The first thing Ron Jain remembered was the unbearable heat — not external, but within. A fire burning inside his very being, unfamiliar and vast, as if he were a vessel too small for the power now coursing through him.
And then, the silence.
It was the silence of the womb, warm and divine. He had memories — not from this life, but from another. Bits of Mumbai traffic, college debates, a mother's voice calling from the kitchen. But they were fading. Replacing them came hymns of Vedic chants, a different language that felt natural on his tongue, and the awareness of who — or rather what — he was now.
He was Karna. Or, more precisely, he was Ron Jain, reincarnated as Karna — the son of the Sun God Surya and the princess Kunti.
But unlike the tragic warrior of old, this time he would not be a pawn in a cosmic drama. He knew how the story played out — the curses, the betrayals, the endless sacrifices. This time, things would be different.
Kunti was weeping softly. He felt her tremble as she held him in her arms, fresh from birth, yet full of regret. He could sense her conflict, her fear of disgrace, her innocence entangled with divinity. Ron—no, Karna—looked into her eyes with the wisdom of two lives.
Don't leave me this time, he willed silently.
But the universe wasn't listening—yet.
Wrapped in fine silk, a radiant golden aura already gleaming from his newborn skin, he was placed gently in a basket. The river Yamuna awaited him. Kunti whispered prayers through her tears, her lips trembling with guilt.
She never knew the boy inside was no ordinary infant.
He floated down the river, just as he had in the original tale. But this time, Ron didn't feel fear or confusion. He knew who he was, what he carried, and what needed to be done.
He wasn't here to suffer nobly. He wasn't here to beg for respect. He was here to claim what was his — on his own terms.
---
The basket came to rest near a modest charioteer's hut. Radha and Adhiratha, the couple cursed with childlessness, found the golden baby nestled among reeds.
Adhiratha gasped at the glowing kavach (armor) and kundal (earrings). "A child of the gods," he whispered.
"Or a child of fate," Radha replied, her eyes misting over as she scooped up the boy with reverent care. "Let us call him Karna — the one who was carved by destiny."
Karna. It was a name the world would remember. But this time, the world wouldn't just remember his generosity or his loyalty.
They would remember his power. His choices.
---
As the years passed, Ron grew into Karna with startling ease. By the age of five, he could already lift a wooden chariot wheel over his head. His strength was unnatural, but his humility never waned.
He kept quiet about his past life. What five-year-old talks philosophy? But when he was alone, he whispered to the wind, testing the limits of this new body. He was born a warrior, but raised among charioteers. He knew what that meant — the shame, the rejection, the closed doors.
But this time, he would plan ahead.
---
On his twelfth birthday, he made his first real vow.
Standing barefoot under the rising sun, Karna whispered into the wind, "No curses will touch me. No loyalty will blind me. And no fate will decide my end."
He paused.
"And Duryodhana — the man the world mocks — will rise with me. I'll make sure of it."
Because Ron had read all the scriptures, heard every version of the Mahabharata. And beneath the layers of righteousness, he had seen the truth: Duryodhana wasn't evil. He was just… unfortunate. Mislabeled. A man trapped by legacy and resentment.
Ron understood that feeling.
If history had failed Karna once, it wouldn't again. Not with him in the driver's seat.