Chapter 33 – The Boy with the Golden Soul
After settling the Kauravas in the secluded and serene wing of Mahishmati's palace, far from the corruption and judgment of the Hastinapur court, Rudra's heart found a moment of peace. But it was fleeting. There was still one more soul he needed to reach—a boy born on the same day as him. The boy destined to shine in legend yet shattered by fate in his previous life. Karna.
The name echoed in Rudra's mind like an ancient melody. Stories and opinions about Karna had always clashed—some hailed him as the epitome of loyalty and sacrifice, while others condemned him for siding with Duryodhan. But in all the chaos, Rudra remembered one truth: no one ever gave Karna a fair chance. From the moment of his birth, he was denied everything—status, respect, education—because of his birth.
Rudra, cloaked not as a prince but as a mere traveler, wandered the streets of Hastinapur, silently tracing the boy's energy. He finally found him at the banks of the Ganga, sitting with his legs folded and his eyes blankly staring at the sky. The wind brushed gently through his hair, and the reflection of clouds shimmered in his sorrowful eyes. There was pain in them—deep, silent pain.
Karna was not angry with his parents. No, he never blamed them. He had grown up with love from his adoptive parents, Radha and Adhirath. But his heart bled at the cruelty of society—the brutal rejection that came not from what he did but from what he was born as. A charioteer's son. A Suta.
"I don't want to become a king," he whispered to the river, "I just want to learn the art of the bow. The dance of arrows. I feel it in my soul like I'm meant for it… yet no one will teach me."
He had pleaded to many warriors, approached sages, even humbly bowed before the elderly in the palace. But all he got were taunts, pity, or silence. Even the great Bhishma—whom he revered—had turned him away coldly. "A Saarathi's son should know his place," Bhishma had said, not with anger, but with the same cruelty born of indifference.
Radha tried to soothe his wounds with warm meals and love, while Adhirath suffered in silence, his own position as royal charioteer now a burden that shackled his son's future. Rudra saw all of this—every moment, every insult, every drop of blood the boy had swallowed quietly.
And now it was time.
Rudra disguised himself as a mad Aghori, his body covered in ashes, eyes wild like stormy clouds, and hair knotted with dust and dried leaves. He wandered to the ghat where Karna sat, screaming "Bam Bam Bhole! Bam Bhole!" as he planted a small Shivaling near the water. People turned their eyes away from the madman, but Karna watched him with curiosity.
Suddenly, the Aghori began cursing. "Where's the meat!? The blood!? How will I offer abhishek to my Mahadev!? Arreee Bam Bhole!!" he yelled, stomping the ground and shaking his matted hair.
Karna stood up and walked closer, "Baba, what's troubling you?"
The Aghori looked at him with a wild grin, "Ahh...you! Can you offer me your meat? Your blood, for Mahadev?"
Karna was startled but not afraid. He looked down, thoughtful. "Baba… I'm a Suta. People say that if we chant mantras, they become impure… if my voice can taint dharma, wouldn't my blood defile Mahadev?"
The Aghori erupted into a mad cackle. "VAIRAAGI Aghori hai woh ladka… yeh niyam nahi maanta! He doesn't follow these man-made rules!"
Without another word, Karna took the knife from the Aghori's belt and, with a steady hand, sliced a thick piece of flesh from his own shoulder. Blood oozed down his arm as he held out the bloodied chunk.
"Here, Baba… take it."
The Aghori stared, truly startled this time. "You should have cut the meat from your thigh."
Karna smiled, though his face was pale. "How can I offer Mahadev the meat of my legs? That would be disrespectful."
Another thunderous laughter broke through the ghat. The wound on Karna's shoulder began to glow and closed before their eyes, the skin healing as though time itself reversed.
"You please me, boy. Your devotion is unmatched. Go now! I give you a boon—your muscles will bear the strength to move mountains!" he shouted, throwing sacred bhasm onto Karna.
"Head to Mahishmati. There you will find the answers your soul seeks. And the guru your heart yearns for. Take your family. That is where your true story begins!"
As the last word echoed, his body dispersed into ashes that scattered in the wind, and the Shivaling disappeared as if it had never existed.
Karna looked down at his hands. They felt different—stronger, alive with power. It wasn't a dream.
He ran home and told his parents everything, his eyes lit up with a fire they had never seen. Radha cried with both joy and fear, but Adhirath said nothing. He stood silently, walked to the door, and picked up his royal charioteer emblem.
"Where are you going, Baba?" Karna asked.
Adhirath turned, tears in his eyes, and smiled. "To resign. We are going to Mahishmati."
That night, the house of the charioteer buzzed with emotion and quiet preparations. But they were not alone. Another family had joined their caravan—a family with a bright-eyed little girl named Vrushali, Karna's only childhood friend.
As the first light of dawn touched the sky, the humble procession set off on bullock carts and foot, towards a new destiny.
To Mahishmati.
To a future no one could have foreseen.
To the rise of Karna.