The gurukula courtyard lay hushed beneath a silver moon. The boys had gathered earlier than usual, their excitement humming like bees in spring. For weeks, whispers had spread—Guru Droṇa would reveal the knowledge of divya-astras, the celestial weapons that even gods revered.
Tonight, Arjuna had been chosen.
Karna sat cross-legged at the edge of the assembly, watching as Droṇa traced mantras into the soil, his voice steady as the river's flow. The air thrummed with sacred syllables, the fire crackled, and the scent of burning ghee filled the courtyard.
Arjuna stood before the flames, palms joined, eyes lowered in reverence. Droṇa's words poured over him, not as mere instruction but as a river of power, flowing from teacher to disciple.
When the ritual ended, silence hung heavy. Arjuna's eyes gleamed—not with arrogance, but with the weight of what he now bore. The Brahmāstra, weapon of creation and destruction, dwelt in his heart like lightning coiled in a jar.
Karna's Resolve
Karna's chest burned with longing. For ten years he had endured what others could not. He had matched princes, stood equal to the strongest and wisest, and never faltered in his devotion to the guru.
He rose quietly, stepped forward, and bowed low.
"Acharya," his voice trembled but did not break, "I too seek this knowledge. Teach me the Brahmāstra, and I will bear it with the same devotion as Partha. I swear my life upon its proper use."
Droṇa's gaze fell upon him, unreadable at first, like stone weathered by time. Around them, the other pupils stirred uneasily. Even Arjuna turned, his brows narrowing.
Droṇa's Silence
For a long while, Droṇa said nothing. Then at last, he sighed, his voice low and heavy.
"Karna."
That single word weighed more than a hundred arrows.
"You have strength, skill, and discipline. In courage you are unmatched. But the Brahmāstra is not given merely to skillful hands. It is a trust, a covenant with dharma itself. Only those who uphold dharma above all else may wield it. A Brahmin who guards his vows, or a Kshatriya who protects the weak and shields the innocent—these alone are fit vessels."
Karna lifted his head, confusion darkening his face. "Have I not upheld dharma? Have I not trained with the same austerity as the princes, lived with the same vows, shed the same sweat and blood? Why, then, am I denied?"
Droṇa's eyes narrowed, his tone firm.
"You bear a fire in your heart, Karna. It is bright, yes, but it is also dangerous. I have seen your wrath, how quickly it blazes when pride is touched. A man who carries such anger should not hold a weapon that could destroy the world."
The Wound
The words struck Karna deeper than any blade. He staggered as though the ground had tilted beneath him.
Anger? Wrath? Was it wrong to burn when the world mocked him? Was it evil to dream of greatness, to wish to rise above the scorn of birth?
His lips parted, but no words came.
Droṇa's gaze softened, just a little. "Do not mistake me, my son. I do not withhold out of hatred. You are a lion among men. But lions do not wield fire—they are fire. And fire must be bound, lest it consume everything."
He raised a hand, silencing the murmur of the other students. "You shall learn every weapon I can give you, every śāstra, every art of war. But the Brahmāstra, the divine fire of Brahmā, is not for you."
Arjuna's Shadow
The courtyard emptied slowly, whispers following in Karna's wake. Some pitied him, some smirked in silence, and a few, like Bhīma, muttered with a trace of satisfaction.
Arjuna lingered, bowing respectfully to Droṇa before departing. His gaze flickered once toward Karna—neither mocking nor gentle, but calm, assured. That calm stung sharper than laughter.
Karna stood rooted, fists clenched, staring into the dying flames of the yajña. His heart thundered with questions that no one would answer.
Why was dharma measured only by birth? Why was anger judged in him but not in Bhīma's fury, not in Arjuna's pride? Why did his fire alone make him unworthy?
The Silent Vow
That night, Karna did not sleep. He sat beneath the stars, their cold brilliance mocking his restless spirit.
He whispered to the heavens, to the unseen gods who had denied him:
"If Droṇa will not grant me the fire of Brahmā, then I will find another who will. If dharma itself bars my path, then I shall carve a new dharma. I will not be denied forever. The world may shun me, call me unworthy—but one day, I shall rise higher than any prince, higher than even Arjuna."
His voice hardened into a vow. "Let the world give him favor, and me refusal. From this night, I swear—Arjuna shall never surpass me. Whatever it takes, whatever gods I must seek, I shall stand his equal, his better."
The wind stirred, carrying his words into the darkness. The stars above burned silent, as though watching with wary eyes.
And thus, in the heart of that long night, the seed of Karna's destiny was sown—not in acceptance, but in denial.