Three years passed like whispers in the wind.
Currently Karna and Dhira 3 years old and Shakthi 10 years old.
In the quiet village of charioteers near the banks of the Ganga, a boy named Karna grew under the watchful eyes of Radha and Adhiratha. They had found him one morning, nestled in a basket drifting gently along the river's edge. To them, he was no ordinary child—he was a gift from Maa Ganga herself, a divine offering to a humble couple who had long prayed for a son.
Karna's golden earrings and radiant armor were unlike anything they had seen, but they never questioned his origin. Instead, they wrapped him in love and discipline, teaching him how to live with grace under constraints. Adhiratha, a charioteer by trade, taught Karna the art of patience, the value of silence, and the strength of humility. Radha, gentle yet firm, taught him compassion and resilience.
Though Karna was different—his aura brighter, his silence deeper—he never complained. He learned to fetch water, tend to horses, and bow respectfully to elders. He watched other boys train with wooden swords and dream of royal courts, but he remained grounded, his heart quietly yearning for something more. He did not yet know what.
Far to the south, in the dense forests of Dakshin Bharat, the Varha tribe roamed like wind and shadow. Nomadic by nature, they shifted camps every year, seeking fertile land, clean water, and safety from rival tribes. Their lives were woven with survival, archery, and reverence for Lord Varaha, the lost avatar of Vishnu who walked between beast and god.
Among them grew a boy named Dhira, son of the tribe leader Bhaira and his wife Kalyani. Unlike Karna, Dhira was notorious. At three, he was already a whirlwind—darting through trees, climbing rocks, and playing tricks on unsuspecting tribesmen. He would mimic animal calls to confuse hunters, swap herbs in the healer's pouch, and vanish just before a scolding could land.
The tribe, though amused, often shook their heads. "He's wild," they said. "Too clever for his own good."
But Dhira was more than mischievous—he was observant. He watched the hunters train with bows and spears, their arms taut, their eyes sharp. Yet he felt no pull toward weapons. "The body is the first weapon," he would say, punching the air or kicking a tree trunk. "Fists and legs are enough."
Many disagreed. Archery was sacred to the Varha. It was not just skill—it was survival. But Dhira remained firm. He had found a stick during one of the tribe's migrations—a gnarled, dark branch that refused to break no matter how he struck, twisted, or burned it. He named it Adolita—"Unshaken, Unmoved."
Whenever someone mocked his disdain for weapons, he would raise Adolita and grin. "This is enough," he'd say. "It listens to me."
His sister Shakthi, now ten, often watched him with a mix of pride and exasperation. "You'll never win a real fight with that," she'd tease.
Dhīra would reply. "Hmmmmmmm "
Two boys. Two paths.
Karna, learning restraint and honor in a quiet village, unaware of his divine blood. Dhira, dancing through danger in the wild, forging his own code of strength and movement.
One trained in silence. The other thrived in chaos.
And though they were worlds apart, the threads of fate had begun to stir. The river that carried Karna and the forest that raised Dhira were not separate—they were part of the same story, waiting to collide.