Re: I Become Karna In Mahabharata

The earth vibrated softly beneath my bare feet.

The royal caravan had arrived.

Horses with manes silkier than my future plot relevance. Golden chariots creaking under the weight of privilege. Guards with spears taller than village huts, and that special kind of beard that screams, I've never ploughed a field but I've definitely threatened someone in Sanskrit.

Drummers walked ahead, beating a rhythm that said: Make way, peasants. Royalty is here to observe your poverty and call it 'quaint'.

And then—her.

Kunti.

The woman who started it all.

The mother who accidentally speedran the 'abandon child' route on divine difficulty.

She sat high in the chariot, veiled in translucent silk, face calm and unreadable, like a goddess trying to decide if she wants to bless the earth or ignore it until the next yagna.

To the villagers, she was a symbol of grace. Beauty. Royalty. A literal Devi among mortals.

To me?

She was a ticking time bomb wrapped in gold.

And I… I was the expiration date she didn't know was already stamped.

I shifted on Radha's hip, squinting through the breeze that blew Kunti's veil just enough for a peek. Almond eyes. A small bindi. Perfectly sculpted brows that screamed I meditate daily and also judge silently.

Was this what the beginning of tragedy looked like?

I mean, really. Somewhere out there, Vyasa was probably sharpening his quill with a dramatic smirk, thinking, Oh yeah. This chapter slaps.

I gulped. Quietly.

Radha, meanwhile, was vibrating with sanskaari excitement. "Look, beta, royalty!" she whispered, as if I wasn't a walking spoiler for the royal bloodline.

Even Adhiratha stood straighter, his normally gruff posture melted into that of a man who suddenly remembered he has shoulders.

Villagers bowed.

Children waved flowers.

Someone shouted, "Princess Kunti!" and got shushed by five aunties for being too enthusiastic.

An elderly man sat beside Kunti, who released a guffy laughter as his voice thundered, "Hahahaha~ see my dear daughter, how the people of this village honour you, even on the edge of the wilderness?"

"Pitashri (Father), please…" Kunti replied softly, her voice carrying just enough warmth to sound dutiful, and just enough restraint to sound like she was internally resisting the urge to vanish in a puff of incense.

Kuntibhoja beamed, waving to the villagers like a minor festival deity at his own parade. "You see, my daughter? This is why you mustn't always stay locked in the palace! Fresh air, fresh faces, and even fresher chapati smoke!"

I gagged internally. Partly from the tension, partly from the unfiltered bull emanating from his mouth.

And then—

She looked down.

Her eyes scanned the crowd.

It was a brief sweep — casual, nonchalant — the kind you do when you're trying not to look for something but end up finding an existential crisis anyway.

Her gaze brushed over farmers, children, and…

Stopped.

On Radha.

Correction: on me, awkwardly fidgeting in Radha's arms with my ceremonial kurta riding up and a piece of puffed rice stuck to my eyebrow.

Our eyes didn't meet.

But hers narrowed.

Not in recognition — oh no. Fate's not that generous. But in that intuitive, maternal flicker. The one that whispers: I've forgotten something important. Something close. Something mine…?

A breeze shifted the veil again.

And for one moment — one split-millisecond — I felt a glitch in the narrative.

Like destiny hiccupped.

Like the Mahabharata almost updated itself, then rolled back the patch.

Kunti blinked.

The moment passed.

She looked away.

Talked to her father again. Said something about "the simplicity of the people" and "how peaceful this land felt." Something so nonchalant, it almost made me believe I imagined it all.

But I hadn't.

Bro.

BRO.

I almost became the plot twist. At age two.

Radha kissed my forehead, whispering, "See? Royals are just like us… only cleaner."

Lady, that woman almost yeeted me into the Ganga like a karmic paperweight and forgot I existed.

Meanwhile, Adhiratha straightened his back like he was auditioning for the role of "Most Humble Man Alive." He even muttered, "May the princess always walk under clear skies."

I swear I saw Surabhi roll her eyes.

The procession moved on.

The drums faded into distance. The golden wheels of fate — quite literally — rolled past my village like a divine Uber ignoring its most important passenger.

And Kunti?

Never turned back.

Not once.

And just like that, the woman who birthed me… passed me by like I was background noise in her story.

[That Night — Back at the Hut]

Radha was still buzzing. "Kunti Devi looked so graceful, didn't she? And her father! What a laugh, no? So jolly!"

Adhiratha grunted. "Hmph."

Translation: Yes. But I still don't trust people who wear silk in summer.

I sat on the mat, chewing a mango pit like it owed me money.

Surabhi loomed nearby, chewing cud with the gravity of a bovine philosopher. Her gaze met mine.

She didn't moo.

She didn't blink.

She just stared.

Like she knew.

Like she remembered.

"She passed me," I whispered in baby babble, my head resting against her warm flank. "She looked... and still didn't see."

Surabhi snorted softly.

Not in mockery.

In something like agreement. Or pity. Or maybe she just had grass stuck in her nose. Who can say?

[Midnight – The Village Hut, Post-Caravan Silence]

The village had finally gone quiet.

No more drums. No more "Look at me, I shook hands with royalty" gossip. Just the gentle creak of bamboo, the occasional hoot of a confused owl, and the rhythmic chew of Surabhi devouring her night snack like a philosopher contemplating the Bhagavad Gita in cud form.

I lay on my mat, staring at the thatched ceiling.

My tiny baby limbs were splayed out like a discount Vitruvian man. The mango pit lay abandoned beside me — chewed, mangled, and very dead. Much like my remaining optimism that fate might offer early therapy.

"She didn't see me," I mumbled.

Radha was humming some lullaby in the next room — sweet, slow, filled with more love than logic. But her presence wasn't what I was focused on.

I was still trapped in that moment.

The almost-recognition. The glitch. The spark that could've become an emotional explosion, but flickered out like a damp diya.

"She looked right through me," I said again. To no one. To the universe. To Surabhi, who blinked at me from the threshold like she was waiting for me to process my angst before her next moo.

"She's not ready," I whispered.

And maybe… neither was I.

Because deep down, I knew something:

Even if she had seen me…

What then?

A royal halt? A dramatic scream? A lifetime of questions she wasn't prepared to answer?

Could I have borne the weight of being known… before I was even ready to stand properly?

I closed my eyes.

Maybe fate was merciful this once. Denying clarity in favor of slow ache.

It still hurt. But hurt I could handle.

This? This was the Mahabharata, baby. Emotional slow burns were the main export.

***

[Elsewhere — Royal Encampment, That Same Night]

The caravan had stopped under a canopy of peepal trees. Silk tents shimmered under moonlight. Guards stood at attention. And somewhere within the largest tent, Kunti sat silently, brushing her hair with fingers that trembled just a little.

Kuntibhoja snored somewhere nearby, loudly, proudly, like a man who knew absolutely nothing about divine drama.

But Kunti?

She wasn't sleeping.

She stared into the oil lamp flame, brows slightly furrowed.

"There was… something," she murmured. Her tone wasn't sad. Just thoughtful. The voice of someone brushing up against memory, like fingertips grazing the edge of a locked door.

"That child…"

She shook her head.

No. It couldn't be.

And yet—

A flicker of gold.

A flash of earrings in the sun.

She rubbed her arms, as if shaking off goosebumps.

"It's just nerves," she told herself. "Just… the weight of the journey. The forest. The air."

She didn't believe it.

Not fully.

But she blew out the lamp anyway.

And in the dark, her thoughts lingered — fragile, uncertain, and echoing.

Somewhere far away, a divine river sighed.

***

[Next Morning – The Village]

I awoke to a rooster that had no concept of pitch or mercy.

Radha was already up, grinding spices like she was in a cooking montage. Adhiratha had vanished — probably to inspect the wheels of fate disguised as his oxcart.

And me?

I just sat.

Wiser.

Quieter.

Not defeated. But changed.

"Good morning, beta," Radha said cheerfully, handing me a bowl of mashed something. "Eat well today, hmm?"

I nodded.

Took the bowl.

And smiled.

Because I knew now.

This wasn't the moment of revelation.

It was just the beginning.

One day — not today — but someday soon, that woman would see me again.

And the veil?

Would not flutter back in time.

No divine rollback. No narrative lag.

Just truth.

Laid bare.

And when that day came… I would not be the fidgeting baby with rice on his eyebrow.

I would be Karna.

And fate?

Would have no choice but to look back.