The river flowed steadily, its gentle currents splashing against the rocks. The sky was orange and pink, as though the very heavens mourned alongside her.
Badum. Badum. Badum.
Kunti's heart pounded against her chest. She could barely hear anything beyond. The wooden basket in her hands felt heavier than it should. The tiny baby within stirred, letting out a soft whimper. His golden skin glowed faintly in the fading sunlight.
"No," Kunti whispered, shaking her head. "I must do this."
Her hands trembled as she crouched near the water's edge. The damp earth clung to her silk robes, but she did not care. How could she, when the weight of her sin pressed down upon her like a mountain?
A soft cry.
She flinched. The baby squirmed, his tiny hands reaching out, as if seeking warmth, comfort—love.
Kunti's vision blurred with tears. "You are innocent," she choked out. "But the world is cruel. It will not forgive me. It will not forgive you."
She looked up at the sky. The golden orb of the sun loomed above, watching, unblinking. Surya. The god who had blessed..or cursed..her. He had given her a son, a divine child with celestial armor and earrings fused to his body. A child born not out of desire, but out of her reckless curiosity. And now, she had to abandon him.
A gust of wind rustled the trees. The river lapped at her feet, as if urging her to hurry.
Creak.
The basket shifted slightly in her grasp. The baby let out another cry, louder this time. Kunti bit her lip, stifling a sob.
"Shh, shh," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I can't keep you, my son. Forgive me."
She placed the basket on the water's surface. The wood groaned under the weight, rocking gently before the current began to carry it away.
Badum. Badum.
Kunti clutched her chest. A sharp pain stabbed at her heart as she watched the basket drift further, further…
The baby cried again. Louder.
She almost reached out. Almost called his name...though he had none. Almost waded into the river to pull him back. To hold him. To tell him she loved him.
A rustling behind her.
She stiffened, turning her head sharply. Was someone there? Had someone seen her? Her breath hitched. If she was discovered, if the truth came out...
The wind howled through the trees. Leaves rustled, whispering secrets she wished to bury. No footsteps followed. No voices called out.
Kunti turned back to the river. The basket was drifting farther now, a small dark shape against the shimmering water.
Thud.
Her knees hit the ground. A sob ripped from her throat, muffled by the wind.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
The river did not respond. The basket did not return. The child did not know.
She stayed there long after the sun had sunk below the horizon, long after the baby's cries had faded into the night.
---
The basket drifted under the moonlight, carried gently by the river's embrace. The baby within had quieted, his eyes shut. The celestial armor on his tiny chest gleamed faintly, reflecting the silver glow of the moon.
The river knew where it must take him.
Further downstream, past sleeping villages and dense forests, the waters led the basket toward a small hut on the riverbank. Inside, a man sat polishing the wheel of a broken chariot. His weathered hands worked with precision, but his mind was elsewhere.
Adhiratha sighed. "So late already?" he muttered to himself, setting his tools aside. "Where is that woman? She should be back by now."
Just as he rose, a sound reached his ears.
A faint wail.
He froze. The cry came again, soft but unmistakable. A baby's cry.
"Radha?" he called out, hurrying outside. "Is that you?"
The river glistened under the moonlight, its gentle waves lapping at the shore. And there, nestled among the reeds, was a small basket.
Adhiratha's breath caught. His heart thudded against his ribs as he rushed toward it. His fingers trembled as he pulled the basket closer, peering inside.
A baby.
A baby with golden skin, wrapped in silks finer than any he had ever seen. And...
Adhiratha gasped. His eyes widened at the sight of the gleaming golden earrings and the armor that seemed part of the child's very flesh.
"By the gods…" he whispered.
The baby stirred, letting out another soft cry. His tiny hand reached out, grasping at nothing.
Adhiratha's heart clenched. Who would abandon such a child? And why?
Footsteps behind him. Radha had returned, a bundle of firewood in her arms.
"What is it?" she asked, noticing his expression.
Adhiratha turned, his voice hushed. "A baby," he said, barely believing his own words. "The river… it brought him to us."
Radha set down the firewood and hurried to his side. Her eyes widened as she looked inside the basket. "Oh, Adhiratha…" Her hands covered her mouth. "He's beautiful."
The baby whimpered. Without hesitation, Radha reached in and lifted him into her arms. The child settled against her chest, his cries quieting as she rocked him gently.
"We must keep him," she said, her voice firm.
Adhiratha hesitated. "But… he is not ours."
"He is now." Radha's eyes were fierce. "No mother who wanted him would send him down a river. No father would search for him. He belongs to us now."
Adhiratha looked at the baby again. Something inside him shifted. Maybe the gods had sent him this child. Maybe fate had brought them together.
Slowly, he nodded. "We will call him… Karna."
Radha smiled. "Karna," she repeated, pressing a soft kiss to the baby's forehead.
And in that moment, the river whispered its approval, the waters lapping gently at the shore before carrying on, its duty fulfilled.
The boy born of the sun had found his home.
And yet, the world had other plans for him.