Two years had woven themselves into the fabric of Hastinapur, each thread adding to the intricate tapestry of Vishwa's understanding. At seven, his dark eyes still held the same intense curiosity, but the questions that formed in his mind were no longer simple "whys." They were now intricate puzzles of cause and effect, of societal structures and their human cost. He had learned to cloak his deeper thoughts, expressing them in subtle ways that often left his father, Kian, scratching his head, only for Leela to offer a quiet, knowing smile.
Kian, the robust spice merchant, had, to Vishwa's quiet satisfaction, begun to change. It started small. Instead of a sharp command, he would add "please" when asking a servant to lift a heavy load. Vishwa had achieved this not through direct argument, but by persistent, gentle probing. "Baba," he might ask, watching a new apprentice struggle with a sack of turmeric, "if his back breaks, will he learn to weigh spices for us? Or will he just be a burden?" Such questions, delivered with an innocent seriousness, chipped away at Kian's ingrained habits, making him consider the long-term consequence beyond the immediate task. Leela often caught Vishwa's eye across the bustling shop, a shared understanding passing between them, a silent acknowledgment of the small victories of reason.
Vishwa's world was expanding beyond the market's vibrant chaos. His mother, recognizing his insatiable thirst for knowledge, had arranged for an elderly scribe, a gentle Brahmin fallen on hard times, to teach him to read and write. Vishwa devoured the scrolls, not just of trade and numbers, but of ancient epics and philosophical texts. Yet, he never absorbed them blindly. He would read of glorious battles and divine interventions, then look at the weary faces of the porters and the anxious eyes of the farmers, and the stories would twist in his mind, revealing hidden layers of suffering and injustice.
One evening, as the family sat by the flickering lamp, Leela recounted the tragic tale of Amba, Princess of Kashi. She spoke of Bhishma's vow, of Amba's abduction for Vichitravirya, her rejection, her plea to Bhishma, and his unyielding adherence to his oath, which ultimately led to Amba's fiery self-immolation and her rebirth as Shikhandi.
Kian sighed, "Such is the power of a vow, the strength of dharma."
Vishwa, who had listened with a quiet intensity, spoke softly, "But Ma, Baba... Amba suffered so much. She lost everything. Was it truly dharma that caused her such pain? Or was it... a mistake that no one would fix?"
Kian's brow furrowed. "Vishwa! You question the dharma of Bhishma Pitamah? He is the epitome of righteousness!"
Leela, however, placed a hand on Vishwa's head. "My son, dharma is a complex path. Sometimes, what is right for one can bring sorrow to another. Bhishma chose his path, and Amba suffered because of it. It is a tale of great sorrow, showing that even the most righteous can cause unintended pain."
Vishwa nodded, but his mind raced. If dharma can cause such pain, then is it truly just? And if a great warrior like Bhishma could not see Amba's suffering as a reason to deviate from his vow, what hope is there for others? He thought of the rigid Varna system, the way a person's entire life was dictated by their birth, regardless of their talents or desires. He thought of the women he saw, veiled and confined, their voices rarely heard in public. Was this also 'dharma'? A system that allowed such suffering and limited choices, all in the name of order? The idea of a great war, which he knew was a constant undercurrent in the tales of kings, filled him with a quiet dread. If one vow could lead to such a tragedy, what would happen when entire kingdoms clashed?
His thoughts were further troubled by whispers he overheard in the market. Fishermen, their faces weathered by sun and sea, spoke in hushed tones of a recent injustice. It was said that some of the Kuru princes – Duryodhana's arrogant brothers, most likely – had, in a fit of youthful exuberance during a hunting expedition, destroyed the fishermen's nets and boats, ruining their day's catch and their livelihood. The fishermen had sought justice from the royal court, appealing directly to the King. But despite knowing the truth of the princes' actions, King Dhritarashtra had sided with his sons, dismissing the fishermen's pleas with a meager compensation that barely covered their losses. They spoke of empty nets and hungry children, of pleas ignored and petitions dismissed.
Vishwa listened, his heart sinking. He knew the King, Dhritarashtra, was blind, but he also knew of Bhishma, the formidable warrior and protector of the Kuru throne, a man whose strength was legendary. How could this happen? Vishwa wondered, a cold knot forming in his stomach. The King is supposed to protect his people. And Bhishma, with all his power, with all his righteousness, just stood there and let it happen? He could have spoken, he could have intervened. His respect for the Kuru throne, and for Bhishma, the pillar of its dharma, began to erode, replaced by a growing disillusionment. He saw a stark contrast between the grand pronouncements of dharma and the harsh realities faced by the common folk.
His quest for understanding led him beyond the family shop. On his occasional trips with Kian to the outskirts of Hastinapur, where goods were exchanged with smaller villages, Vishwa would sometimes slip away to a secluded banyan tree. There, an old sage, his hair and beard like spun moonlight, often sat in quiet contemplation. The sage, known only as Tapasvi Baba, seemed to possess an ancient calm, his eyes holding the wisdom of countless seasons.
One afternoon, emboldened by the sage's gentle presence, Vishwa approached him. "Pranam, Tapasvi Baba," he said, bowing respectfully. "I have a question that troubles my mind."
The sage opened his eyes, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Speak, young one. Your questions are like fresh streams in a parched land."
"Baba," Vishwa began, choosing his words carefully, "they say a man's path is set by his birth. That a warrior must fight, a Brahmin must teach, a merchant must trade. But what if a merchant wishes to learn of stars, or a warrior wishes to heal? Is it wrong to seek a different path, even if it might bring greater good?"
Tapasvi Baba chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "Ah, the binds of destiny and desire. Tell me, young Vishwa, does a river always flow in the same channel, or does it carve new paths over time, shaping the very land it traverses?"
Vishwa pondered this. "It carves new paths, Baba, especially after a great rain, or if a rock blocks its way."
"Indeed," the sage murmured, his eyes twinkling. "And what of the rock? Does it choose to block the river, or is it simply there, an obstacle to be overcome or circumvented? And the rain, does it choose where to fall?"
Vishwa remained silent, the cryptic answer swirling in his mind. The sage offered no further explanation, simply closing his eyes once more. Vishwa understood. The sage wasn't giving him answers, but tools to find his own. He was learning that the world wasn't a set of rigid rules, but a dynamic interplay of forces, where even a small stone could alter a mighty river's course.
As the years marched on, the whispers in the marketplace grew louder, shifting from the usual trade gossip to tales of the royal princes. The Pandavas and Kauravas were no longer just names; they were distinct entities, their rivalries becoming the subject of hushed conversations and anxious predictions. Vishwa heard of Duryodhana's arrogance, Bhima's strength, Arjuna's unparalleled skill, Yudhishthira's righteousness, and Karna's fierce loyalty to Duryodhana. To Vishwa, they were simply "royal blood," figures born into a world of immense power and equally immense expectations. He observed them from a distance, whenever a royal procession passed through the market, noting their bearing, their expressions, the way the crowd reacted to each. He saw them as products of the system he so often questioned, rather than as individuals whose destinies were fully their own.
Now, as his tenth year approached, the air in Hastinapur thrummed with a new kind of excitement. The Kalapradarshan, the grand exhibition of martial prowess, was drawing near. For most, it was a spectacle, a chance to witness the might of their princes and the glory of their kingdom. But for Vishwa, it was something more. It was a public display of the very power dynamics he had spent years dissecting, a stage where the seeds of future conflicts would be sown. He wondered, with a quiet intensity, what new questions this grand event would spark in his ever-inquiring mind.