Re: I Become Karna In Mahabharata

Timeskip (Now I am officially 2 years old)

After Pitamaha's dramatic exit, life continued with the usual fart-induced, poop-centered chaos that defined toddlerhood. Yes, I was now officially two years old — legally allowed to throw tantrums, attempt stealth missions to steal sweets, and communicate in a mix of baby babble, angry eye contact, and morally judgmental gurgles.

But internally? I was a full-grown man. A man who had stared into Bhishma's soul and accidentally unlocked three centuries of repressed Kuru guilt.

No big deal.

Anyway—what does being two mean?

Well, for one: mobility.

That's right. Karna.exe could now walk. Not gracefully, mind you. I waddled like a drunk penguin with overconfidence and weak knees. But it was progress. I could go where I wanted — usually toward danger, snacks, or Surabhi's tail.

And speaking of Surabhi, she had upgraded from "divine cow guardian" to full-blown local legend. Villagers started whispering things like:

"If the cow watches over the boy, then he must be blessed.""She snorted at Pandu's cousin once, and his oxcart broke a wheel!""My niece dreamed of Surabhi, and now she can make laddoos with her left hand."

I'm telling you, the mythos was growing faster than my teeth.

[Morning — Hut, Year Two]

Radha was still the undefeated champion of force-feeding. Her weapon of choice? Mashed dal with sneaky spinach.

Her battle cry?

"Open your mouth or the demon will eat your toys!"

And let me tell you — emotional manipulation hits different when you're in a baby body. I opened my mouth so wide, Surabhi mooed in shock.

Meanwhile, Adhiratha was still his gruff, tsundere self. He tried to act like he didn't care when I managed to say his name clearly — "Baba" with full syllables and minimal spit bubbles — but I saw him wipe his eyes behind the firewood pile.

Real men chop onions. Great men cry where no one can see them.

[Event: The Return of Raghav]

You thought he was gone?

Oh no.

Raghav the Toddler Tyrant returned — bigger, louder, and with new moves. His latest hobby? Holding philosophical debates in broken Sanskrit with anyone under the age of three. His favourite phrase?

"Tou kuch bhi nahi hai!" (You're nothing!)

Buddy. I invented the phrase "I'm nothing" during my teenage existential spiral in modern India. Don't bring emo-lite energy into my reincarnation arc.

He still hadn't forgiven me for the Surabhi Showdown last year. And now, he came prepared — with back-up. A small gang of equally smug toddlers.

I called them the Crayon Cartel.

They surrounded me at the village square near the well, giggling menacingly while pointing fingers sticky from mango pulp and power.

Raghav stepped forward.

"Say sorry."

I tilted my head. "For what?"

"For being shiny."

Excuse me?

Apparently, my divine earrings were triggering his insecurity arc. Well, Raghav, maybe next time be born with celestial bling, and we'll talk.

Before things could escalate to full toddler warfare, the wind changed.

Literally.

A sharp, sudden gust blew through the clearing, carrying a chill that made every child freeze.

Even Raghav.

Even Surabhi — who was munching grass nearby — paused and looked toward the forest edge.

Something was coming.

And I felt it.

Not fear.

Not danger.

Just… plot.

That weird sixth sense you develop when you've been reincarnated into a mythological epic with a locked cheat system and a snarky divine cow on your team.

And sure enough, the village messenger came running seconds later.

"Royal entourage! From Kunti Pradesh! They're coming through the village in two days!"

Oh.

Oh no.

I knew what this was.

I mean, I couldn't say it out loud — not unless I wanted to cause a paradox-fueled timeline aneurysm — but I felt it.

Kunti.

Mother.

Or the woman who can't decide if she wants a kid or a horoscope entry.

Yes, that Kunti. The royal lady with a divine womb and an abandonment track record that makes Indian soap opera moms look emotionally stable. The original "Oops, I summoned a demigod and yeeted him into the river."

Of course, nobody in the village knew any of this.

To them, this was just a royal caravan. A chance to offer garlands, receive blessings, and maybe get their cattle officially noticed by someone who's touched a silk cushion.

To me?

I can guess why she is here...

She is still a single lady, A.K.A. Unmarried.

And so is the current king of the Kuru Kingdom — Pandu.

Same name as my college's security guard in my past life.

Don't ask why do I know the name of a security guard, it's a man's responsibility to know.

Like how girls cry at the end of their school life— missing teachers and homework.

While, the boys hug the security guard at that time because they are more familiar with him than their homeroom teacher.

Anyway, I know she is going to Hastinapur to meet and greet King Pandu in other language seduce that man who is cursed.

And cursed he is.

Just thinking about how he got cursed was so hilarious that it required a moment of silence for the sheer absurdity of Vedic romance laws.

Let me break it down, modern-style:

So, Pandu — warrior, king, proud owner of all seven abs and one tragic flaw — accidentally yeets an innocent sage and his wife in the forest while they were in the middle of coitus.

Yeah.

Forest honeymoon interrupted by a royal archer with poor eyesight and worse timing.

As one does in the Mahabharata.

The dying sage looks Pandu dead in the eye and goes:

"Since you interrupted our forest Netflix-and-chill, may you DIE if you ever try the same."

And bam — celibacy curse, permanent edition. No refunds, no exceptions.

Which brings us back to Kunti.

Miss "I once summoned the Sun just to see if I could."

She's about to be married off to a cursed man who can't even hold hands without risking spontaneous funeral arrangements.

And here I am — her magical son, golden earrings and all, shining like a divine reminder of her teenage irresponsibility.

So yeah.

Plot's knocking.

And I don't even have pants that fit yet.

***

[Two Days Later — Royal Arrival Day]

The village square had gone full-on festive mode. Torans fluttered. Brass vessels gleamed like they had a complex about being dull. Aunties dusted already-clean surfaces just to maintain dominance.

I, meanwhile, was dressed in ceremonial cotton and forced to sit still while Radha oiled my hair like I was being prepared for auction.

"Beta, don't move!" she said, smoothing the last swirl near my earlobe. "You'll meet royalty today!"

Lady, I am royalty — genetically. If only you knew.

Adhiratha stood by the door, adjusting the oxcart yoke like a man pretending not to care but secretly planning a full security perimeter if anyone so much as looked at me weird.

And Surabhi?

She chewed slowly. With intent.

Like a bovine bodyguard doing psychological warfare via molars. One ear flicked. One nostril flared. Her tail swept left like she was drawing a battle line in the mud.

But there is still time for the arrival of the passing royal.

I still don't get why all this preparation?

She is passing through, not visiting.

As this village is at the edge of the Hastinapur forest, crossing the said forest and you can see the Hastinapur walls, or so I have heard.

So yeah.

Overkill much.

[Still That Morning — Village Square, T-minus 2 Hours Until Royal Pass-by]

You'd think Vishnu Himself was doing a darshan run through the village with how everyone was reacting.

The priest was frantically arranging marigold garlands like they were national security tools. Kids were given emergency baths (some kicking, some accepting their soap-drenched fate like tiny wet philosophers). Even the barber was summoned to trim mustaches no one had asked about since Kartik Purnima.

I sat on the porch like a disgruntled baby Buddha.

Wearing a shiny cotton kurta that itched like divine punishment for my past-life sins.

I hate it here.

Even Surabhi had been brushed. Which sounds cute — until you see a half-divine cow aggressively scrubbed by three villagers and a broom that probably once cleaned temple bells. Her fur puffed like storm clouds ready to bless or smite, depending on mood.

And her mood? Perpetual side-eye.

She hated this circus almost as much as I did.

"Beta, smile," Radha said, adjusting my earring like I was some doll in a yagna showroom.

I gave her a look that said: I will remember this when I become a demigod with agency.

[Royal Caravan Arrival — T-minus 30 Minutes]

Boom.

A conch blew in the distance — not the war kind, more the "Look busy, nobility incoming" kind.

The villagers collectively gasped. Someone dropped a brass plate. Somewhere, a child farted nervously.

And me?

I tensed.

Not out of fear, no. I've already been eye-locked by Bhishma and personally moo-defended by a holy cow. What's a fancy aunt with divine abandonment issues?

But still... it's her. Kunti.

The womb that started it all.

The karmic plot device in royal silks.

The woman whose teenage curiosity basically created the celestial equivalent of a group project — with tragic consequences and zero parental guidance.

I shuffled closer to Surabhi and whispered, "If she tries to pick me up, I need you to fart so loud the chariot horses get spooked."

She mooed once, solemnly. A vow was made.