— Bhairava's Curses and the Shattered Truths
When Rudra placed his palm upon Dronacharya's head, the entire arena held its breath. The gathered masses believed they were about to witness the crushing of a skull by divine wrath. Even in the celestial realms, tension coiled.
In Brahmaloka, Brahma turned anxiously toward Mahadev, his voice full of alarm.
"Rudra is in his Bhairav form, Mahadev! If he kills Drona, it will be Brahma Hatya. He will be tainted forever."
But Mahadev's gaze remained still, his voice calm.
"Rudra, even in his rage, cannot lose his sanity. He is bound by many boons, and his dharmic center remains unshaken. Watch, Brahma. You will see."
From Vaikuntha, Narayan spoke, his tone thoughtful.
"If Rudra's wrath does not subside by the end, you may have to intervene, Prabhu."
Mahadev chuckled softly.
"Rudra's rage is beyond even me. If it must be calmed... only Parvati can do so."
Back in the mortal plane, Drona felt a strange energy envelop his head. A misty grey aura surrounded him—neither hot nor cold, but unbearably heavy. Rudra's voice boomed, low and final.
"You betrayed your own students. Your bias led them into ignorance and darkness. From this moment forth, I—Rudra—strip you of your sight and your title as Acharya. Let this curse be your punishment."
Gasps filled the air.
"Any who receives knowledge from you henceforth shall be cursed to die an unnatural death."
Dronacharya stumbled backward, clutching his eyes. His world turned black. "No... no..." he whispered in horror.
His father, the great Rishi Bharadwaj, had once cursed him to forget Shakti Vidya due to his arrogance and partiality.
Now Rudra had cursed him further—blinded him, and stripped away the right to be a Guru.
The once-proud teacher was now a broken man.
A burning seed of revenge sparked within him.
Rudra turned his gaze next to Arjun.
"You are undoubtedly one of the greatest archers Bharatvarsh has seen. But remember: there is always a mountain taller, and a sky above all mountains."
Arjun looked down, eyes conflicted.
"Your pride blinded your judgment, Arjun. You have never offended me personally—but today, you summoned the Tridev Astra before a mortal audience, with no regard for the outcome. Do you know what would have happened had Karna responded with his true might? Entire thousands would have perished."
The words cut deep.
"So hear my curse: Until you realize the true value of life, the consequences of divine power, and the meaning of restraint—you shall forget the knowledge of Tridev Astras."
Arjun's knees buckled. The crowd gasped again.
His own eyes widened with the painful weight of his mistake. "I... I didn't think..."
Rudra did not offer comfort.
He turned slowly toward Yudhishthir.
"Oh, Dharma Putra. Did you not see the injustice of your guru? Did you not hear your brother's vile words toward a woman? And yet, you chose silence."
Yudhishthir looked visibly shaken.
"Is this the Dharma you uphold? If so, be warned—this brotherhood you protect with your silence will not last. Remember this."
Yudhishthir lowered his gaze, unable to respond. Deep in his heart, a sliver of disdain whispered.
"Who could possibly break the bond between the Pandavas?"
But what he did not realize was that Rudra's words were no longer mere speech—they were now prophecy.
Now Rudra turned toward Bhishma Pitamah.
Even the mighty warrior flinched. Rudra's oppressive aura had grown tenfold. Even a Maharathi shivered under the weight.
"O Devavrata, for fear of damaging Kuru pride, you held your tongue. You watched my sister be insulted. You watched my disciples be mocked. And you remained silent."
Bhishma lowered his eyes in shame.
"Now you will see that very Kuru prestige crumble into dust before your very eyes."
A pause.
Rudra now faced the entire crowd. His voice was low but powerful, echoing like thunder over still waters.
"Let me tell you all a story. A story of a mother with a heart of stone."
Everyone went still.
"Once, there was a princess. A noble girl who served a visiting Maharishi in her kingdom. The rishi, pleased with her devotion, gave her a mantra—a boon. With it, she could summon any god and receive a child as blessing."
Gasps and whispers rippled through the spectators.
"In foolishness and disbelief, the princess used that mantra—unmarried and alone—to summon Surya, the sun god himself. He gave her his divine ansh... a child born with an unbreakable kavach and kundal, crafted from amrit."
"But the princess, afraid of society's scorn, wept and cast the newborn child into the river, like filth. Like sin."
No one spoke. The air had become heavy.
"That princess... is none other than your Rajmata Kunti."
Eyes darted to Kunti, who looked frozen in terror.
"And the boy she abandoned—that child—is none other than my proudest disciple: Suryaputra Radhey Karna."
The crowd erupted into chaos.
Some nobles stood in horror, hands to their mouths. Others whispered furiously, torn between judgment and sympathy. A few elders nodded, solemn and sorrowful.
"Maybe she was just a child herself..." one voice muttered.
"But a mother is a mother," another snapped. "Even an unmarried one."
The crowd split—some condemning, some defending.
A woman sobbed into her shawl. A warrior clenched his jaw.
But all eyes turned as Karna stepped forward.
His body trembled—not with shame, but fury.
His fists were clenched. His face was pale. His breathing uneven.
"You... you're my mother?"
His voice cracked.
Kunti stepped forward, weeping. "Yes, my son—"
"DON'T!" Karna's roar silenced the entire arena.
"Don't call me your son. You threw me away like a sin. You let me grow up mocked, beaten, spit on! You watched me fight for dignity, for respect—while you sat in luxury."
His eyes burned.
"You abandoned me before I even had a name. Today, you don't get the right to claim it."
Kunti collapsed to the floor, sobbing.
Rudra stood tall beside his disciple, silent but resolute.
Yudhishthir looked stunned. Arjun staggered back, guilt flooding his heart. Bhishma closed his eyes in grief. Dronacharya, blinded and broken, clenched his fists in humiliation.
And among the people, the air was divided. Some whispered Kunti's name with disdain. Others wept with her.
Even the gods watched from above. Narayan's eyes were grave. Mahadev remained still. Brahma shook his head.
And through it all, Rudra stood at the heart of the arena.
Then...
Rudra turned his head slowly toward Bheem.
A fresh wave of dread settled over the crowd like a thundercloud. The oppressive silence returned.
It was the silence of judgment.
And with that silence came a sound—a low, echoing hum of energy.
Rudra had summoned his twin swords—Samhaar.
Forged in realms unknown, the twin blades pulsed with primal hunger.
Samhaar never disappears without tasting blood.
The light dimmed. The wind stilled.