The years in Droṇacharya's gurukula did not pass quickly; they were carved into Karna's body and soul, stroke by stroke, like the shaping of steel.
At first, the days were nothing but ache. Karna rose before dawn with the others, bathed in the cold river, and ran across the grounds until his lungs burned. He wrestled, lifted stones, and carried logs, until his hands blistered and shoulders screamed. While others grumbled or complained, Karna pressed his lips shut and endured, his eyes fixed always on the distant light of his dream.
"Remember this," Droṇa would say as his pupils groaned under the weight of their training. "A warrior is not born. He is forged. And the forge is fire and hammer alike."
Karna accepted the fire, accepted the hammer.
The Bow and Arrow
Archery was the jewel of Droṇa's teaching, and in those first years, Karna poured his soul into it.
He practiced until his fingers cracked and bled. He learned to string his bow in the blink of an eye, to release arrows so swiftly that the air seemed filled with whistling shafts. His arrows struck the mark when others missed; they pierced targets blindfolded, guided by sound alone.
Arjuna was the star pupil, Droṇa's pride, the one who always stood a step ahead of the rest. But to Karna, that shining star was not cause for despair—it was a beacon. If Arjuna's arrows split a reed, Karna's arrows split the reed again. If Arjuna could strike a bird's eye from a distance, Karna sought to strike it while running, or while spinning on his heel.
The rivalry grew silently, sharpening them both like twin blades on the same whetstone.
The Sword
In his fifth year, Karna's focus broadened. He mastered the sword's weight, its dance. Under Droṇa's eye, he sparred with Nakula, whose natural grace made him swift as a stream. Their duels became a spectacle for the other pupils—steel ringing against steel, sweat pouring, each matching the other stroke for stroke.
At first, Nakula bested him with elegance, but Karna's sheer tenacity balanced grace with power. Over time, their contests ended in ties more often than victories. Droṇa, watching, began to smile. "Here is steel against silk," he murmured once, "and both endure."
The Spear
By the seventh year, Karna had grown broader of shoulder, his frame no longer that of a youth but a warrior. The spear became his weapon of choice for months. Its weight taught him balance, its reach taught him patience.
Against Yudhishthira, the eldest Pāṇḍava, Karna sparred countless times. Yudhishthira's calm and judgment made him steady, but Karna's fury drove him forward like fire chasing wind. Their matches were battles of mind as much as body, each testing the other's patience.
Droṇa noted, "Yudhishthira is a mountain; Karna is the storm. Neither yields easily."
The Gada
Perhaps the greatest surprise came in Karna's ninth year. The gada—the heavy mace—was considered the domain of giants, of Bhīma whose strength was unmatched. Few could even lift the great iron club Droṇa kept for training.
But Karna, hardened by years of discipline, stepped forward. His arms strained, veins bulging, but he lifted the gada and swung it, the earth trembling beneath its weight.
When he sparred with Bhīma, the ground itself shook with their clashes. Though Bhīma's raw strength exceeded Karna's, the charioteer's son matched him with speed and cunning, turning brute force aside with skill. Their duels often ended with neither victor, both panting, both eyes blazing with respect and rivalry.
From that day, the students whispered—Karna is as mighty with the gada as Bhīma himself.
The Vedas and Knowledge
Weapons were not all Droṇa taught. In the still hours of dawn and dusk, the guru recited the Vedas, the śāstras, and the sacred hymns. He spoke of dharma, of the duties of kings and warriors, of the laws that bound men to the cosmos.
Here too Karna shone. Though he was no prince, no heir to kingdoms, he absorbed the wisdom of sages with hunger no royal could match. He debated with Yudhishthira on ethics, listened keenly when Sahadeva explained subtle philosophies, and even recited hymns with a voice steady and deep.
Once, after hearing Karna recite a long passage from the Rigveda flawlessly, Droṇa clasped his shoulder. "Remember, my son—strength without wisdom is a beast untamed. But strength with wisdom becomes divine."
Karna bowed, and that night whispered his gratitude to the stars.
The Brotherhood and Rivalry
Years bound the disciples together. Though many still viewed Karna with suspicion for his low birth, none could deny his worth.
He wrestled with Bhīma, debated with Yudhishthira, crossed blades with Nakula, and shared quiet reflection with Sahadeva. With Arjuna, however, the rivalry grew sharper each year.
They rarely spoke, yet every glance was a challenge, every contest a silent war. When Arjuna loosed a hundred arrows, Karna loosed a hundred and one. When Arjuna leapt through fire, Karna leapt higher.
Droṇa watched carefully, never favoring one over the other, though the world whispered that Arjuna was his favorite. But in his heart, he knew Karna's fire burned no less brightly.
The Tenth Year
By the tenth year, Karna was no longer the weary youth who had once begged at a hundred doors. His frame was tall and powerful, his face chiseled with determination, his eyes sharp with knowledge and discipline.
He could match Bhīma in the gada.He could rival Arjuna in archery.He could equal Yudhishthira in spear combat.With Nakula, his sword was as swift; with Sahadeva, his wisdom was as deep.
Droṇa summoned all his pupils one evening to the training ground. The sun bled gold across the sky as the boys—now young men—stood before him in silence.
"My sons," Droṇa said, his voice heavy with pride, "ten years you have walked this path. Ten years you have endured fire, sweat, hunger, and pain. Today I tell you: each of you is now a warrior worthy of any kingdom's pride. But there are some among you who stand beyond even that."
His eyes swept across them and came to rest on two figures standing apart, their gazes locked in silent rivalry—Arjuna and Karna.
"These two," Droṇa declared, "are the sharpest blades my forge has ever made. If destiny wills, the world shall remember their names long after we are dust."
A murmur spread among the pupils. Some nodded in agreement, some frowned with envy, but none dared dispute it.
Karna stood, his head bowed, a storm of emotions within him. Pride, gratitude, fire—and yet humility, for he knew this was only the beginning.
That night, under the starlit sky, Karna sat alone and whispered, "O Sūrya, O Śakti Māta, you have guided me. From a boy rejected by a hundred teachers, I have become a warrior among princes. I swear to you both—I will not rest until I master every secret this world holds."
The stars glimmered in silence, as though blessing the vow.
And so, ten years passed, and the charioteer's son had risen—not as an outcast, not as a beggar—but as a warrior whose brilliance rivaled princes, whose hunger equaled the gods' own fire.