Dream - A Karna SI

15. PREPARATION

Karn - 18 years

Yudhisthir - 15 years

Bhima & Duryodhana - 14 years

Arjun - 13 years

Nakula & Sahdeva - 11 years

Karn's POV

Staying at home was like stepping back into a dream, one filled with familiar sights, sounds, and the comforting routines of daily life. The first few days were a whirlwind of reunions and catching up, as I reconnected with my family and took the time to get to know my three younger brothers-Vipatha, Vikranta, and Chitrasen-whom I had never met before. They were all bright-eyed and curious, eager to learn about the elder brother they had only heard stories about. I realized with a pang that after the upcoming parting, it might be years before I would see them again, so I made sure to savor every moment.

My mother, Radha, was the happiest of all. She busied herself in the kitchen, preparing all of my favorite dishes with a zeal that left no doubt about the depth of her joy. Yet beneath her smiles and laughter, I could sense a mother's intuition at work-she knew, as I did, that my stay would be brief. To counter this, she had devised a plan to keep me close: she began pestering both me and my father, Adhiratha, about my marriage. I was already past the appropriate age for marriage by our society's standards, and she made it clear that she saw no reason to delay any further.

I tried to dodge her insistence with humor and wit, hoping to distract her with tales of my adventures or by helping with chores, but she was relentless. She'd often corner me while I was least expecting it, her voice filled with affectionate urgency as she listed the virtues of this or that young woman in the village. I quickly realized that this was a battle I couldn't win easily, and so I braced myself to endure her matchmaking attempts for the time being.

Meanwhile, the village itself was thriving, and the youths had mostly settled into their trades. Many of the Suta children, following in the footsteps of their ancestors, had found employment in the royal army as charioteers and foot soldiers. My brothers, Sangramjeet and Satrunjaya, were no exception. Sangramjeet, already a teenager, had secured a place in the royal army, while Satrunjaya, though still too young for formal enlistment, was eager to follow in his footsteps.

True to their word, neither had forgotten their earlier promise to learn from me. They had been waiting years for this opportunity, and now that I was home, they were determined to make the most of it. I began holding a morning class for the teenagers and an ad-hoc evening class for the younger children who were interested. These sessions became a focal point of my days, as I immersed myself in teaching them the strategies and techniques of warfare that I had learned during my time away.

Teaching, I quickly discovered, was an entirely different challenge from mastering skills on my own. It was one thing to understand the discipline and rigor required to excel, but quite another to impart that understanding to others. The teenagers, eager to learn, often grew frustrated when I focused on the basics-formation fighting, strategic planning, the importance of discipline-rather than immediately teaching them flashy techniques or powerful weapons. They wanted to see results quickly, and the slow, methodical pace of true learning was a hard sell.

Yet, despite the initial disillusionment, a few persisted. Some were friends of my brothers who had heard tales of my earlier teachings, and others were young men who understood the value of what I was trying to instill in them. These were the ones who listened closely, who absorbed the lessons not just with their ears, but with their minds and hearts. I wanted to prepare them, to make them warriors who could think on their feet, who could survive and excel in battle, rather than become mere cannon fodder in the conflicts that seemed inevitable.

As the days passed, I became aware of the construction taking place in Hastinapur-the grand Rangashala, the arena where the Kuru princes would soon demonstrate their skills before the court. The realization struck me that the event was only a couple of months away. I found myself eager to witness the results of Guru Drona's famed teachings, to see how the princes had honed their abilities under his guidance.

It wasn't that I doubted Lord Surya's teachings-far from it. His wisdom had shaped me in ways I was still discovering. But my study of mythical weapons had been a solitary journey, one conducted in the vast expanse of my mind and the silent valleys of the Himalayas. Now, I wanted to see how those teachings would stand in contrast to the structured, disciplined training the princes had received under Drona. This wasn't just about comparing myself to them; it was about understanding where I stood on the path I had chosen, and how much further I still had to go.

(A few months later)

Karn's POV

The day of the much-anticipated demonstrations by the Kuru princes had arrived, and Hastinapur's grand Rangashala was filled with excitement. I made my way to the arena, my heart pounding in sync with the buzz of the crowd. The place was alive with energy, a sea of people eager to witness the future rulers of Bharat display their prowess. I found a spot among the audience, trying to remain inconspicuous, though I knew it would be difficult to go unnoticed with my golden armor and radiant kundals glinting in the sunlight.

As the princes took the stage, my eyes were drawn to the impressive figures of the Pandavas and Duryodhana. They had grown into formidable warriors, their presence commanding attention. Bhima, in particular, had become a giant of a man, his body resembling a mountain more than a human form. Every movement he made seemed to ripple with raw power, and when he squared off against Duryodhana, the tension in the arena was palpable. Their rivalry, steeped in bad blood, played out in a vicious duel that left the audience breathless. The clash of their maces echoed like thunder, each strike a testament to their strength and skill.

Yudhishthira's calm and measured approach was a stark contrast to the ferocity of his younger brothers. His control over his chariot, the precision of his spear, and the sheer nobility in his demeanor spoke volumes about his leadership and strategic mind. Nakula and Sahadeva, though not as dominant as their elder brothers, were no less impressive. Their synchronization in their twin swordsmanship was a marvel to behold, a perfect balance of grace and lethal efficiency.

But it was Arjun who captured my full attention. From the moment he stepped forward with his bow, in hand, the atmosphere in the arena seemed to shift. There was something almost otherworldly about the way he handled his weapon, a seamless blend of speed, precision, and deadly intent. Each arrow he released was like a lightning bolt, striking with unerring accuracy. The ease with which he performed even the most complex shots was nothing short of frightening. Arjun was not just skilled-he was extraordinary, a warrior of such rare talent that it was almost difficult to believe he was still so young.

The spectacle of the day had drawn to a close, leaving the air thick with the echoes of cheering and the dust kicked up by the warriors' feet. I stood among the throngs of spectators, the cheers still ringing in my ears, but my mind was elsewhere. Watching Arjun perform, I couldn't help but marvel at his skill. His movements were flawless, his mastery of the bow unparalleled. The crowd's adoration was well-earned. Yet, as I watched him, there was no bitterness in my heart, no jealousy. Arjun was a warrior destined for greatness, but I realized that I had no desire to walk in his shadow or to become his rival. My path was my own, and it would be forged by my own choices, not in competition with him.

As the crowd began to settle, my gaze drifted toward the royal seats, where Kunti sat among the members of the royal family. When our eyes met, my breath caught in my throat. There was a flicker of recognition in her gaze, and then, slowly, a smile spread across her face-a smile that carried the weight of years, of a bond unspoken but deeply felt. It was a smile of recognition and relief. My heart swelled with emotion, a complex mix of longing, pride, and a deep, unspoken connection.

I knew I could no longer delay the inevitable.The time had come to meet the Pandavas and Kunti, and I resolved to do so thefollowing day. Today was their moment of celebration, the culmination of theireducation, and I would not intrude on that. With a steady breath, I began tomake my way through the dispersing crowd, the spectacle of the day having cometo an end.