone can bend fate. These alone can raise a man higher than gods."
The hall thundered with applause, but Karna turned away quietly, his heart already on the road.
Thus began his new journey.
He carried nothing but a bow, a quiver with a handful of arrows, a wooden staff, and a small bundle of scriptures gifted by sages. His clothing was plain: a simple dhoti, a cloth tied across his chest, and sandals of leather. The heavy ornaments, the jeweled crowns, the silken robes—all were left behind.
At dawn, he bathed in rivers, standing waist-deep in the cool water while the first rays of the sun touched his forehead. He performed Surya namaskar with precise grace, his golden skin gleaming as droplets slid down his body. He chanted mantras, offering water to the rising sun, whispering prayers not for wealth, but for wisdom.
Every day, he walked until his feet blistered, then sat beneath banyan trees to rest. He ate once a day, usually what villagers offered him—flat bread, rice, milk, fruits. Sometimes he fasted, surviving only on water. On Ekadashi, he abstained entirely, spending the day chanting the name of Shakti, his inner mother, the one who had guided him silently since his rebirth.
He wandered through the thick forests of Vindhya, where birds filled the air with calls and deer leapt through the underbrush. He crossed rivers on ferrymen's boats, listening to their tales of local kings and wandering ascetics. He climbed the ghats of Kashi, where scholars debated endlessly beneath temple spires, and listened silently, absorbing every word.
In Ujjain, he studied the movements of stars with learned jyotishis. In Puri, he learned chants from temple priests who sang to Jagannath. In Kanchipuram, he sat with weavers and heard the philosophy hidden in their threads. In Prayag, he bathed at the confluence of holy rivers, his heart whispering, I am not here for ritual—I am here for truth.
Everywhere he went, he learned—not just from scholars, but from farmers who taught him the science of soil, from blacksmiths who showed him the secrets of metal, from wandering yogis who taught him breath and posture. He asked questions humbly, never revealing who he was. To them, he was just a golden-skinned wanderer with burning eyes and a bow slung across his back.
Two years passed thus, and Karna was no longer the same man who had once counted coins and built empires. His shoulders were broader, hardened by travel. His gaze was sharper, filled with the clarity of discipline. His speech was slower, weighted with thought. He had become a warrior-scholar, a seeker whose presence carried both strength and peace.
Sometimes, as he sat by a riverbank at sunset, watching the saffron sky melt into the horizon, he would smile faintly.
"I was born to struggle against fate," he thought. "But perhaps Shakti has hidden in my struggle the very path to bend it. Knowledge is not only power—it is liberation."
And then, with palms joined, he would bow to the waters, whispering softly, "Jai Mata Shakti. Jai Surya Deva. Let me walk the path of dharma till the end of my breath."
At twenty-three, Karna had shed the wealth of a king, but gained the wealth of a rishi. The road stretched endless before him, but his heart was steady. His true journey—the one no coin could buy—had finally begun.