Dream - A Karna SI

7. GROWTH

Karna's POV

The frigid water numbed my legs, turning them into leaden weights beneath me. Each breath was a struggle, the cold air scathing my nostrils and lungs like shards of glass. My skin tingled painfully, shifting from a dull ache to a sharp, stinging sensation as I tried to move. I stood naked and waist-deep in the icy river, feeling the biting cold seep into my very bones.

The snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas loomed in the distance, their silent majesty a stark contrast to the internal battle I waged against the elements. The river's current tugged at me relentlessly, but I stood firm, focusing on the discipline and endurance my divine father Surya had instilled in me.

Despite the agony, a part of me reveled in the raw, untamed power of nature, feeling a profound connection to the ancient, rugged beauty surrounding me. This was more than a physical trial; it was a test of my spirit and resolve, a crucible through which I would forge the strength needed for the monumental challenges ahead.

I stood in the freezing river, my fingers barely able to hold the bowstring as I drew back, an arrow glowing and dimming at its tip. This was the AGNAYASTRA, the divine fire weapon. Today, I wasn't just summoning its power; I was mastering the delicate balance between AAVAHAN (summoning) and VISARJAN (retracting). The icy water swirling around me served as both a distraction and an antithesis to the fire I sought to control.

The process of retracting any divine weapon was as crucial as summoning it. Often, I had to master the retraction before fully learning the summoning. It was a mentally and physically exhausting task, demanding precision and intense focus. Each weapon required its own specific MANTRA, a sacred incantation with a unique rhythm and pronunciation. A single misstep would render the weapon inert.

Memorizing these MANTRAS was a challenge in itself. Without any proper writing tools, I had to rely entirely on my auditory senses, repeatedly reciting and internalizing each syllable until it was etched into my memory. It felt as if I was rewiring my brain, forging new pathways through sheer will and repetition. The cold water may have numbed my body, but my mind remained sharp, honing my skills to perfection in this relentless environment.

As the river training session concluded, I pulled myself from the icy depths, my muscles stiff and my skin tingling from the cold. I made my way back to the ashram, where my next challenge awaited.

The warmth of the midday sun was a stark contrast to the freezing river. I saddled a sturdy horse, its breath visible in the crisp air. Riding atop this powerful steed, I prepared for a different kind of training. With the bow in my hand and a quiver full of arrows, I urged the horse into a gallop.

The rhythmic thudding of the horse's hooves echoed through the forest as I adjusted my stance, balancing the bowstring's tension with the movement of the horse. This was a test of agility and precision-firing arrows while in motion required a seamless blend of focus and adaptability.

Drawing back the bowstring, I took aim at a distant target, releasing the arrow with a swift, practiced motion. The arrow flew true, striking the target with a satisfying thud. I continued this exercise, firing arrow after arrow, each shot honing my skills further. The forest blurred around me as I moved with the horse, my body synchronizing with its powerful strides.

Transitioning from the icy river to the galloping horse, I felt a surge of exhilaration. These contrasting environments pushed my limits, refining my abilities and deepening my understanding of the art of warfare. With each arrow released, I grew more confident, knowing that these rigorous training sessions were shaping me into a warrior worthy of this age.

As the day turned into night, I felt the weight of the day's training in every muscle. The transition from the freezing river to the galloping horse had pushed me to my limits, but there was one final challenge I had set for myself before I could rest. In the dead of night, with the forest shrouded in darkness, I would practice the SABDBEDHI-the art of shooting arrows guided solely by sound.

I gathered a few brahmacharis, explaining the task at hand. They were to throw wooden plates into the air at varying intervals and directions. This training demanded acute concentration and precision. Any mistake could result in tragedy, recalling the story of King Dashratha and the ill-fated Sravan Kumar, who was mistakenly killed while fetching water for his blind parents.

"Remember," I cautioned the brahmacharis as always, "safety is paramount. Make sure you are well clear of the target area before releasing the plates."

They nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation, which I have drilled into them multiple times. We moved to a secluded clearing within the ashram grounds, far from where any monks or wildlife might inadvertently wander. The moon cast a pale light, but it was the sound I needed to focus on, not the sight.

I took my position, bow at the ready, and signaled the brahmacharis to begin. The first plate was thrown, and I listened intently to the subtle whoosh as it cut through the air. Drawing back my bow, I released the arrow, guided by the sound. The arrow hit its mark, and the wooden plate splintered.

One after another, the plates were thrown, each requiring me to adjust my aim and timing based solely on the sound they made. The night was filled with the rhythmic twang of my bowstring and the sharp crack of arrows hitting their targets. The brahmacharis' murmurs of amazement were a testament to the difficulty of this task.

Despite my weariness, I felt a surge of determination with each successful shot. This was more than just practice; it was a testament to my commitment to mastering every aspect of my craft. The story of Dashratha and Sravan Kumar lingered in my mind, reminding me of the consequences of failure, but it also fueled my resolve to perfect this skill without harm to others.

As the final plate was launched into the night sky, I closed my eyes, relying entirely on my heightened senses. The sound was faint but distinct, and I released the arrow with confidence. It found its target, shattering the plate with a satisfying crack.

Lowering my bow, I took a deep breath, feeling a profound sense of accomplishment. The brahmacharis gathered the remains of the plates, their faces reflecting a mix of awe and respect.

"Thank you for your assistance," I said, bowing slightly to them. "Your help is invaluable."

They returned my bow with reverence before dispersing into the night. I stood alone in the clearing, the silence of the forest enveloping me. Tonight's practice had been a success, but it was just another step in my relentless pursuit of excellence.

With the night's training complete, I walked back to the ashram, the stories of the past guiding my path as I continued to forge my own destiny. The rigorous and diverse training sessions had not only honed my skills but also deepened my understanding of discipline, resilience, and the delicate balance between power and responsibility. This journey was far from over, but with each passing day, I was growing closer to my goal.