Karna, My Son : Part 1

I am Kunti. I was Pritha once, but I grew into Kunti — shaped by the homes I entered, the vows I kept, and the secrets I carried.

I was very young when everything familiar is taken from me. One day I am in my father Surasena’s palace — the footsteps I know, the voices I recognize, the comfort of routines that never change. The next day, I am being sent to Kuntibhoja’s kingdom, because a promise must be kept.

A child does not understand promises. A child only knows the fear of being uprooted.

My new mother — the mother of this new house — welcomes me kindly, holds my hand, even hugs me. But her touch is not my mother’s, and my mother does not seem to miss me the way I miss her.

So, I try to be careful. I try not to offend. I try to belong. Some days I feel accepted. Some days I feel like I must prove myself again. Slowly, the new rhythms become familiar, but the insecurity settles quietly inside me — not loud, just present.

And that is how I grow up.

***Durvasa and the mantra***

Sage Durvasa comes to Kuntibhoja’s court one summer, sudden and unpredictable, like a wind that changes direction without warning. Everyone fears offending him. I am told to serve him because I am patient, observant, and careful — qualities that matter with a sage like him.

Those days are long. He simply expects complete attention — water at the right moment, food exactly as asked, silence when he wishes it, answers when he demands them. I learn to read his moods. Perhaps he notices that.

Before he leaves, he calls me aside. He gives me a mantra.

He says it is powerful, meant to invoke any deity of my choice and receive a child blessed by them. He blesses me and departs.

For a long time, I do not know what to do with it. I am still a girl. The mantra feels too big for me, too heavy. I keep it hidden, as carefully as I once hid my fears in a new home.

***Invoking Surya***

As I grow older, I think of the mantra the way one thinks of an unopened box — aware of it, but unsure of what it contains.

One dawn, curiosity overtakes caution. I whisper the mantra.

And Surya appears. Not with blinding radiance or shattering power — but with a presence that leaves me breathless because I did not expect it to work at all.

I feel fear and confusion. I do not understand gods or blessings. I only understand that I am alone, and this is real.

Surya tells me he cannot return without fulfilling what the mantra commands. He tells me the child born from this union will carry divine armor and earrings from birth. He tells me I will not be harmed.

None of this comforts me.

When he finally withdraws, I sit for a long time in silence, trying to understand what I have done. In the days that follow, I realize the truth slowly, the way dawn spreads across a wall — not all at once, but unmistakably.

I am with child.

And from that moment, every breath becomes heavier, not because of the life growing inside me, but because it must remain hidden.

***Karna’s Birth and Aftermath***

The months that follow are the hardest season of my life.

I grow quieter. I avoid crowded rooms. I choose loose garments, avoid the eyes of the women who know me too well. I am still only a maiden, and yet I carry a child whose very existence I cannot explain. There is no one I can confide in. Fear becomes my constant companion — fear of what will happen if anyone discovers the truth.

I give birth alone, before dawn, clutching a newborn who is impossibly calm and radiant — and wearing the armor and earrings Surya had spoken of.

For a moment, I feel only wonder. Then everything collapses into a single terrifying thought:
I cannot keep him.
I do what no mother should ever have to do.

I place him in a basket. I line it with soft cloth. I kiss his forehead — once, quickly, because if I hesitate, I will shatter. And I walk to the river. The water is quiet that morning, as if it understands. I set the basket afloat, whisper a prayer that whoever finds him should give far more love than I have.

Only when he disappears from sight do I let myself cry.

After that day, I bury the memory deep inside myself — the basket, the river, the tiny face I try not to recall. Life, reputation — why, even my survival — demand it.

And I grow up carrying the weight of a child no one knows I once held.

***Pandu, forest life, and the birth of the Pandavas***

Years pass. In time, I am married to Pandu — a king admired for his victories, calm nature, and generous heart. He is kind to me in a way that feels new and unfamiliar.

Madri joins the household soon after. We live with courtesy between us — not closeness, not distance, just a careful balance.

But our lives change quickly.

During a hunt, Pandu commits an act that alters all our fates — an arrow released in haste, striking not a deer but a sage who had taken that form with his wife.

His dying words are a curse: If Pandu approaches either of us with desire, he will die.

A vow falls upon our marriage like a shadow.

We leave the palace and choose the forest — not for leisure, but because ascetic life seems the only way Pandu can still hold on to dignity, the only way he can live without constantly fearing his own touch.

Days become simple, stripped of courtly noise. But one sorrow grows sharper with silence:
Pandu longs for a child — for inheritance, for stability, for the future of the kingdom he once protected.

I see the pain in his eyes. It is then I remember the mantra. Durvasa did not give it to me casually. Sages see farther than we do; perhaps he foresaw this moment, this need, this crossroads in the forest.

I speak to Pandu about it. He listens, breathes deeply, and for the first time in months, hope returns to his face.

And so, with his permission, with his presence, I invoke the mantra. Yudhishthira is born — calm, steady, with a quiet dignity even as an infant. Pandu is overjoyed.
In time, I invoke the mantra again, and Bhima arrives — strong, loud, demanding, full of life.
Then Arjuna — focused, alert, a child whose gaze seems to reach beyond what is before him.

Madri watches my sons grow — their laughter, their strength, their father’s joy — and I can feel her longing without her saying a word.

One day she asks, softly, carefully, if she may also call upon the mantra.

I hesitate — not from jealousy, not from pride, but from caution. Some gifts are not meant to be used lightly. Even so, I cannot deny her. I teach her exactly what I was taught.

She invokes the Ashwins — and Nakula and Sahadeva are born. Five sons of one father, born of devotion, necessity, and the choices that destiny placed before us.

But joy in the forest does not last forever.

***Pandu’s death — return to Hastinapura***

Pandu’s desire for a life he can never return to grows stronger with each passing year. He wants to be more than a father who observes from a distance. He wants to be a husband again.

One morning, when the forest is quiet and the boys are away, it happens—swift, irreversible.

Pandu reaches for Madri.

The curse takes him instantly.

When I find them, it is already over.

Madri looks at me with eyes full of pain and decision. She wants to follow him in death.

I cannot battle her conviction.

After her passing, I gather all five boys—my three, her two—and I know that from this moment I am mother to them all.

We return to Hastinapura.

The palace has changed, but some things have not — ambition, comparison, rivalry. Despite this, the boys grow well under Drona’s instruction. Their talent draws admiration — but also resentment.

I hear of Duryodhana’s unease, of the quiet efforts to undermine my sons. One attempt after another — small slights, plots, even the terrible incident by the river when Bhima narrowly escapes death. The struggle between the princes becomes impossible to ignore.

To turn away the attention to these tensions, Dhritarashtra orders a public display of skill.

The arena fills with people. The roar of the crowd rises like a tide. My sons step forward in turn, and pride swells in me with each feat they perform. Arjuna shines brightest—every eye in the stadium follows him.

And then, suddenly, another boy steps out.

I do not know why my heart stops. I do not know why my breath catches before he even lifts his bow. But the moment he draws the string, I understand : The stance. The focus. The intensity. I have seen that before—once, in a cradle, many years ago.

He matches Arjuna shot for shot. The crowd is uproarious. Duryodhana, seizing the moment, declares him king of Anga. And when the crown touches his head, the truth hits me like a blow:
This is the child I set afloat. This is my firstborn.
The world tilts. I cannot breathe. I cannot stand.
The noise of the arena melts into a blur. The faces, the cheers, the princes—all fade.
And I faint, collapsing under the weight of a secret I have carried alone for too many years.