The monsoon rains had come to Bharata, turning the dusty roads into rivers of mud and swelling the streams into torrents. Karna walked barefoot through it all, his bundle tied across his back, the bow slung casually at his side. His feet were calloused now; the stones no longer hurt him. Each step was steady, as if the earth itself recognized him as its child.
One evening, he found shelter beneath the awning of a wayside inn near Kampilya. The rain thundered down in silver sheets, but inside the inn, warmth glowed from oil lamps. Merchants, travelers, and villagers huddled together, their voices rising over the storm.
Karna sat quietly at the edge, sipping a clay cup of hot milk offered by the innkeeper's daughter. He had grown used to being the silent listener—absorbing tales, learning customs, watching the world unfold.
But tonight, the words he heard were not of crops or markets. They were of Hastinapura.
"Have you heard?" a pot-bellied trader said, leaning close to his companions. "The princes of Kuru—both the sons of Dhritarashtra and the sons of Pandu—have begun their training under Acharya Drona."
"Aye," another man replied, his eyes wide with admiration. "Drona himself, the master of celestial weapons! The boys will become lions of war. Already the eldest, Yudhishthira, is praised for his wisdom. And Bhima—by the gods, they say he has the strength of ten elephants even as a boy."
"And Arjuna," whispered a third. "Drona favors him. Already he learns faster than the others. They say his skill with the bow is unmatched, that he can shoot in the dark, or hit a target by sound alone."
The men murmured with awe, their voices trembling with excitement.
Karna lowered his cup slowly. The hot milk burned down his throat, but he did not notice. His mind had frozen on one name.
Arjuna.
The storm outside raged, lightning flashing across the skies, but within Karna's chest, another storm had begun to brew.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he was no longer in the inn but standing on the battlefield of Kurukshetra he remembered from the Mahabharata—the battlefield of his old world. He saw Arjuna, radiant, righteous, protected by Krishna himself. He saw himself, standing across the line, cursed by fate, mocked as a sutaputra, bleeding not just from wounds but from destiny itself.
It has begun, he thought, his hands tightening into fists. The story has begun to unfold, step by step. They are still boys, yet already the world sings their names. And I—what am I now? A wanderer, nameless, forgotten. Even the birds and trees seem to whisper their glory, while I remain in shadows.
A bitterness rose in his throat, but he forced it down with a deep breath. He had trained himself in discipline these years; he would not let envy consume him. Still, the ache was sharp, like an old wound reopened.
When the storm eased, Karna stepped outside into the night air, the rain now a soft drizzle. The smell of wet earth rose, mingling with the faint scent of jasmine from nearby groves. He stood alone beneath the dark sky, letting the cool drops wash his face.
"Pandavas. Kauravas," he whispered. "All born in palaces, tutored by masters, shielded by dharma's laws. And I—abandoned at birth, raised in a charioteer's house, denied my place in the world. Yet…"
He raised his head, staring at the faint shimmer of the stars breaking through the clouds.
"Yet, Shakti, Surya—have you not given me another chance? I know their story. I know their fates. If I remain idle, history will repeat itself, and I will once more die mocked, cursed, and broken. But if I act—if I prepare, if I gather the strength of knowledge—perhaps this time, I can change it."
The drizzle turned into a gentle rain, as if the heavens answered his vow. Karna spread his arms wide, his golden skin gleaming wet in the moonlight.
"This is not envy," he said softly. "This is resolve. If Arjuna is to be the archer of the age, then I shall be the challenger who makes even the gods tremble. I will not wait for fate to place me beneath him. I will rise—not for wealth, not for kingship, but for my own dharma. Let the Pandavas and Kauravas train under Drona. I will seek masters who see beyond caste, who see only discipline and hunger for knowledge. I will carve my own gurukul out of the world itself."
His voice carried into the night, swallowed by the rustling trees, but within, Karna felt a fire ignite.
In the months that followed, he wandered with new intensity. Every teacher he found, he tested. If they taught archery, he bent his bow until his fingers bled. If they taught philosophy, he questioned until the night ran dry. If they spoke of dharma, he pressed them for answers to riddles that gnawed at his heart.
What is the worth of birth? What is the worth of action? Does dharma belong only to the chosen, or is it the fruit of discipline?
Some gurus dismissed him as too questioning. Others admired his sharpness but feared his intensity. A few, rare ones, blessed him, saying, "Your fire will burn a path even where none exists."
At night, when alone by rivers or forests, Karna often thought again of Hastinapura. He imagined the Pandavas sitting under Drona's stern gaze, their arms aching from drills, their brows furrowed in concentration. He imagined Arjuna practicing through the night, loosing arrows until dawn.
A strange mix of emotions stirred in him—respect, rivalry, and a fierce longing. He did not hate them. No, in truth, he admired them deeply. But admiration could not erase the iron truth: he was destined to stand against them.
"Then let it be so," he murmured to the stars one night. "But when that day comes, let me not be remembered as a beggar begging for equality. Let me be remembered as Karna—the archer who matched Arjuna, the warrior who made fate itself pause."
Thus, at twenty-four, while the princes of Hastinapura began their journey in the protected halls of Drona's gurukul, Karna's gurukul was the open road, the rivers, the forests, the voices of strangers. And though none sang his name yet, in the silence of the cosmos, destiny had already taken note of the vow that blazed in his heart.
For the story of Bharata was not merely the story of kings' sons. It was also the story of a charioteer's son who dared to dream higher than fate allowed.
And Karna, drenched in rain beneath the eternal stars, whispered once more, his voice both a prayer and a challenge:
"Jai Mata Shakti. Jai Surya Deva. Guide me. For the Pandavas' story has begun… and so must mine."