Mrinalini turned at once, reaching out to catch his arm. "Indraverma, stop."
The boy—Indraverma, prince of Kashi—pulled up short, still glaring at Karna.
Mrinalini looked back at Karna, apology in her eyes. "Forgive him. He is protective. Too protective, sometimes."
Karna raised one hand, palm outward. A faint smile touched his lips—tired, but kind.
"There is nothing to forgive," he said. "A brother should guard his sister, and the Prince was merely doing his duty. I take no offense."
Indraverma's frown eased a fraction, though his eyes stayed wary.
Karna bowed slightly to both of them. "Please excuse me. I must ask the Maharshi's permission to stay the night."
He turned toward the main hut where the sage's lamp still burned. Mrinalini watched him go, her hand still resting on her brother's arm.
Indraverma muttered under his breath, "Who does he think he is, walking in like that?"
Mrinalini did not answer. She watched the tall figure walk away across the courtyard, his steps measured, the clay urn held close like something alive. She turned to her brother, who was still rubbing his ear and scowling.
"Sister, what are you doing with that person?" Indraverma asked again, voice low but sharp. "A lowly commoner..."
Mrinalini instantly reacted this time, reaching out and twisting his ear. Indraverma yelped, trying to pull away. "Aah..."
"Don't be disrespectful," she said firmly. "And do you think he is just some ordinary traveler? Didn't you see the radiance on his face? He must be some divya purush."
Indraverma snorted, finally freeing his ear. "I highly doubt that. He was dressed like an ascetic for sure, but he wore gold earrings. They were real gold, sister. Who wears earrings like that and walks alone with nothing but a clay pot? And didn't you see that dagger hanging around his waist? Must be some kind of criminal. I think we should keep an eye on him."
Mrinalini blinked. She had been speaking to him, looking at his eyes and voice, and somehow she had missed the earrings entirely. But her brother had noticed in one glance.
She glanced back toward the path. The traveler had already disappeared into the shadow of the main hut.
"Earrings," she murmured. "Gold earrings."
Indraverma folded his arms. "What if he is like some kind of warrior, who committed treason and was escaping?"
Mrinalini did not reply to him. She kept watching the spot where he had gone with a few thoughts in her head.
Meanwhile, across the courtyard, Karna stepped up to the open door of the main hut. A young disciple—barely out of boyhood, shaved head, white cloth around his waist—stood sweeping the threshold with a broom of coconut leaves. He looked up, startled.
"Forgive me," Karna said quietly. "I am a traveler on the way to Kashi. May I stay the night here?"
The disciple paused, then nodded toward the inside. "Wait here. I will ask Gurudev."
He slipped into the hut. Inside, Maharshi Nirvikapla sat cross-legged on a simple mat, eyes closed, breath slow and even. The lamp beside him burned steadily, its flame untouched by the evening breeze that came through the open door.
The disciple knelt. "Gurudev, a traveler, is here. He asks to stay the night."
Nirvikapla opened his eyes. They were clear, almost luminous in the lamplight. A small smile touched his lips.
"Fate has brought him here," he said softly. "Just as it brought the princess."
The disciple blinked. "You know him, Gurudev?"
"I do not know him yet," Nirvikapla answered. "But I will soon enough. Bring him to me."
The disciple bowed and hurried back outside.
Karna stood waiting, hands folded. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mrinalini and her brother still watching from near their tent.
Indraverma frowned but said nothing.
The disciple returned. "Gurudev wishes to see you."
The princess nudged Indraverma with her elbow.
"See?" she whispered. "I told you he is not some mere traveler."
Karna inclined his head and followed him inside.
The hut was small, clean, smelling faintly of sandalwood and dried tulsi. A single mat lay near the wall. The lamp cast long shadows across the packed-earth floor.
Nirvikapla sat motionless, facing the entrance. He did not look up as Karna entered, but when Karna stopped a respectful distance away and joined his palms, the sage spoke without opening his eyes.
"Suryaputra," he said gently. "Come. Sit."
Karna went still. The name had not been spoken aloud in months—not since he left Kanipura. Yet it fell from the sage's lips as naturally as breath.
He remembered then: Nirvikapla's divine vision. Past, present, future—all open to him like an unrolled scroll. Recognition was no surprise; it was expected.
Karna stepped forward and knelt on the mat opposite the sage. He bowed low, palms to the ground, and greeted him.
Nirvikapla opened his eyes at last. They were calm, deep, carrying the quiet weight of centuries.
"May you live a long life, O' Suryaputra," he replied.
Karna knelt on the woven mat, the clay urn resting carefully beside him. The lamp's flame swayed once, then steadied, casting long shadows across the sage's face. Nirvikapla sat in perfect stillness, eyes gentle but piercing, as though he could see the storm behind Karna's calm.
The silence held for a moment longer. Then the sage spoke, voice soft like the first wind before dawn.
"If you carry any worry in your heart, son, you may speak it here. No burden is too heavy for this place."
Karna joined his palms again, fingers touching in quiet respect. When he spoke, his words came slowly, each one measured.
"I have walked this path for nearly a year, Maharshi. I have stopped at sacred rivers, rested in ashrams, listened to rishis who spoke of impermanence. Soon I will reach Kashi. Soon I will offer these ashes to the Ganga and bid farewell to my wife's remains. Yet my heart remains restless."
He paused, gaze fixed on the small flame.
"Will I truly find peace when this journey ends? Or will the weight I carry only grow heavier when the urn is empty?"
Nirvikapla listened without interrupting. When Karna finished, the sage leaned forward slightly.
"Son," he said, "you can only find the answer to this question when you begin to turn your gaze away from your own guilt and toward the purpose for which you were born. Work hard to fulfill that purpose. Let your energy flow into the welfare of the world instead of circling endlessly around your sorrow."
Karna's brows lifted in quiet surprise.
"I thought…" he began, then stopped. "Many rishis I have met advised the same path. They told me to deepen my tapasya, to meditate on the truth that this body is temporary, that death is part of nature, that grief itself is illusion. They said peace would come when I realized these things."
Nirvikapla's smile was small and knowing, the kind that carried both compassion and certainty.
"Yes, those words are true. The body is temporary. Death is certain. Grief is a passing shadow. But you are not an ordinary man seeking personal liberation, Karna."
He leaned back, eyes never leaving Karna's face.
"You were born for the welfare of the world. Those who are given special abilities—strength, wisdom, divine favor—cannot spend their lives wrapped in their own guilt, their own dharma, their own sorrow. When you do, your purpose is wasted. You become of no use to the society that needs you."
The sage lifted one hand, palm upward, as though holding something invisible.
"You are not a small diya, son, that gives light to a single house. You are the sun. The sun does not grieve when clouds cover it. It does not ask why the day must end. It rises again and again, giving light to the entire world—without thought of itself."
Karna's breath caught. He felt the words settle deep inside him, like stones dropped into still water.
"When you truly realize that," Nirvikapla continued, "you will find happiness in the happiness of others. You will feel sadness only when the world struggles, not when your own life brings pain. That is the path to peace for someone like you."
The lamp burned lower. Outside, the night insects had begun their steady chorus. Karna remained silent for a long time, palms still joined, eyes fixed on the sage's face.
At last, he spoke, voice very quiet.
"I have tried to live for others. I have fought for dharma, given what was asked, and protected those who needed protection. Yet when I close my eyes, I still see her face. Her lifeless body. I still see how I was consumed by rage, which I had never felt before. Yes, Mahadeva has forgiven me. Yamaraj has forgiven me. But I couldn't forgive myself. How do I turn away from that?"