The Weight of the NamingThe days following the river's exchange were spent in a whirlwind of pure, fierce joy in the charioteer's home. Radha and Adhiratha formalized their claim over the miraculous child. During the naming ceremony, they named him Karna—but Radha, whose heart claimed him wholly, insisted on an intimate name for their quarters: Radheya.
"He is the sun's child, Adhiratha, born of the river," Radha declared, pressing the infant to her cheek, her eyes glistening with possessive love. "But he is the son of my soul. Let the world call him Karna, but here, he is Radheya."
Adhiratha, his voice thick with grateful awe, nodded, "It is true. He is no longer the river's property, nor the sun's lonely spark. He is the wealth of our home."
A few weeks later, Adhiratha undertook the most terrifying duty of his life. He felt an intense need for the highest blessing, a royal seal of protection for the child's impossible existence. Clutching the infant, he guided his nervous steps into the cold grandeur of the Hastinapura palace, his heart pounding with a mixture of pride and fear of judgment.
He first knelt before King Dhritarashtra and Queen Gandhari. Adhiratha's voice was a barely audible tremor. "My Lord, my Queen, I beg your blessing for my son, Karna."
Dhritarashtra, the blind King, reached out with a massive, searching hand. His fingers brushed the child's magnificent, cool Kavacha and Kundala. The King paused, startled by the sheer physical power emanating from the infant, sensing the Tej he could not see. "He is strong, Adhiratha," the King remarked, his tone distant, tinged with political interest. "A fine hand for the reins, perhaps. May he serve the Kuru clan with loyalty." The blessing was an expectation of subservience.
Gandhari, her veil shielding her own quiet, internal pity, offered a softer but equally cold prayer. "May he be long-lived, Adhiratha. We pray that his life brings you comfort. May he find peace within his station." Her blessing was heavy with the expectation that he remain exactly where he was born. She offered no genuine hope of ascension.
The last encounter was with Bhishma, the venerable patriarch. Bhishma's eyes, ancient and piercing, fell upon the infant. He registered the impossible armor, but his heart, bound by the unbreakable vow of Dharma, refused to entertain questions of divine mystery. "The son of a Suta is owed a life of service," Bhishma stated, his voice a low, formal pronouncement that held no warmth, only the crushing weight of law. "May he be obedient to the boundaries of his caste, and may he live a life of good counsel, Adhiratha. The order of the world must be maintained." His detachment was absolute; Karna was nothing but a variable in the grand equation of the Kuru dynasty.
Adhiratha stood, embracing his child. His earlier hope was now bruised and tinged with profound fear. The royal blessings were cold comfort, serving only as a stark reminder: the world had already branded his son before he could speak a single word. He turned his back on the palace's indifferent stone and walked away, clutching the future King, who was destined to be called forever the charioteer's son.