Re: I Become Karna In Mahabharata

"I have officially graduated from—"

Drooling.

Well, sort of.

I mean, I still drool. But now it's intentional drooling. Strategic. Weaponized. A tool for distracting aunties, escaping force-fed spinach, and subtly claiming ownership over any object I touch.

Don't believe me?

Ask the neighbour's dog. I drooled on his ball once.

Now it's mine.

Anyway—this milestone apparently means I'm a big boy now. Which, in village terms, translates to:

• Wearing less floppy diapers

• Being told "beta, say 'Om'" every 2.5 hours

• And most terrifyingly… field trips.

Anyway— Big news!

I SAID MY FIRST 'OFFICIAL' WORD!

Which, of course, is "Maa"

Now let me tell you— death by suffocation is cruel, but death by bear hug while being stuffed between her blossoms... almost worth it.

…I repeat…

Death by suffocation is cruel.

But death by bear hug while being stuffed between Radha Maa's ample maternal assets?

Almost worth it.

The moment the word left my mouth — "Maa" — the entire hut detonated into emotional fireworks. Radha shrieked so loud I swear I unlocked tinnitus in both ears.

"HE SAID MAA! ADHIRATHA, HE SAID MAA!"

She crushed me to her chest like a victorious wrestler pinning down fate itself, and I — a grown man trapped in a baby's body — nearly got reincarnated again.

Adhiratha came running in with a stick like he was ready to fight dacoits. One look at me drooling peacefully and Radha squealing like she won the lottery, and the poor man just rubbed his forehead.

"He says 'Maa', and you're acting like he solved the Vedas."

"Don't be jealous," Radha said with a grin. "He'll say 'Baba' next."

Spoiler: I said "Moo" next.

Not "Baba."

Not "Papa."

Moo.

And guess who was standing right next to me when I said it?

Surabhi.

The Cow Supreme. Holy Hooves Herself. My unofficial bodyguard, guru, and moral compass (only slightly fart-powered).

Radha blinked. "Did he just…?"

Adhiratha deadpanned, "He called the cow before he called me."

The silence was biblical.

I stared into the distance with full baby smugness.

"This is revenge," Adhiratha muttered. "For not buying that mango pickle in the Kartik mela seven years ago. The gods remember everything."

I swear, I saw his spirit crouched at the corner, drawing circles while muttering, "It's not fair, am I not Baba of this house or what…"

Radha tried to console him with, "Don't worry, he'll say Baba soon."

"I don't want pity-baba," he muttered like a rejected soap opera uncle.

And me?

I just burped.

Loudly.

With eye contact.

That's right, Father. Let it be known—I, Karna a.k.a. Cow-Blessed Diaper Warrior, do not bend easily to patriarchal vocabulary pressure. My first bond was forged in milk and moo.

***

Okay, okay, I fulfilled his wishes.

And how it turned out to be?

Well, classic Tsundere Dad.

Just a "Mm."

No smile. No tears. Just that classic Dad-grunt™️ — the emotional equivalent of a fist bump in slow motion.

But the man didn't move away.

No, he stayed rooted, squatted beside the cradle like he was checking the axle of an oxcart, and placed his calloused hand on my head. Light, careful — like I was made of spun sugar and destiny.

For a man who couldn't express emotions without grunting or threatening to fix a roof, this was basically a Bollywood declaration of love.

"Baba," I gurgled again, this time quieter.

He didn't say anything.

But his thumb brushed my cheek.

And that was enough.

Emotional Achievement Unlocked: Tsundere Dad's Silent Approval +2 DEF Against Daddy Issues

[Later That Week]

Word spread.

Not of my milestones — no, those had already made rounds faster than Radha's spice masala did during monsoon.

But of something bigger.

Someone bigger.

Mahamahim Bhishma.

Yes. That Bhishma.

Grandsire of legends. Celibate sword-saint. Walking vow incarnate. The man with more moral burden than the entire Vedas stacked on his shoulders.

Apparently, he was traveling along the Ganga route — visiting temples, checking on border villages, and possibly intimidating the moral compass out of every nearby king.

And he was coming here.

To our village.

Cue panic.

Radha polished every copper utensil in sight. Adhiratha trimmed his beard with a fish-scale knife (don't ask). Even Surabhi looked slightly less judgmental than usual. The whole village went into preposterous holy-host-mode like Bhishma was some VVIP government inspection mixed with divine IRS audit.

But me?

I was confused.

Was this the moment?

Was this where Karna would be recognized?

Where fate might swerve and start rewriting itself?

Of course not.

Because I was still in toddler-mode, sitting on a mat, being force-fed semi-solid khichdi and battling intrusive cheek-pinches.

Still, I was hyped.

Bhishma. Devavrata. Ganga-putra. The man who chose death-on-demand just to uphold a vow. A walking tragedy in royal robes.

And I was going to meet him.

Well. Sort of.

***

[Day of Bhishma's Visit]

The village square looked like a holy circus.

Torans of mango leaves everywhere. Cow dung designs on the ground that apparently summoned blessings and mild foot allergies. Kids wore flower garlands. One even tried to eat his.

I was dressed in new cotton again. Shiny, uncomfortable, stiff.

Radha placed me on her hip like a victory flag and marched toward the clearing where the chariot had just arrived.

And there he was.

Tall. Regal. White beard trimmed like divine geometry. Eyes sharp, but not unkind.

His armour was ceremonial — silver trimmed, not blood-worn. And his aura?

Massive.

Like just by standing there, gravity felt slightly more disciplined.

"Bhishma Pitamah…" someone whispered in reverence.

He stepped off his chariot like the wind itself made way for him.

And then — his eyes landed on me.

Yes. Me.

I, the golden baby.

The earring-sporting, moo-protected, spinach-hating divine mystery nugget.

He stared.

I blinked.

Our souls made contact for a microsecond.

Then—

I sneezed.

Right on Radha.

"ACHHOO—pbbffft!"

Divine mucus, projectile launched.

Bhishma paused. Blinked. And… chuckled?

Holy Vishnu on a bicycle — the man laughed.

Radha flushed bright red and tried to apologize while wiping my face (and hers). But Bhishma raised a hand.

And glided toward me—

Yes, glided, because that's what it seemed like. Man had no business being that graceful. I've seen floating lotus petals fall with more noise.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea. Except in this version, Moses had a killer beard and a vow complex.

Radha stood frozen, like a child caught stealing extra ladoos. Adhiratha, who'd somehow materialized next to us, did his best humble-fisherman routine — a mixture of bowing, nodding, and trying not to visibly sweat through his tunic.

Bhishma stopped in front of us. His gaze — calm, steady, infinitely old — fell on me again.

And I?

I immediately shoved my fist into my mouth.

Classic baby defense move. If diplomacy fails, drool.

"A bright one," Bhishma said softly.

Wait—what?

He was talking about me?

Radha, bless her, nearly melted. "He's… our son, Mahamahim."

"So, this was why Adhiratha smiles so much lately during his chariot work," Bhishma murmured with a knowing smile, eyes twinkling just enough to disarm even the fiercest moral critics.

Wait, what? My man Adhiratha smiles? In public?

Since when?

I turned my head slowly to glare at him.

Adhiratha, bless his tsundere heart, cleared his throat and suddenly found the dirt beneath his feet deeply fascinating.

Radha, meanwhile, beamed like she'd just been personally blessed by the Trimurti.

"He's brought joy into our lives," she said. "He is a gift… from Devi Ganga."

"Maa Ganga? How so?" Bhishma asked, his gaze sharpening just a touch, the way a sword glints before a duel — not hostile, just deeply attentive.

Radha's fingers tightened slightly on my side. "He was found by the river. Alone… wrapped in silk and gold."

Bhishma's brow didn't move — but his silence grew weighty.

Adhiratha cleared his throat again, this time louder. "He was floating in a small basket, Mahamahim. The river brought him to us. We… we took him in as our own."

Bhishma's eyes flicked between the two of them. A pause. A moment. The kind that makes the air hold its breath.

And then — a gentle nod.

"A divine child, indeed," he murmured.

He didn't question. He didn't pry. He simply accepted.

But something in his eyes told me: He knew.

Not the whole truth, maybe. But part of it. The way old men who have seen too many wars can smell a story long before it's told.

I, meanwhile, was still chewing my fist like a teether possessed.

Bhishma's eyes rested on me again.

"What is his name?"

Radha, radiant with maternal pride, answered, "Karna."

Bhishma's eyebrows lifted, ever so slightly. "Karna…?"

"Yes," Adhiratha said firmly. "For the golden earrings on his ears when we found him."

Bhishma stared at me with an expression I couldn't read — not awe, not fear… something older. Something like recognition twisted with restraint. The kind of look people give temples — reverent, respectful, slightly afraid of what they might find inside.

"…May he grow strong," Bhishma said at last. "Like the sun from whom he gleams."

Radha's heart must've exploded in glitter.

Adhiratha blinked like he hadn't expected that level of poetic approval.

And me?

"Dada~" (It means Grandfather)

The word slipped out of my mouth like butter sliding off hot paratha.

It was soft. Curious. Completely unplanned.

And somehow — devastatingly precise.

The crowd gasped. I swear someone dropped a brass pot in the background. Surabhi let out a small, stunned "Moo," like even she couldn't believe I just grandpa-zoned one of the most terrifyingly disciplined men in all of epic literature.

Bhishma blinked.

His iron composure cracked.

Just a flicker.

But it was there.

The tiniest twitch at the corner of his lips — not quite a smile, but something older. Sadder. A memory rising from the Ganga of his heart, half-formed and half-forbidden.

Radha covered her mouth, eyes wide.

Adhiratha stiffened like a goat caught peeing in a temple.

And me?

I just gurgled and kicked my legs innocently, like I hadn't just called the celibate sword-saint of Hastinapur Grandpa in front of a hundred villagers and one cow with divine judgment issues.

Bhishma stared at me for a long, long second.

Then—

He knelt.

Let me repeat that for those in the back:

He. Knelt.

The entire universe paused like someone hit the divine pause button on cosmic Netflix.

Bhishma — Devavrata, the Mahamahim, the Iron Pillar of Kuru Lineage— dropped to one knee.

Not in fatigue. Not in the ceremony.

But in something deeper. Reverence? Recognition?

A silent, wordless... ache?

His silver-edged armour creaked as he bowed forward, one hand resting gently on the earth, the other hovering midair — like he wanted to reach out but didn't dare.

Radha clutched me tighter, unsure whether to bow too or flee the scene with the baby that just broke a kshatriya's inner firewall.

Adhiratha — bless his overwhelmed tsundere soul — just gawked like a man watching his ox sprout wings and quote scripture.

And me?

I gurgled. Again. Because I have no control over this meat puppet body, but internally I was SCREAMING.

HE'S KNEELING.

BHISHMA PITAMAH IS KNEELING TO ME.

Bro.

BRO.

I think I just got spiritually saluted by the entire lineage of the Kuru dynasty through this man's knee joint.

Bhishma finally looked up.

Right at me.

Not at Radha. Not at Adhiratha.

Me.

His gaze was softer now, but deeper than any river. A still lake overlying a whirlpool of memories. And pain.

"Forgive me..." he whispered.

I blinked.

Was that… directed at me?

Before I could drool in confirmation, Bhishma stood.

A slow, deliberate motion — like a mountain returning to its natural state after briefly remembering it could move.

Radha's lips moved, but no sound came.

Adhiratha opened his mouth. Closed it. Then decided words were too risky.

Only Surabhi, our eternal bovine sentinel, seemed unfazed. She let out a slow, deliberate "Moo," like she was giving her approval to fate itself.

Bhishma exhaled.

"I... Raise him well," he said finally, his voice distant, like it had travelled back from a memory he couldn't quite place. "He…"

He didn't finish the sentence.

He didn't need to.

Because the silence that followed was heavy enough to count as a sixth Veda.

And just like that, Bhishma turned.

He didn't wait for offerings. Didn't stay for coconut-smashing ceremonies or freshly boiled milk in terracotta cups. He simply walked away, each step slow and measured — like every part of him wanted to stay but his oath wouldn't let him.

The crowd parted again.

No one dared breathe too loud.

Radha finally let go of the breath she'd been holding like it was the last grain of rice in a drought.

Adhiratha was still buffering.

And me?

Well, I'd just unlocked Trauma Accessory Tier 1: Passive Guilt Transmission via Eye Contact.

The whole village was stunned. You could hear a feather fall. Or a banana leaf. Or Surabhi's very gentle butt plop.

"Did that just… happen?" someone whispered.

Radha gently adjusted my cloth. "It did."

Adhiratha slowly blinked, still stunned. "He knelt... to our son."

Radha looked down at me.

I looked up at her.

Surabhi farted softly, like punctuation.