Karna My Son - part 2

I faint in the arena, not from weakness but from the shock of seeing my past walk into my present — alive, grown, strong, claimed by another woman and another world. When I wake, I say nothing. The truth inside me tightens like a knot pulled too hard.

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After the tournament, life moves on as if nothing has changed. Duryodhana stands beside Karna with a pride that only deepens with time; their bond grows quickly, two young men hungry for recognition and fiercely loyal to each other. I watch them from afar, always with the same quiet dread. I know what it means for a boy to be lifted from obscurity and given a place. I know what such gratitude can become. I know the same ache Karna carries : the hunger to belong, the desperation to prove oneself worthy.

And that is when I realise I cannot reveal the truth now. He is no longer a child in a basket — he is a man with pride, anger, and wounds I cannot predict. And he stands beside the one person who trusts him completely. If I speak now, I break that trust and risk his fury. I cannot bear the thought of him looking at me with hatred. So the secret stays — not because I fear society, nor my sons; they would love me still. I fear only him, my firstborn, the one I abandoned, the one who may never forgive me.

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Years roll.

The fire at Varanavata — the wax palace — nearly takes our lives. The heat, the smoke, the desperate crawl through the tunnel… yet we escape. My sons survive. I survive.

Meanwhile Karna’s loyalty to Duryodhana only deepens. With every turn, he moves further from the life he was born into — and further from me. And as my sons’ paths unfold, I feel more and more that I can no longer shape any of it. Destiny has taken over.

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After the fire, Krishna enters our lives more closely. There is something steady about him — not dazzling, not mystical, but a clarity that eases even the heaviest thoughts. He does not ask about my secret, yet I sometimes feel he knows. He never presses. He waits.

When Draupadi becomes the shared wife of my sons, I see Krishna’s quiet presence guiding the moment. I do not know if he is divine. I only know that his calmness settles over my unrest like a gentle shade.

The years before the dice game, my sons grow in strength and confidence; Duryodhana’s resentment grows with them. Karna stands beside him, constant and unquestioning.

During the dice game, when Draupadi is dragged into the hall, Karna stands there — steady, sharp-tongued, unyielding. I look at him and know: he does not belong to me anymore. He has shaped himself around another loyalty, another affection. What place do I have now to claim him?

And so the secret stays.

When war becomes unavoidable, Krishna comes to me. He speaks gently, but his words strike straight at the heart. “It is time for Karna to know.”

The moment I dreaded all my life stands before me. Krishna explains that if I had told Karna earlier, he would have been torn between loyalties, hurting everyone, including himself. If I tell him after the war, it becomes cruelty. But now — when his path is fixed and he knows what he is fighting for — the truth will free him, not bind him.

I do not know whether Krishna is God, but I know he is right. But meeting Karna is the hardest walk of my life.

My son stands tall, composed, almost waiting. When I see his face clearly — so much of myself reflected in him — a quiet ache fills me.

I tell him the truth. Slowly, carefully. Not to win him back, not to claim him, but to return to him what I once took — his identity.

He listens in stillness. When he speaks, his voice is calm, almost too calm. He says he is grateful to know. He says he understands. But he cannot return to me. His loyalty is already given. He promises four of my sons will survive. He excludes Arjuna. That promise is both comfort and wound.

As I return, I realise the burden has shifted. Not vanished — simply placed where fate meant it to rest.

The war begins. Each time my sons ride to battle, I feel the weight of the secret I carried. But there is no turning back now. When Karna falls, I know before the news reaches me. Something inside me sinks, quiet and deep.

I go to him.

Karna's face is strangely peaceful. I whisper to him I am proud. I tell him I am sorry. I tell him I loved him from the very beginning.

I tell Yudhistra to perform the final rites and give him the honor and recognition he never got. When Yudhishthira learns the truth, his grief sharpens into anger. His words wound not because they are harsh, but because they rise from the pain of having unknowingly fought his own brother. He curses no women should ever keep secrets.

I do not protest.

The burden should never have been mine alone. Why must women be the keepers of silence, carrying choices that shape kingdoms? Who decides what is right or wrong? Dharma is not a command etched in stone; it shifts with time, place, and circumstance. And if society claims the right to judge, then society must also share the truth that leads to judgment.

A secret kept to protect others can still mislead them.

Secrets do not protect — they twist destinies. They turn love into conflict, kinship into enmity.

Let the truth belong to the world now.

Let society judge itself.

The burden passes from my hands.

And with that, something inside me finally breaks free.