to hell first!” cried Arjuna.
As he spoke, the sky grew dark—Indra,
bringer of storms, was gathering his forces
as if to bless his son. But the next moment
a shaft of brilliant sunlight pierced the clouds,
making a golden circle around Karna.
In the royal box, Kunti fainted.
She had realized who Karna was
and was overcome, remembering
the lovely golden infant she had sent
floating down the river, to take his chance.
Now her heart hammered with fear—her sons
fighting to the death! But she said nothing.
Kripa, expert in the etiquette
of dueling, spoke now: “Here stands Arjuna,
third-born son of Pandu of this royal house,
youngest offspring of Kunti, his wife.
It is known that no prince will condescend
to duel with a man of lesser lineage
than his own. You must tell us, hero,
who your father is. Who is your mother?
To what royal clan do you belong?”
Like a drooping flower drenched with rain,
Karna hung his head. Arjuna waited.
Then Duryodhana spoke up forcefully:
“This rigmarole is just old-fashioned nonsense!
But if Arjuna is too punctilious
to fight with anyone except a prince
I have the solution. Our vassal state,
Anga, lacks a ruler. Here and now
I propose that this outstanding man
shall be consecrated king of Anga.
Then there will be no excuse for Arjuna
to dodge away from dueling with him.”
Dhritarashtra gave his blessing; brahmins
were summoned, bringing all the ritual objects
needed for consecration—flowers, gold,
roasted rice grains, water from the Ganga,
a white silk parasol, emblem of a king—
and, in the presence of the cheering crowd,
Karna was installed as king of Anga.
He turned to Duryodhana. “How can I
ever repay you for this priceless gift?”
The prince smiled with pleasure. “All I want
from you, Karna, is your lifelong friendship.
I know, together, we shall do great things.”
Karna’s face lit up. “Here is my promise—
as long as I shall live, while these two arms
have strength and skill in them, I shall defend you.
Your future will be mine, your interests, mine.
All that my head and heart can give are yours.”
An old man tottered forward from the crowd
sweating and trembling, leaning on a stick.
The man was Karna’s father, Adhiratha.
Seeing him, Karna went over to him
and, in reverence, touched the old man’s feet
with his head, still wet from the anointing.
Adhiratha’s face was bright with love.
“My son!” he cried, his eyes moist with tears.
The Pandavas laughed. “This man’s a wagoner,”
jeered Bhima, “and you’re his son! Off with you,
off to the stables—go and muck out horses.
That’s where you belong!” Karna breathed hard
and fixed his gaze on the sun, low in the sky.
Immediately, up sprang Duryodhana
and, in a white-hot rage, he said to Bhima,
“Wolf-belly, your rudeness and crass ignorance
are hardly worthy of the kshatriya
you claim to be. The learned texts distinguish
three kinds of king—one of a royal line,
the leader of an army, and a hero.
This man, by his heroic skill, his courage,
has proved himself equal to any of us.
Prowess counts most for a kshatriya.
“As for lineage—just think about it.
It’s not unknown for sons of kshatriya mothers
to become brahmins. Drona here was born
from a water pot, Kripa from reeds.
Arjuna calls himself a son of Pandu
but in fact, as we all know, his origins
are murky—and the same goes for his brothers.
Think of Pandu himself, and my father,
and Uncle Vidura—we respect them
and yet their birth was by no means straightforward.
“The most powerful forces in the world
are often born in darkness. Think of fire,
the molten fire that sleeps beneath the ocean
but will erupt at the apocalypse
to engulf the earth. The mightiest rivers
have unimpressive origins; their greatness
grows as they make their journey through the world
joining with others, broadening, deepening,
meeting barriers, overcoming them.
That’s how it
As he spoke, the sky grew dark—Indra,
bringer of storms, was gathering his forces
as if to bless his son. But the next moment
a shaft of brilliant sunlight pierced the clouds,
making a golden circle around Karna.
In the royal box, Kunti fainted.
She had realized who Karna was
and was overcome, remembering
the lovely golden infant she had sent
floating down the river, to take his chance.
Now her heart hammered with fear—her sons
fighting to the death! But she said nothing.
Kripa, expert in the etiquette
of dueling, spoke now: “Here stands Arjuna,
third-born son of Pandu of this royal house,
youngest offspring of Kunti, his wife.
It is known that no prince will condescend
to duel with a man of lesser lineage
than his own. You must tell us, hero,
who your father is. Who is your mother?
To what royal clan do you belong?”
Like a drooping flower drenched with rain,
Karna hung his head. Arjuna waited.
Then Duryodhana spoke up forcefully:
“This rigmarole is just old-fashioned nonsense!
But if Arjuna is too punctilious
to fight with anyone except a prince
I have the solution. Our vassal state,
Anga, lacks a ruler. Here and now
I propose that this outstanding man
shall be consecrated king of Anga.
Then there will be no excuse for Arjuna
to dodge away from dueling with him.”
Dhritarashtra gave his blessing; brahmins
were summoned, bringing all the ritual objects
needed for consecration—flowers, gold,
roasted rice grains, water from the Ganga,
a white silk parasol, emblem of a king—
and, in the presence of the cheering crowd,
Karna was installed as king of Anga.
He turned to Duryodhana. “How can I
ever repay you for this priceless gift?”
The prince smiled with pleasure. “All I want
from you, Karna, is your lifelong friendship.
I know, together, we shall do great things.”
Karna’s face lit up. “Here is my promise—
as long as I shall live, while these two arms
have strength and skill in them, I shall defend you.
Your future will be mine, your interests, mine.
All that my head and heart can give are yours.”
An old man tottered forward from the crowd
sweating and trembling, leaning on a stick.
The man was Karna’s father, Adhiratha.
Seeing him, Karna went over to him
and, in reverence, touched the old man’s feet
with his head, still wet from the anointing.
Adhiratha’s face was bright with love.
“My son!” he cried, his eyes moist with tears.
The Pandavas laughed. “This man’s a wagoner,”
jeered Bhima, “and you’re his son! Off with you,
off to the stables—go and muck out horses.
That’s where you belong!” Karna breathed hard
and fixed his gaze on the sun, low in the sky.
Immediately, up sprang Duryodhana
and, in a white-hot rage, he said to Bhima,
“Wolf-belly, your rudeness and crass ignorance
are hardly worthy of the kshatriya
you claim to be. The learned texts distinguish
three kinds of king—one of a royal line,
the leader of an army, and a hero.
This man, by his heroic skill, his courage,
has proved himself equal to any of us.
Prowess counts most for a kshatriya.
“As for lineage—just think about it.
It’s not unknown for sons of kshatriya mothers
to become brahmins. Drona here was born
from a water pot, Kripa from reeds.
Arjuna calls himself a son of Pandu
but in fact, as we all know, his origins
are murky—and the same goes for his brothers.
Think of Pandu himself, and my father,
and Uncle Vidura—we respect them
and yet their birth was by no means straightforward.
“The most powerful forces in the world
are often born in darkness. Think of fire,
the molten fire that sleeps beneath the ocean
but will erupt at the apocalypse
to engulf the earth. The mightiest rivers
have unimpressive origins; their greatness
grows as they make their journey through the world
joining with others, broadening, deepening,
meeting barriers, overcoming them.
That’s how it
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