The road had grown long and weary beneath Karna's feet. The soles of his sandals had worn thin, and his simple robes were patched in places where brambles had torn them. Yet his eyes still burned with the same hunger—the hunger that no food could satisfy, the hunger for knowledge.
He had left his businesses, his wealth, his comforts, all entrusted to his friends. He sought nothing now but the wisdom of the masters, the discipline of a true warrior, the secrets of archery and dharma that would raise him above the chains of fate.
But fate was a cruel jailer.
For twelve moons he had walked the breadth of Bharata, from the forests of Vindhya to the icy peaks of Himavat, from the burning sands of Sindhu to the fertile plains of the Ganga. At every town, every hermitage, every forest-ashram, he sought teachers. And at every door, he was turned away.
In Ujjayini, he had approached a renowned guru whose disciples practiced under tall sal trees. Karna bowed low, offering fruits and wood for sacrifice.
"Revered one," he said humbly, "I wish to learn the art of the bow, the mysteries of the Vedas, the discipline of a warrior's life. Accept me as your shishya."
The sage had looked at him, then at the mark of the sutaputra upon his clothes. His eyes hardened.
"You are a charioteer's son. The sacred knowledge of weapons is not for the likes of you. Go back to your station, boy. Know your limits."
The disciples snickered. Karna's ears burned, but he bowed again. Without a word, he walked away, his pride bleeding into the dust.
In Ayodhya, another master had been sterner still.
"Gurudev, I seek knowledge," Karna said, his voice steady though his heart pounded.
The master frowned. "Knowledge is light, but light must not be wasted on the unworthy. If a lamp is placed in muddy water, it is extinguished. Such is the risk of teaching those of low birth. Leave before you stain this place with your arrogance."
Karna clenched his fists till his nails cut his palms, but again he bowed. He left without anger on his lips, though it burned in his chest like molten fire.
So it went, again and again.
In Magadha, in Avanti, in Kosala, in Panchala—one hundred masters he approached, and one hundred times he was refused. Some laughed, some scolded, some cursed, some simply ignored him as if he were air.
Only a few had shown pity.
One grey-bearded sage near the banks of Yamuna had sighed, saying, "Child, your hunger is noble, but the world is bound in chains of varnashrama. I have no strength to defy it. Find another way, for here you will find no home."
Another had looked at him with sorrowful eyes. "The gods are unjust, boy. You carry the heart of a warrior, but the world sees only the dust of your birth. May the day come when your worth is known."
But pity was no nourishment. Karna wanted knowledge, not tears.
The seasons changed as he wandered.
He bathed in icy rivers at dawn, shivered in caves during winter winds, and lay beneath the blazing summer sun with no shelter but the wide sky. His skin grew darker from the sun, his body leaner from constant travel. Yet every morning, he woke before sunrise, faced the east, and bowed deeply.
"Surya Deva, grant me strength. Mata Shakti, grant me courage. If no man will teach me, let the world itself become my teacher."
And so he taught himself.
When sages denied him mantras, he listened at the edge of their sermons, memorizing every syllable before they chased him away. When warriors refused to show him drills, he watched from the shadows and repeated their movements at night until his muscles screamed. When no one guided his hand with the bow, he tied targets upon trees and shot until his arms ached and his fingers bled raw.
Each failure became his lesson. Each insult became his fuel.
One evening, after nearly a year of wandering, Karna sat alone beside the river Godavari. The water glowed golden with the setting sun, and birds flew home in flocks. He stared at his reflection rippling in the current.
"What am I?" he whispered. "Am I truly cursed to remain lesser, no matter how much I strive?"
For the first time in many months, doubt clawed at him. His reflection wavered, broken by the ripples, as if mocking him.
He remembered the faces of the masters who had turned him away, their eyes filled with contempt. A sutaputra. A nobody. A beggar for knowledge that was never meant for him.
Karna pressed his palms together, closing his eyes.
"If the world rejects me, I will not reject myself. If men close a hundred doors, I will make the hundred-and-first myself. Surya Deva, you are my father. Mata Shakti, you are my mother. Be my teachers. Show me the path, for I will not stop. I cannot stop."
The river's current carried his words away, but the fire within him rekindled.
Days turned to weeks. His body grew stronger, sharper. His mind, honed by solitude, became like the string of his bow—tight, ready to sing at the slightest touch.
Villagers who saw him at dawn, practicing tirelessly by the riverbanks or in the fields, whispered among themselves. "Who is this young man who worships the sun and practices without rest?" Some thought him mad. Others thought him blessed.
But Karna sought no praise, no witness. His only companions were the bow in his hand and the hunger in his soul.
Yet beneath the discipline, beneath the fire, loneliness gnawed at him. Every night, as he lay beneath the stars, he wondered: Will I wander all my life, forever denied? Must my destiny remain chained, no matter how fiercely I fight?
Thus ended a year of struggle—twelve months, a hundred masters, and not one who called him "disciple."
But Karna did not break. Though his body bore the scars of rejection, though his heart had been pierced by humiliation again and again, his spirit stood unyielding.
In silence, he made a vow.
"I will not stop until I learn. If no teacher will accept me, I will force destiny's hand. One day, I will find the one who sees not my birth but my fire. Until then, I will endure. Until then, I will rise."
The stars shone cold above him, but within his chest, Karna burned brighter than any constellation.
For though a hundred doors had closed, he knew one truth: a door closed by men could still be broken open by fate.
And fate, though cruel, had not yet spoken its last word.