Write ✍️ by Parmod Kumar Prajapati.....
The years unspooled like a blood-soaked tapestry. The Pandava's dice game happened. The public humiliation of Draupadi occurred. Karna, ever Duryodhana's staunchest ally, had uttered the words that still haunted him: "A woman with five husbands is no better than a whore. Bring her to the gambling hall disrobed." He had said it to please his friend, to cement his place in the Kaurava court. He saw the fury in Bhima's eyes that day and knew it was a vow of murder. Thirteen years of exile for the Pandavas passed, and the final, failed negotiation for peace collapsed like a rotten bridge.
Now, Karna stood on the eve of the greatest war the world would ever know. The armies of Hastinapur and Indraprastha were arrayed on the field of Kurukshetra, millions strong, a sea of tents and banners stretching to the horizon. The air vibrated with the tension of a drawn bowstring.
In the Kaurava camp, the mood was fractious. Bhishma, the grandsire, supreme commander for the first ten days, refused to fight if Karna took the field. "I cannot raise my weapons alongside the charioteer's son," he declared, his pride a colder weapon than any blade.
Humiliated, Karna returned to his own tent. He was pouring a cup of wine when the flap opened. A woman entered, her face veiled, her posture regal despite the simple sari. She was accompanied by the unmistakable, luminous presence of Lord Krishna, the Pandava charioteer and strategist.
"Leave us," Krishna said to Karna's guards, and such was the authority in his voice that they obeyed without looking to their king.
The woman lowered her veil. Karna's breath caught. Her eyes, her bearing—he had seen them in his own reflection a thousand times.
"Karna," she said, and the word was a sob and a prayer.
"Who are you?" he asked, though a terrifying, impossible hope had begun to scream in his heart.
"I am Kunti. Mother to Yudhishthira, Bhima, and Arjuna."
The world tilted. The wine cup fell from his hand, staining the rich carpet like spilled blood.
"And," she wept, "I am your mother."
The story poured out of her—a young princess, gifted a mantra to summon any god, her reckless curiosity, summoning Surya the sun god, the miraculous birth of a child adorned in celestial armour, the panic, the abandonment in a basket on the river to protect her honour.
"You are Kaunteya," she cried, falling to her knees before him. "The eldest Pandava. The rightful heir to the throne of Hastinapur. Not Arjuna, but you."
The truth was a physical blow. Every insult, every slight, every moment of exclusion flashed before his eyes. He had been mocked for being low-born while his own mother, a queen, had condemned him to this life. His greatest rival, the man he was destined to kill tomorrow, was his own brother.
Krishna spoke, his voice calm amidst the emotional tempest. "The war begins at sunrise, Karna. Come with us. Renounce Duryodhana. Your brothers will welcome you. You will be crowned King of Hastinapur. The war will end before it begins. Your brothers love you already, without knowing you."
The temptation was a sweet, paralyzing poison. Kingship. Acceptance. A family. Everything he had ever fought for, offered on a platter. He looked at his mother's pleading face, then at Krishna's inscrutable gaze.
He thought of Duryodhana. The only man who had ever offered him respect when the world offered contempt. The man who had given him a kingdom, an army, a purpose. Loyalty was not just a virtue to Karna; it was the bedrock of his identity.
A slow, tragic smile spread across his face. "It is a cruel joke of fate, Mother. You come to me now, on the night before a war, to offer me the love you denied me at my birth. You ask me to betray the only man who has never betrayed me."
Kunti trembled. "He is adharma! His cause is unjust!"
"His cause is mine!" Karna roared, the pain finally breaking through. "Where were you, Mother, when I was called a suta-putra? Where were you when I needed lineage to string a bow? You come now to save your five known sons from the might of your firstborn! That is your truth!"
He mastered himself, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "I will not switch sides. I will fight for Duryodhana. I will meet Arjuna on the battlefield. And I will kill him, or he will kill me. That is our destiny."
He paused, his heart shattering even as he spoke. "But I grant you this, Mother. I will not kill any of my other brothers. Yudhishthira, Bhima, Nakula, Sahadeva—I will only disarm them, humiliate them. I swear this on my honour, which is all I have ever truly owned. In return, you must keep my secret. Never reveal to the world, nor to my brothers, that I am their eldest. Let history know me only as Karna, the son of Adhiratha. The loyal friend. The unsung hero."
As Kunti left, broken, Krishna lingered. "Your generosity condemns you, Karna. You give away your rightful kingdom as easily as you give away gold."
"What is a kingdom, Krishna, compared to one's word? I have made a promise to my friend. I will keep it, even unto death."
Krishna nodded, his divine eyes seeing the entire tragic arc. "Then receive my blessing, O greatest of donors. Your fame will eclipse that of kings. Your story will be told for millennia. But tomorrow, Karna, beware. The wheel of your chariot will fail you. And a Brahmin's curse will steal your memory when you need it most."
Alone again, Karna sank to his knees. He had been cursed by his guru, abandoned by his mother, and was doomed by his own loyalty. He laughed, a raw, hollow sound in the luxurious tent. He was the hero of a tragedy written by the gods themselves, and the final act was about to begin.