Year: 2025
[Location: Dorm Room, Government Arts College, Rajasthan]
...
The ceiling fan squeaked like a dying bird above his head — rotating lazily, as if mocking his existence.
"ARG! Damn these stupid people, I never said Arjuna was bad or anything!" Vijay groaned, hurling his phone onto his mattress like it personally betrayed him.
He flopped back, arms spread wide, as his phone vibrated with yet another angry reply on Instagram.
"How dare you say Karna was greater than Arjun? LMAO, read a book, dude."— @TruePandavaFan69
"Read a book?!" Vijay yelled into the fan. "I've read more Mahabharata versions than you've had Maggis, you goat!"
His roommate, Mohan, peeked in through the half-open door. "Bro, it's 2 A.M. Can you fight with fanboys quietly?"
Vijay waved him off. "Go sleep, Mohan! This is between me and ignorance!"
"You swine! If you'd read the original scripts, not the TV serial version, you'd know how big of a coward Karna was… you stupid illiterate."— @ArjunaIsGoat369
Vijay grinned, eyes gleaming with stubborn fire. This wasn't just a debate. It was a war.
And he intended to win.
"Oh! Care to explain to this o' so ignorant peanut gallery why Karna's story makes Arjuna look like a rank amateur?" Vijay typed furiously. "You know, the guy who was born to an unwed mother, betrayed by fate, yet stood undefeated till the very end?"
He hit send and leaned back with a satisfied smirk.
His phone buzzed again.
"Lol, bro, your 'undefeated' Karna lost every major battle except for those lucky punches. Face it, Arjuna is the real hero. #TeamPandavas"— @TruePandavaFan69
"He ran away from the battlefield, that too more than once… he got bodied by Bhima, and he begged for mercy like a little—"
Vijay's thumb froze.
For a second, the room felt colder than usual. Not because of the fan — that thing was wheezing like a COPD patient — but because something about those words… stung.
Begged for mercy?
Ran away?
Coward?
He knew every version of the Mahabharata worth reading. Vyasa's Sanskrit epic, Bhandarkar's Critical Edition, the regional retellings, even niche Tamil commentaries. He'd watched both the old-school B.R. Chopra version and the new hyper-CGI drama that trended every summer.
And if there was one thing Vijay knew, it was this:
Karna never begged.
Sure, he made mistakes — siding with Duryodhana, mocking Draupadi, refusing Krishna's peace deal. He knew that Karna ran away from multiple battles, for instance—
1. During the Gandharva war, he retreated after the Kauravas were captured by Gandharvas, and was criticized for leaving Duryodhana behind.
2. Karna also fled from Arjuna during the Virat war, a fact that was mocked by other warriors.
But... he didn't know.
Not until right before the Kurukshetra war, that too by Shri Krishna.
Until then, he was just acting... acting to be a Kshatriya.
He always thought himself to be Sutputra — the son of a charioteer, forever the outsider.
It's like how a low caste person sits outside the house of the upper caste person, never allowed inside and even water is given in a specific container which they don't use to touch the utensils used by the higher castes. Karna carried that same invisible scar in his heart — the sting of rejection and the weight of his cursed birth.
Now people would say that 'kind of practice was demolished decades ago'.
But sorry, burst that bubble of ignorance you got floating around in your city life bubble!
The truth is, caste stigma is still alive and kicking in many corners of this country — invisible to the privileged, but painfully real for millions.
Here in Rajasthan itself, there are still many who face the harsh reality of discrimination every day. Vijay knew this all too well—not just from books or history classes, but from the whispered stories in his own neighbourhood, the sidelong glances, the unspoken barriers.
And that was why Karna's story wasn't just a tale of ancient times. It was personal.
His phone buzzed again, snapping him back to the present.
"You just don't get it, bro. Karna's a tragic loser. End of story."— @TruePandavaFan69
Vijay scoffed. "A tragic loser?" He tapped out a reply, fingers flying over the screen.
"Maybe. But Karna's tragedy isn't weakness — it's a reflection of a society that refused to see a hero for who he truly was. Even gods had their favourites."
His reply sent, Vijay stretched and glanced out the window. Rain drizzled softly, painting the streets in shimmering reflections. The kind of night perfect for diving into dusty manuscripts or weaving tales in his head.
But instead, his phone buzzed once more.
This time, the message wasn't from the peanut gallery.
It was from an anonymous account: @UnknownShayar
Vijay blinked.
Curiosity piqued, he tapped open the message.
Attached was a poem:
Keep the Pandavas — I stand with Kaurava ranks,Unbroken amid crowns and battle's harshest flanks.Born of the sun, yet branded untouchable and low,I'm the charioteer's son who dared to overthrow.
Son of Kunti, yet unloved by her own embrace,From whom even Indra sought mercy and grace.Son of Kunti, scorned yet fierce in my fight,Indra begged at my door, veiled in shadowed light.
Come, I'll reveal the truths behind Mahabharata's lore —All was Shiva's play, with Krishna pulling the oar.They hailed princes born of royal blood and might,But only those of noble caste were seen as right.
Gold was melted, poured into your throat with pride,Yet you, low-born, mastered the Vedas denied.That alone was your crime — born of a charioteer's seed,Then why hide behind me? I share that same creed.
That alone was your crime — born of a charioteer's seed,Then why hide behind me? I share that same creed.
...
Vijay read it twice, then thrice.
A strange chill slid down his spine — a pang of recognition, like a long-lost echo.
He hurriedly opened his profile too read more—
At the root of caste and pride stood arrogant Dronacharya,In his list of heroes, who else was there but Arjun, the paragon?If Madhav was truly brave, then why fear Ekalavya's might?Why demand his thumb to prove Parth's rightful height?
He who adorned his chariot with Krishna and mighty Hanuman,Led gods into battle, where mortal warriors began.Nandlal was your shield, Anjaneya at your rear,Yet harsh was fate's decree for these two revered.
Among the high and mighty, I was deemed low caste,Stranger to myself, belonging neither home nor past.My body gleamed like gold, my limbs impenetrable and strong,Karna's earrings shone bright — red and blue, vivid and long.
History bears witness — I was a skilled warrior true,Yet bound by my word, there was no choice I could undo.Had I not sworn to Kunti, that fateful vow so deep,I would have washed my hands in the Pandavas' blood.
Had I not sworn to Kunti, that fateful vow so deep,I would have washed my hands in the Pandavas' blood.
...
This... This is pure fire.
Vijay's breath caught, heart pounding as he scrolled through the verses again — words that felt like they were written just for him, cutting through years of frustration and doubt.
He stared at the screen, the rain's soft patter outside fading into the background. For the first time, the old debates, the online insults, the endless noise—they all seemed to dissolve into something bigger.
Something real.
A voice beyond the trolls and memes.
A voice that understood.
Especially the last line—
Had I not sworn to Kunti, that fateful vow so deep,I would have washed my hands in the Pandavas' blood.
It was like… It was like Karna himself had spoken through the screen.
Vijay swallowed hard. His palms were sweaty, heart racing as if the words had reached out and grabbed him by the soul. It wasn't just a poem. It wasn't just emotion.
It was a call.
A voice from another time. A voice that didn't beg for understanding — it demanded to be heard.
Suddenly, his phone glitched.
The screen flickered — once, twice — before plunging into black.
"…What the hell?"
Vijay tapped it, shook it, even pressed the power button like a desperate tech priest. But the device refused to respond. The glow of the screen was gone. Just his reflection staring back faintly from the black glass.
Then the lights went out.
The fan stopped dead. The buzzing city outside dulled into silence, like the whole world held its breath.
For a brief moment, all he could hear was the thunder, far off but rolling closer.
Vijay's eyes darted to the window. Rain hammered down harder now, no longer a drizzle but a curtain of sound.
And then—
A sudden flash.
Not lightning.
Not natural.
It came from the phone.
A pulse of golden light erupted from the screen, bathing the entire room in its eerie glow. Vijay stumbled back, shielding his eyes.
"Wha—?!"
The phone floated.
No, not floated — levitated, like something out of an anime. Glowing golden, ancient runes swirling across its surface. The air turned thick, buzzing with energy.
A voice echoed — not aloud, but in his head.
"The one who cries for the forsaken... shall rise as the forgotten sun."
"You who wept for Karna… shall now bear his burden."
"Awaken, O child of fire and fate."
And before he could react — before logic, reason, or screaming could kick in — the golden light engulfed him entirely.
It wasn't warmth.It was weight.
Heavy like guilt. Heavy like destiny.
His knees gave out. The room spun like a cyclone. His heartbeat thundered like distant war drums.
One final whisper slipped into his ears, as everything faded:
[Host recognized: Karna]
...
Eh. Eh? EH?!