The first rays of dawn slipped through the cracks of the mud house, stirring a six-year-old boy from his slumber. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes that held a depth far beyond his years. For a moment, he lay still, his gaze tracing the rough, earthen walls and the thatched roof above. This was no modern room with plastered walls or electric lights—it was a dwelling from an ancient era, simple and unadorned. A sharp pain lanced through his temples, and he winced, clutching his head as a flood of memories rushed in, vivid and overwhelming.
He was Bahubali, son of Abhiram, a charioteer, and Sumitra, his gentle mother. They lived in Hastinapur, the grand city of the Kuru dynasty, during the time of the Mahabharata. Images flashed before his eyes—three years of memories, starting from when he was three years old. He saw himself running through the dusty streets, helping his father polish the chariot wheels, and listening to his mother's lullabies under the starlit sky, her voice soft as she called him "Bahu." But then, another set of memories surfaced, older and heavier, from a life that felt both distant and painfully close.
In that life, he had been a soldier, an orphan with no family to call his own. His only purpose had been his love for his nation, a love so fierce it had led him to sacrifice his life during a border skirmish. He remembered the cold bite of the wind, the chaos of battle, and the moment his breath had faltered, his body falling to the earth. He had died alone, with nothing but his devotion to his country sustaining him until the end.
A sad smile curved Bahubali's lips as he pushed himself up from the woven mat that served as his bed. The weight of two lives pressed against his young heart, but he shook it off, his eyes searching the dim interior of the house. "Maa?" he called softly, his voice carrying a hint of longing.
Sumitra appeared from the small kitchen area, her hands dusted with flour from kneading dough. Her warm, maternal gaze softened as she saw her son awake. "Bahu, you're up already? The sun has barely risen, my little one. Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, Maa," Bahubali replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. He stepped closer, comforted by her familiar endearment. "I just… woke up early today."
Sumitra chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Always so eager to start the day, my Bahu. Go, freshen up."
Bahubali nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Alright, Maa. I'll be back soon."
He stepped outside, the cool morning air brushing against his skin as he made his way to the banks of the Ganga. The river sparkled under the rising sun, its waters sacred and serene. Bahubali waded in, performing his morning bath with practiced ease, the cold water grounding him in this new reality. After drying off, he sat cross-legged on the riverbank, facing the sun. He closed his eyes, offering his Surya Puja, a ritual his father had taught him since he was three. The familiar chants steadied his racing thoughts, anchoring him to the present.
Returning home, he found his mother setting out a simple breakfast of flatbreads and curd. They ate together, the quiet companionship soothing Bahubali's soul. His father, Abhiram, joined them briefly, ruffling his son's hair. "Eat well, Bahu. A strong boy needs a full stomach," he said before heading out to tend to his chariots.
After finishing, Bahubali stood, brushing crumbs from his hands. "Maa, I'm going out to play for a bit."
Sumitra's eyes crinkled with affection, though her voice carried a mother's caution. "Be careful, Bahu. Don't wander too far, and stay away from trouble."
"I will, Maa," he promised, flashing her a reassuring grin before stepping out into the bustling streets of Hastinapur.
His small feet carried him back to the river, where he sat on a smooth rock, gazing at the flowing water. His thoughts turned to the future, to the great Dharma Yuddha that loomed over this era like a storm cloud. The Mahabharata, a tale of righteousness and tragedy, was no longer a story from scriptures—it was his reality. "Why was I born here?" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the river's gentle rush. "What purpose do I have in this time?"
He clenched his fists, determination hardening his young features. "I need answers. And who better to ask than my Aradhya?" With renewed resolve, he moved to the riverbank and began shaping wet sand into a small Shiv Ling. Sitting before it, he closed his eyes and began chanting, "Om Namah Shivaya," his voice steady and focused. The mantra became his refuge, a bridge between his two lives.
For a week, this became his routine. Each morning, he bathed in the Ganga, offered his Surya Puja, ate with his mother, and then spent hours by the river, chanting before his Shiv Ling. The repetition brought him peace, but answers remained elusive.
On the eighth day, as he approached his makeshift shrine, a sharp *twang* pierced the air—the unmistakable sound of an arrow being released. Curiosity piqued, Bahubali followed the sound, his small frame moving silently through the reeds. He peered through the foliage and saw a boy, slightly older than himself, standing with a bow in hand. The boy's focus was absolute, his movements fluid as he nocked another arrow and released it, striking a wooden target dead center.
Bahubali watched, mesmerized, as arrow after arrow found its mark. The boy's skill was extraordinary, his concentration unshakable. But then, as if sensing eyes upon him, the boy turned sharply, his gaze locking onto Bahubali's hiding spot. "Who's there?" he called, his voice firm but not unkind. "Step out where I can see you!"
Bahubali stepped forward, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. A warm smile spread across his face, disarming in its sincerity. "I'm Bahubali, son of Abhiram, the charioteer. Everyone calls me Bahu. I didn't mean to spy—I heard the sound of your bow and got curious. It's not every day you see someone shoot like that. What's your name?"
The boy lowered his bow, studying Bahubali with cautious eyes. "I'm Karna, son of Radha," he said, his tone guarded but tinged with curiosity. "You're not from the warrior clans, are you? What brings you here, watching me practice?"
Bahubali shrugged, his smile unwavering. "Just the sound of your arrows. I've never seen anyone shoot with such precision. How long have you been practicing to get that good?"
Karna's shoulders relaxed slightly, though his grip on the bow remained firm. "Two years now. Every morning, I come to this spot by the river to train."
Bahubali smiled and nodded, his eyes bright with admiration. "Two years, and you're already hitting the target every time? That's incredible, Karna. You must put in a lot of hard work."
Karna's eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face. "Are you mocking me, Bahu? Do you think, like the others in Hastinapur, that a suta's son has no right to wield a bow? That I'm wasting my time, trying to be something I'm not meant to be? They say we're only good for driving chariots or serving others."
Bahubali shook his head vigorously, his expression earnest. "No, Karna, I'd never think that! I don't care about caste or what others say. I believe anyone can become anything they want, as long as they're willing to work for it. You're proof of that already—look at how skilled you are! I wasn't mocking you; I was amazed. Honestly, I think you're going to be someone great someday."
Karna's tense posture eased, and a tentative smile broke through his guarded demeanor. "You really mean that? That I could master archery, even as a suta's son? Most people in this city would laugh at the idea. They see my father's work and assume I'm destined for the same."
"Those people are wrong," Bahubali said firmly, his young voice carrying a quiet strength. "It's not about where you come from—it's about what you do. If you keep practicing with the focus I saw today, you'll be a better archer than any of those high-born warriors. The results will show for themselves, Karna. Just keep going."
Karna's smile widened, a rare warmth lighting his features. "You're the first person, besides my mother, who's ever said something like that to me, Bahubali. Most people in Hastinapur look at me and see only my father's profession, not my dreams. It… it means something, hearing you say I can do this."
Bahubali grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well, I'm not most people. And I'm not saying it to be nice—I'm saying it because I can see it. You're going to make them all eat their words one day, Karna. Just wait."
Karna laughed, a sound that seemed to surprise even himself. He studied Bahubali for a long moment, then made a decision. "You know, I come here every morning to practice. It's quiet, away from the city's judging eyes. Do you want to train with me? I could use a friend out here."
Bahubali's eyes lit up, though he hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'd love to, Karna, but I don't know the first thing about archery. I'd probably just fumble around and make a fool of myself. I don't want to slow you down."
Karna waved off his concern, stepping closer with a grin. "Nonsense, Bahu. Everyone starts somewhere. I wasn't born knowing how to shoot either—it took time and practice. I'll teach you the basics. It's not as hard as it looks, I promise. All it takes is patience and a bit of stubbornness."
Bahubali chuckled, his hesitation melting away. "Alright, you've convinced me. Let's do this. But if I end up shooting a tree instead of the target, don't laugh too hard."
Karna's grin turned boyish, a glimpse of the child beneath the determined warrior. He held out his bow, a simple but well-crafted weapon, and gestured for Bahubali to take it. "Deal. Here, take this. First, you need to stand properly. Feet apart, like this. Now, hold the bow steady, and let me show you how to nock an arrow…"
As the morning sun climbed higher, the two boys stood side by side, their laughter and chatter mingling with the river's song. Karna's patient instructions and Bahubali's eager attempts marked the beginning of an unlikely friendship. For Bahubali, it was more than that—it was the start of a new path, one that would intertwine his destiny with the epic unfolding around him. As he drew the bowstring under Karna's guidance, he felt a spark of purpose ignite within him—a purpose he would chase, one arrow at a time.