The world was growing bigger, yet Karna felt smaller.
At five, he was already questioning things the other children did not. Why was he different? Why did he not have a birth story like the others? Why did his armor and earrings never come off? His mother, Radha, would simply smile and stroke his hair. His father, Adhiratha, would sigh and say, "You are special, my son." But special did not feel like an answer.
His fists clenched whenever the village boys called him "the golden boy." He hated that name, not because it was untrue, but because it set him apart. He did not want to be apart. He wanted to belong.
---
It was a late afternoon when Karna first saw a real warrior. The chariots of Hastinapura thundered into the village, carrying royal guards. The ground trembled beneath their hooves,
Badum, badum, badum.
Karna stood still, his breath caught in his throat as the soldiers dismounted. Their bodies were wrapped in shining armor, their swords gleamed under the sun. One of them had a bow slung across his back, and Karna's fingers twitched with longing.
He had never seen a bow before, only heard tales of warriors who could strike down birds mid-flight. The very thought made his blood rush.
"Move aside, boy!" One of the soldiers barked, striding past him.
Karna did not move. Instead, he blurted, "Teach me."
The soldier stopped, a bemused smirk on his lips. "Teach you what?"
"To fight."
Laughter erupted from the guards. One of them ruffled Karna's hair as though he were a child. "Go play with wooden swords, little one. Leave war to men."
Karna's face burned, but he said nothing. He simply watched, memorizing their stances, the way they held their weapons, the way they carried themselves.
When they left, he turned to his father. "Appa, I want to learn how to use a bow."
Adhiratha's face darkened. "We are charioteers, Karna. We serve warriors. We do not become them."
Karna looked away. The fire in his heart would not be extinguished so easily.
---
By six, Karna had started training in secret. He fashioned a crude bow from a fallen branch and tied a string to it. His arrows were nothing more than sharpened sticks. But when he pulled the string and let an arrow fly, he felt something stir inside him.
One evening, he stood in the fields, aiming at a mango hanging from a tree. He took a deep breath, steadied his hands, and released.
Whoosh.
The arrow missed, landing with a soft thud in the grass. Karna gritted his teeth and tried again. And again. And again.
Hours passed. His arms ached, his fingers bled, but he did not stop. The sun dipped below the horizon, the sky bathed in red and gold. His colors.
Finally, with a deep breath, he let the last arrow fly.
Thunk.
The mango tumbled to the ground.
Karna let out a triumphant shout, throwing his fists in the air.
That night, Radha noticed the blisters on his fingers. She sighed as she rubbed oil on them. "Why do you do this, my son?"
Karna looked up at her, eyes burning with determination. "Because I am meant for more."
She hesitated, then pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Then be careful."
---
By seven, Karna had grown bolder. He started challenging the older boys in the village to wrestling matches. He lost most of them, but he never backed down. With every fall, every bruise, he learned.
One day, Suran...the same boy he had fought at the river two years ago, laughed as Karna picked himself up from the dust. "Give up, golden boy. You can't win."
Karna wiped the blood from his lip. "Not today," he admitted. Then, he grinned. "But one day."
Suran paused, then chuckled. "You're stubborn."
"Maybe." Karna dusted himself off. "Or maybe I just know my own worth."
Suran offered him a hand. This time, Karna took it.
---
That evening, as he sat by the river, his father joined him. For a while, neither spoke.
Then, Adhiratha said softly, "You are not like the others, Karna."
Karna turned to him. "Why not?"
His father hesitated, then sighed. "Because you were born to be more. But I don't want you to go against the law."
Karna looked down at his reflection in the water. The golden glow of his skin shimmered under the fading sunlight.
Maybe his father was right.
But the world would not give him his place. He would have to take it.