Bhārata Vrittānta (India’s Epic Stories)

The earth gnashed and groaned beneath him, like a mother refusing to let her child go to war again. He heaved once more, arms blazing with fire, but the soil clutched the wheel tighter — as if the battlefield itself wanted him to stay, to bow out, to stop being what he had always been: indomitable. His charioteer stepped forward again, hesitant. “Kar—” Karna yelled, “NO!” He didn’t even look at him. There was no time to explain. But his thoughts were clear, firm, echoing in the silence of his own soul: If I must fall… let me fall as a warrior of my own doing. His hands, bleeding now, clutched the wheel with reverence — not desperation. This was not panic. This was choice. And then, like a wind from the other world, a whisper stirred his soul — unbidden, yet clear. "Even mountains fall, if God wishes it." And there He was — Krishna. Standing with Arjuna, his chariot motionless in the distance, but the wind of destiny had already reached Karna’s face. ...

Shalya stared down at Karna, his hands tight around the reins, knuckles pale. Once, he had been king of Madra — a sovereign of proud lineage, bound to dharma by blood and sorrow. Uncle to the Pandavas, brother to Pandu’s second wife Madri. For her sake, he had cherished her twin sons, Nakula and Sahadeva, as though they were his own — watched them grow into quiet strength and wisdom. And even the elder Pandava princes — Yudhishthira, ever just; Bhima, the tempest; and Arjuna, radiant and relentless — he had once held them in the warm regard of family. But fate, treacherous as ever, had twisted his path. Tricked by Duryodhana’s poisoned welcome and bound by the unbreakable code of hospitality, he now stood beside their fiercest rival — not as an equal, but as Karna’s charioteer. And not merely a charioteer — a dagger in disguise. Sent by Yudhishthira himself to wound Karna not with arrows, but with words. A betrayer by oath. A kin turned weapon. A man torn in two — by duty, by f...

The sun bled into the sky like a dying warrior, streaking the clouds with hues of blood and fire. Across the scorched plain of Kurukshetra, shadows stretched long and thin, like the ghosts of fallen men. The war had raged from dawn, and now, at the edge of dusk, the earth itself seemed to hold its breath. Arjuna stood in his chariot, Gandiva drawn. The divine bow creaked under the pull of destiny. At his side, still as a mountain before the storm, stood Krishna — his charioteer, his guide, his GOD. The arrow he held shimmered with celestial wrath. It was no ordinary weapon, this Anjalikastra. It pulsed with molten gold and threads of blue lightning, vibrating with the fury of righteous purpose. Forged by divine hands for this moment alone. Across the field, Karna knelt by his broken chariot, one knee in the dirt, his face etched in strain. His wheel — trapped, half-swallowed by the earth — defied his every command. Yet Karna, undeterred, grasped its spokes and heaved. He was no...