The Sunborn Parva: The Wheel and the Warrior

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.

He felt the force before he saw it — the pressure of time narrowing. A bowstring drawn back not just by a warrior, but by fate itself. A divine weapon humming in harmony with the universe's cruel balance.

Karna could feel the strain beneath his own feet. The soil shook, but not from his own struggle — from Arjuna’s aim. From the ripples of Krishna’s will.

He paused, breath slow, as if accepting that the battle was no longer against a man. It was against divinity.

The wind ran through his long, beautiful hair. Each strand danced like a memory.

And then the curses came.

In his mind’s eye — a montage of sorrow.

He remembered his guru Parashurama. The old master’s fury. The truth laid bare like a wound.

While he was pulling the wheel — he no longer held the Vijaya Dhanush.

The unbeatable bow.

He realized his mistake.

He whispered into the wind, “Perhaps now I have fulfilled your curse, Guru. Perhaps now, at last… I’ve paid in full.”

He had never been loved by fate. But he had never asked for its favor. All he had ever wanted — was to stand, fight, and fall on his own terms.

He remembered Duryodhana. His friend. His brother. The one soul in this cursed world who gave him a name when others gave him shame. Karna’s loyalty had never been to the throne — it was to the man who lifted him from the mud, who crowned a charioteer when the world only spat.

And now, Karna would give him a gift no other could: Time. A little more time to rule, to believe the impossible might still be won.

Then came the flood.

Memories — like the Ganga breaking through a dam.

He remembered Kunti. The day she told him the truth. Her voice trembling — “You are my firstborn.”

Too late.

Too far gone.

A bond offered on the edge of a sword.

He remembered the pain in her eyes when he said he would not try to kill any brother — except Arjuna.

He remembered his silence when she begged him to spare the Pandavas.

He thought of Kunti — not with hate, but with a hollow ache. She had whispered the truth too late, as if naming him “son” on the eve of war could unmake decades of silence.

The mother who named him only when it was convenient.

The brothers who insulted him and never truly embraced him.

Nothing could unmake what had been done.

But in that silence, Karna had built himself into something more than a prince.

He remembered Draupadi’s laughter — how it cut like a blade, how it made him steel.

He remembered the times he laughed — him, Duryodhana, their wives — the rare peace in the courtyard of Hastinapur, feet bare on stone, laughter echoing like music stolen from fate.

And then… lightning.

Not thunder. Not sound.

Just pressure. Just inevitability.

The Anjalika Astra was being summoned.

Karna recognized the energy at once.

The cosmos tilted slightly, like time inhaling.

His body froze — not from fear, but from divine pressure.

Even now, every sinew of muscle still pulled at the wheel — every ounce of him refusing surrender — but the current flowing through him made movement impossible. Static filled his chest. The earth moaned.

He smiled faintly.

A celestial weapon. Of course.

All his life, he had been marked by the Kavach and Kundalas — the divine armor gifted by Surya, stripped from him by fate.

And now, in death, his body would be marked not by disgrace… but by divinity.

A fitting symmetry.

The last scar would be worthy.

He thought of his mother — not Kunti — but Radha.

Her hands. Her lullabies. Her quiet strength.

Not as Karna.

Not even as Vasusena.

But as Radheya.

A son.

A child of love, not legend.

Her face gave him peace.

He closed his eyes.

In the final breath, he went on to pray…

“Krishn—”

And then… there was no tension under the chariot.

The earth no longer resisted. No longer pulled back.

The wheel… no longer mattered.

The sky shivered.

And somewhere far away, the future wept.

For it had just lost a man whose story would outlive even time.

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Copyright © 2025 by Author Suharsh Mandhare. All rights reserved.

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