Write ✍️ by Parmod Kumar Prajapati.....
The first light of dawn had not yet broken over the kingdom of Anga, but Karna was already awake. He stood on the balcony of his chamber, looking out over the sleeping city that he ruled. The air carried the scent of impending rain, and distant thunder murmured like the gods clearing their throats. He was a king, a warrior without peer, a philanthropist whose generosity was legendary. Yet, in these quiet hours before the world stirred, he felt the familiar hollow ache—the emptiness of a man who did not know his own origin.
His earliest memory was not of a mother's embrace, but of the gentle, calloused hands of Adhiratha, the charioteer who found him. He remembered the river's edge, the intricately woven basket, the golden armour that clung to his infant body like a second skin, and the dazzling earrings that seemed to capture the very light of the sun. They were not the trinkets of a common child. They were the marks of destiny, and they had isolated him from the very beginning.
A servant entered silently, bowing low. "Maharaj, your presence is requested at the court. A messenger from Hastinapur has arrived."
Karna turned, the dawn catching the glint of his eternal earrings. "From the Kuru court? At this hour?"
"He bears the seal of Prince Duryodhana himself."
A grim smile touched Karna's lips. Duryodhana. His friend, his patron, the man who had lifted him from the stigma of being called a suta-putra—a charioteer's son—and crowned him King of Anga. It was Duryodhana who had given him a place in a world that measured worth by birth. For that, Karna's loyalty was forged in unbreakable steel.
In the austere court, the messenger, dusty from a hard ride, delivered his scroll. Karna broke the seal and read. The words were formal, but the intent beneath them thrummed with tension. The Pandava brothers, cousins to the Kauravas, had completed their exile. A grand ceremony, a Rajasuya Yagna, was to be held at their new, glorious court in Indraprastha. All kings were invited to pay homage.
"It is not an invitation," Karna said softly, handing the scroll to a counsellor. "It is a summons to acknowledge their supremacy. A test of loyalty for every ruler on the subcontinent."
"Will you go, my lord?" asked the counsellor.
Karna's gaze fell on his own bow, Vijaya, resting against the throne. It was a weapon of celestial origin. "No. I will not bend the knee to Yudhishthira, nor will I stand in the same hall as Arjuna while they pretend we are equals." The memory of the tournament in Hastinapur years ago was a fresh wound that never healed. He had stepped forward to challenge Arjuna, only to be humiliated by Bhishma and Kripacharya. "Is he a crowned prince?" they had asked. "Let him state his lineage." The silence that followed had been more violent than any blow.
"Duryodhana will not go either," Karna continued. "This will be a slight they will not forget. The Pandavas will seek reparation. The drums of war are sounding, my friends. They are just too distant for most to hear."
Later that day, in the solitude of his armoury, Karna polished his weapons. A man entered without announcement—an ascetic with eyes like smouldering coals. Parashurama. The legendary Brahmin warrior who had exterminated the Kshatriya caste twenty-one times over. Karna had lied to become his pupil, claiming to be a Brahmin to learn the ultimate weapons. He had borne the punishment for that lie—a curse that the great Brahmastra would fail him at his moment of greatest need. Now, here was his second curse, standing before him.
"You wear the armour of the sun, Karna," Parashurama said, his voice dry as ancient parchment. "But you have the heart of a Kshatriya. I was deceived."
"I sought knowledge, Guru. Any means seemed justified."
"And for that deceit, you are cursed." The sage's words were final, fate itself being woven. "When your life is in mortal peril, when the final battle hangs in the balance, you will forget the incantation to summon your most potent weapon. You will be defenceless at the crucial hour."
Karna bowed his head, accepting the weight. "So be it."
"There is more," Parashurama said, and for the first time, Karna saw a flicker of something like pity in the sage's harsh eyes. "You walk a path drenched in shadow, child. Your loyalty is to a man whose cause is built on envy. Your greatest enemy is your own blood. And a mother's long silence is the prison you cannot break."
Before Karna could demand an explanation, the ascetic was gone, leaving only the scent of sacred dhoop and a chilling prophecy hanging in the air.
Your greatest enemy is your own blood.