Bahubali and Karna entered Hastinapur's gates clad in simple civilian clothes—plain dhotis and angavastras to blend with the common folk. The city buzzed with its familiar rhythm: vendors hawking wares, children darting through alleys, and the Ganga's gentle murmur in the distance. Their hearts, heavy with the weight of their achievements in Magadha, now lifted at the prospect of reuniting with their families after seven months. They parted ways with a nod, each heading to their childhood homes, eager to embrace their parents and share their extraordinary journey.
Bahubali approached his modest mud house, its thatched roof a beacon of warmth. Crossing the threshold, he called out, his voice filled with anticipation, "Maa! It's me, Bahu!"
From the back of the house, Sumitra's voice rang out, laced with surprise and joy. "Bahu? Is that you, my son?" Her words were muffled by the clatter of water, hinting she was busy with chores.
Grinning, Bahubali made his way to the courtyard behind the house, where he found Sumitra washing her hands at a clay basin, her hair tied back, her face etched with the quiet strength he'd always admired. Sensing his presence, she turned, her eyes widening as they met his. "Bahu!" she cried, rushing forward, her wet hands forgotten as she enveloped him in a fierce, affectionate hug. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she clung to him, her voice breaking. "My son, my heart! Oh, how I've missed you every single day you were gone! Not a morning passed without me praying to the gods for your safety, wondering where you were, what dangers you faced. Look at you—still my boy, but so much stronger, so much changed. Are you well, Bahu? Tell me you're safe and whole!"
Bahubali hugged her tightly, his own eyes misting as he inhaled the familiar scent of her, a mix of turmeric and earth. "Maa, I'm fine, truly. I've missed you more than words can say—your voice, your smile, the way you make this house a home. I'm back now, safe and sound, and my heart's full just being here with you."
Sumitra pulled back, wiping her tears with the edge of her sari, her smile radiant despite her worry. "Come inside, sit! I'll make you kheer, your favorite. You must be starving after such a long journey, and I want to spoil my son while he's home!"
Bahubali chuckled, gently guiding her to a stool. "No, Maa, let *me* prepare kheer for you this time. You've cooked for me my whole life—let me show you what I've learned, and give you a moment to rest."
Sumitra's eyes widened, then softened with pride. "My Bahu, cooking kheer? Oh, what have those teachers of yours done to you? Alright, I'll sit, but only if you tell me everything while you work. I want to hear about these seven months, every moment you've been away from us!"
Nodding, Bahubali moved to the kitchen, gathering rice, milk, and jaggery as he began preparing kheer. As he stirred the pot over the hearth, the door creaked open, and Abhiram, his father, stepped inside, his charioteer's dust-covered clothes hinting at a long day at the palace. Seeing Bahubali, Abhiram's weathered face broke into a broad smile. "Bahu! My son, you're back!" He strode forward, clasping Bahubali in a hearty embrace, his voice thick with emotion. "How are you, my boy? Look at you—strong as ever, but there's a new light in your eyes. Are you well? No injuries, no troubles? Tell me, what's kept you away these seven months, and what adventures have you and Karna faced?"
Bahubali laughed, returning the hug before resuming his cooking. "Pitaji, I'm well, no injuries, I promise. I've missed you and Maa terribly, and being home feels like a gift. Karna and I have been… busy, but I'll tell you everything once the kheer's ready. Sit with Maa, and let me serve you both."
Abhiram sat beside Sumitra, his eyes never leaving his son, a mix of pride and curiosity in his gaze. When the kheer was ready, Bahubali served generous portions to his parents, the sweet aroma filling the small house. As they savored the dessert, Abhiram leaned forward, his tone serious. "Now, Bahu, tell us—have you and Karna finished the task you set out for? Seven months is a long time. What was this mission of yours?"
Bahubali smiled, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he prepared for their reaction. "Yes, Pitaji, we completed our task. We set out to kill Jarasandha, the tyrant of Magadha, and… I've made myself king of his realm."
Both Sumitra and Abhiram choked on their kheer, coughing as their eyes widened in shock. Bahubali sprang up, hurriedly fetching water and handing them clay cups. "Careful, Maa, Pitaji! Here, drink!"
Sumitra, still coughing, set her bowl down and shouted, "You *what*? King of Magadha? Bahu, have you lost your senses?" She rose, her hands frantically patting his arms, chest, and face, checking for wounds. "Why in the name of the gods did you fight Jarasandha, the immortal? Were you hurt? Are you hiding some injury from me? Oh, my heart can't bear this! You went to battle with a demon king, and you tell us so calmly? Why, Bahu, why take such a risk?"
Abhiram, recovering, stared at Bahubali with awe. "So *you're* the new king of Magadha everyone's talking about in the palace? The warrior who felled Jarasandha? By the gods, Bahu, the courtiers speak of a suta who conquered an immortal, and I never dreamed it was my own son! How did you do it? What happened out there?"
Bahubali gently stopped Sumitra's frantic inspection, holding her hands. "Maa, I'm fine, truly. No injuries, no scars. Please, stop panicking—I'm right here, safe. I know it sounds mad, but Jarasandha's adharma had to end. A mother's worry is natural, but I promise I'm unharmed."
Sumitra's eyes narrowed, her voice trembling with maternal indignation. "How can a mother *not* panic when her son says he fought an immortal king? Bahu, you're my only child, my heart's light. To hear you faced such danger, and without telling us first—oh, I'll need days to calm my nerves! Now, sit and tell us everything, every detail of these seven months. Leave nothing out, or I'll never forgive you for keeping me in the dark!"
Bahubali smiled, sitting cross-legged before them as he began his tale. He recounted their journey to Magadha, the challenge to Jarasandha, Karna's masterful archery against the tyrant's army, and the grueling mace duel that ended with Jarasandha's death. He spoke of his coronation, his reforms—hospitals, schools, orphanages—and his vision to dismantle the varna vyavastha, appointing Karna as senapati and Sahadeva as minister. Sumitra listened with a mix of pride and worry, clutching Abhiram's hand, while Abhiram nodded, his chest swelling with admiration.
Across the city, Karna faced a similar scene at his home. Radha, his mother, had gone into full-blown panic upon hearing of his role in defeating Jarasandha, her hands trembling as she checked him for injuries, her voice rising in a torrent of worry. "Karna, my son, how could you face such a monster? An army of two akshauhinis, and you fought them alone? What if you'd been hurt? Oh, I can't bear the thought!" Adhiratha, though proud, peppered Karna with questions about the battle and his new role as senapati, marveling at his son's courage.
As evening deepened, Bahubali broached a delicate topic with his parents. "Maa, Pitaji, Karna and I must return to Magadha to continue our work. But I don't want to be so far from you again. I propose you relocate to Magadha with us. You could live in the palace with me."
Sumitra's face hardened, her voice firm. "A palace, Bahu? No, no, that's not for us. We're simple folk, your father a charioteer, me a homemaker. We'd be lost in a grand palace, surrounded by courtiers and riches. Our place is a home like this, where our hearts are at ease."
Abhiram nodded, his tone gentle but resolute. "She's right, Bahu. A palace doesn't suit us. We're proud of you, son, but we don't belong in a king's court. We'd feel like strangers in our own lives, and that's no way to live."
Bahubali leaned forward, his voice earnest. "Then not the palace, but a house in Magadha, close to me. A simple home, like this one, where you can live as you always have. I'd build it with my own hands if needed. I just want you near, Maa, Pitaji, so I can see your faces, share meals, and hear your stories. I've been away too long, and I can't bear the thought of such distance again. Please, consider it—for me, for our family."
Sumitra's eyes softened, her resolve wavering as she saw the longing in her son's gaze. "Oh, Bahu, you make it hard to say no when you speak like that. To be near you, to see you every day—that's a mother's dream. If it's a simple house, not some grand mansion, then… yes, we'll come. But only if it's truly what you want, and if we can live our way."
Abhiram smiled, patting Bahubali's shoulder. "A house in Magadha, close to our kingly son? That I can agree to. We'll be there, Bahu, to support you and keep you grounded, no matter how high you rise."
Karna, too, convinced his parents with a similar proposal, Radha and Adhiratha agreeing to a modest home in Magadha to stay near their son. The next day, Sumitra and Radha began packing cherished belongings—clay idols, woven mats, and keepsakes holding emotional value—while Abhiram and Adhiratha visited the palace to resign their posts. The minister accepted their resignations, wishing them well.
Three days later, the families left Hastinapur in two chariots, their possessions secured, their hearts a mix of excitement and bittersweet farewell. The journey to Magadha was filled with shared stories and laughter, the parents marveling at the tales of their sons' deeds. Upon reaching Magadha, Bahubali arranged simple yet comfortable homes for both families near the palace, ensuring they could visit whenever they wished.
Meanwhile, across Aryavrat, whispers of Magadha's new king spread like wildfire. Kings in distant courts scoffed at Bahubali's reforms—schools for all castes, hospitals for the poor, and his audacious challenge to the varna vyavastha. "A suta king?" they sneered, their voices dripping with disdain. "What folly, to think he can upend centuries of tradition!" Yet, none dared to bring the fight to Magadha. The tale of Bahubali and Karna defeating Jarasandha, the immortal, loomed large, a warning that this suta king wielded power beyond mortal reckoning. For now, they watched and waited, wary of the storm brewing in Magadha's new dawn.