A year came. A year went. Yudhisthir was born. As the first male child of the next generation, the elders declared, the throne would be his. Dhritarashtra's spies brought more bad news: Kunti was pregnant again. Now there were two obstacles between Dhritarashtra and his desire. Gandhari's stomach grew large as a giant beehive, but her body refused to go into labor. Perhaps the frustrated king berated her, or perhaps the fact that he'd taken one of her waiting women as his mistress drove Gandhari to her act of desperation. She struck her stomach again and again until she bled, and bleeding, gave birth to a huge, unformed ball of flesh.
“The palace was in an uproar,” Dhai Ma said, “people running around wringing their hands, crying that this was the work of demons, the blind king sitting stunned on his throne while Gandhari lay in a faint. But luckily a holy man showed up. He cut the ball into a hundred and one pieces, and called for vats of butter, one for each piece. He sealed the pieces in the vats and cautioned that they shouldn't be opened for a year. And that's how Duryodhan and his brothers—and their sister Duhsala—were born. Maybe that's why he's such great friends with Karna, who also came into the world in a strange way.”
Heat rose to my face at the sudden mention of Karna's name. To hide it, I quipped, “Doesn't anyone have normal births anymore?”
Dhai Ma gave me a sharp glance. But if she had a question, she didn't ask it. Was it because she didn't know what to do with the answer? “You're a fine one to talk!” she snorted, and then went on with the story. “Most people think that Adhiratha, a chariot driver, is Karna's father. But one of our stable boys that used to work in Hastinapur a while back told us a different story. Adhiratha found Karna on the river Ganga one morning when he'd gone there to pray, floating in a wooden casket. He was just a week old then.
“That part isn't so uncommon. Once in a while, a noblewoman will get in trouble and dispose of the evidence this way. But there was something special about this child. He had gold rings in his ears, and the gold armor that covered his chest—why, you couldn't take it off. It was part of his body. Adhiratha believed the gods had answered his prayers and sent Karna to him because he didn't have any children.”
Maybe Adhiratha wasn't completely wrong. I remembered the otherworldly expression on Karna's face in the portrait. He looked as though, sometime, somewhere, he'd been touched by a divine hand. I wished there had been a way for me to buy that portrait, to secret it away, to look at it whenever I wanted. But of course such an action was impossible. A princess has no privacy.
Dhai Ma shot me another glance before heaving her body off the floor. “I'd better get to work. And you're late for your dance lesson, as usual.” At the door she paused. This time the warning in her voice was a serious one. “Sometimes I talk too much. If you know what's good for you, you'll put that story out of your mind and behave in a way that doesn't bring shame to your royal father.”
I knew what she was referring to, and she was right. But my disobedient heart kept going back to Karna, to that most unfortunate moment in his life. We'd both been victims of parental rejection— was that why his story resonated so?—but my suffering couldn't compare to his. Over and over I imagined the mother who had abandoned him—for I was sure that it was she and not the gods that had set him afloat on the river. Against my closed eyelids, I saw her as she bent to the water to cast the child—her own sweet, sleeping flesh—into its night currents. In my imagination, she was very young, and the curve of her turned-away face was a little like Gan-dhari's, though that was a silly thing to think. She didn't weep. She had no tears left. Only fear for her reputation, which made her draw her shawl more closely over her head as she watched the casket. Just for a moment; then she'd have to hurry back. She'd left all her jewelry in her bedchamber, had clothed herself in her oldest sari. Still, it would be a disaster if the city watchman discovered her so far from her parents' mansion at a time when only prostitutes are abroad. She choked down a cry as the bobbing casket disappeared around a bend in the river. Then she walked home, her steps only a little unsteady, thinking, At least it's done.
My heart ached for both mother and child, because even I who knew so little of life could guess that such things were never done. For the rest of her life, she would wonder where her son was. Passing every handsome stranger, she'd ask herself (just as he would, walking by women he didn't know), Could this be—? Each morning when they woke—in the same town, or kingdoms apart—their first thoughts would be of each other. In anger and regret, they'd both wish she'd had the courage to choose another way.
11
Dhri said, “I'm telling you this against Krishna's wishes.”
“Why doesn't he want me to know?” “You'll see soon enough. Now listen.”
The story begins with the great tournament in Hastinapur, where Drona has decided that the princes, who have come of age, are ready to demonstrate their battle skills.
The arena thrums with anticipation; the citizens, noble-born and commoner, are anxious to see what the princes are capable of. After all, one of them will be their future king. Already there are factions. Some cry out Duryodhan's name, for he is dashing, brave, and generous to a fault. Even today, riding to the tournament, he threw handfuls of gold coins into the crowd until his purse was empty. But others secretly pray that the highest prize will go to one of the five Pandava brothers, those fatherless boys brought up on the fringes of the court by an uncle who only pretends to wish them well.
And it seems that the gods are not as deaf as we customarily accuse them of being. For look, here at the end of the day is Arjun's name being announced as the greatest of the contenders. He has shot fire arrows into the air and then quenched them with rain arrows. He has sent snake arrows slithering toward the crowd, and then, just before they struck the terrified viewers, plucked them from the ground with eagle arrows. His sleep arrows have enveloped them in dreams; his rope arrows have bound their hands and feet; his arrows of enchantment have made them cower in front of monsters more terrifying than any they could have imagined. Shining with pride, his teacher claims that these are only the minor weapons he has learned to use! The others are too powerful, too sacred, to be called on except in serious battle.
But just as his uncle, the blind king, gets to his feet (very slowly, some note) with the prize garland, an unknown youth in golden armor appears in the arena. He asks permission to take part in the tournament, and then skillfully replicates every feat of Arjun's. The crowd is silenced by amazement. Then it breaks out in cheers, and Duryodhan cheers the loudest.
The stranger brings his palms together and turns his face to the sky, offering prayers to the sun. He thanks the crowd with a modest bow. Then, in courtly speech, he invites Arjun to single combat. The winner, he suggests, will be the champion.
The crowd applauds at the prospect of this grand spectacle. The three old men sitting by the king in the royal pavilion—Bheeshma, the grandfather; Drona, the teacher; and Kripa, the royal tutor— glance at each other in dismay. This is an unforeseen danger, a risk they do not wish Arjun to undertake, for to their experienced eyes it is clear that the stranger is as good as—and perhaps better than—the Pandava prince whose reputation they hope to establish today.
Do you know this youth? Bheeshma asks. Kripa shakes his head, but Drona pauses, a considering look on his face. He whispers something.
Let the combat begin, says the blind king, raising his scepter, but Kripa leaps to his feet.
There are procedures to be obeyed first, he says. The lineage of the contestants must be established, for a prince may be challenged to single combat only by another prince. We all know Arjun's parentage. But, valiant stranger, kindly tell us your name, and from which princely house you are descended.
The stranger's face flushes. My name is Karna, he says. Then, so softly that all in the assembly must strain to hear, But I do not come from a princely house.
Then, according to the rules of a royal tournament, you cannot battle Prince Arjun, says Kripa, his voice kind
. If he feels triumphant, no one notices; he has long learned to hide such emotions.
Wait! cries Duryodhan, springing up in outrage. Clearly this man is a great warrior. I will not let you insult him like this, using an outdated law as your excuse! A hero is a hero, no matter what his caste. Ability is more important than the accident of birth.
The citizens approve of these sentiments. They cheer lustily.
Duryodhan continues, If you insist that it is necessary for Karna to be a king in order to battle Arjun, then I'll share my own inheritance with him! He calls for holy water and pours it over the stranger's head. To the cheers of the crowd, he says, King Karna, I now pronounce you ruler of Anga, and my friend.
Karna embraces him fervently. I'll never forget your generosity, he says. You have salvaged my honor. Earth may break asunder, but I will not forsake you. From this moment, your friends are my friends, and your enemies my bitterest foes.
The crowd roars its admiration. This, they tell each other, is how heroes should behave!
The three old men exchange looks of concern. Things have not worked out the way they planned. The upstart Karna has found popularity even without vanquishing Arjun. And Duryodhan has found a powerful ally. Now the two archers, fierce in battle stance, face each other in the arena. Who knows what the outcome of this contest will be?
There's a small commotion in the pavilion built for the women of the palace. One of the queens has fainted—perhaps from heat, perhaps from the prolonged tension. Is it Gandhari, the blind king's wife? Is it Kunti, distressed at this challenge to her son? Before the truth can be ascertained, the people's attention is caught by an old man who limps into the arena. From his clothing it's clear that he belongs to a lower caste. Is he a blacksmith? No, say those who know such things. He's a chariot driver.
He heads for Karna and—wonder of wonders—Karna sets aside his bow to touch the old man's feet.
Son! the newcomer cries. Is it really you, back after so many years? But what are you doing here, among these noble princes? Why is there a crown on your head?
With infinite gentleness, Karna takes the old man's hand and guides him to a corner, explaining as he goes.
The crowd is stunned, silent. Then whispers and jeers begin to be heard, especially among the Pandava faction. Sutaputra! Voices hiss. Driver's son! From the pavilion, Bheem's voice booms disdainfully, Drop your bow, pretender! Go get yourself a whip from the royal stables instead!
Karna's hand tightens around his bow. Arjun! he calls. But Arjun has already turned his back on him and is walking away. Karna stares after him. It is the supreme insult—one for which he'll never forgive Arjun. From this moment on, they will be arch-enemies.
Who knows what might have happened then, but the sun chooses this moment to dip beneath the horizon. A relieved Drona gives the signal, and trumpeters sound the call for the end of the tournament. The crowd disperses reluctantly, buzzing with dissatisfaction and gossip. The Pandava brothers are joined by the three old men; together, they make their way to their modest dwelling where Kunti is resting (it was she who fainted), discussing the day's strangeness as they go. Duryodhan takes Karna with him for a night of carousing at his palace. Later that evening he'll put his own necklace, a rope of pearls and rubies, around Karna's neck and say, thickly, I declare you the true champion! If those cowards hadn't stopped the fight, you would have rubbed Arjun's face in the mud. Ah, these Pandava vermin who are always plotting to steal my kingdom! Would that I had a friend who might rid me of them!
And Karna will hold himself very straight and reply, When the time comes, I will do so for you, my liege and my friend—or I will die trying.
“So that's how Karna became a king,” I said. “Why didn't Krishna want me to know?”
Dhri said, “He felt that it would make you too sympathetic to Karna. And that would be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? How?”
“Arjun isn't the only one who can pass the swayamvar test.”
The pulse in my throat started hammering. Guiltily, I turned away, facing the dark garden. “You mean Karna could do it, too?”
“Yes. He plans to come to the swayamvar, along with Duryodhan. He plans to win you. We must not allow it.”
I wanted to ask: If he were, indeed, as wondrous a hero as Arjun, why should it matter if I married him instead of the Pandava prince? Wouldn't he be as great an ally for Panchaal? Why was Krishna so against him? Was it just that he favored his friend Arjun? There were other secrets here. But I sensed that my uncomplicated brother did not know them. So, instead, I asked, “How can you stop him? If he wins, aren't we honor-bound by Father's oath?”
“The honor of family is more important than other kinds of honor,” my brother said. He waited a moment, as though daring me to disagree. “I'll think of a way. Krishna will help me. You, too, must do your part.”
I didn't want to argue with Dhri, but I wasn't ready to turn against Karna, not even for the sake of family honor. Instead I asked, “Adhiratha said Karna had been gone for many years. Do you know where he'd been?”
Dhri nodded grimly. “The lost years of Karna's life: that's the most important part of the story, and the main reason I'm telling it to you.”
Early in life Karna demonstrates a passion for archery. At sixteen—still believing he is Adhiratha's son—he goes to Drona, the foremost teacher in the land. He confesses that he is lowborn and begs to be accepted as his student. But Drona is busy with princes. I will not teach a chariot-driver's son, he says. Disappointed, insulted, Karna vows he will learn from one who is greater than Drona. He leaves the city for the mountains and finally, through great effort and even greater luck—though whether the luck is good or bad is uncertain—he finds the ashram of Parasuram.
“Drona's own teacher,” I whispered. “Didn't he once erase the entire race of kshatriyas from the earth because they'd grown corrupt?”
Dhri nodded.
Since truth hasn't served him well, Karna does not risk it again. He tells Parasuram that he is a brahmin. Seeing his potential, the sage agrees to teach him. In time Karna becomes the best of his students, the most beloved, the only one to whom Parasuram imparts the invocation for the Brahmastra, the weapon that no one can withstand.
The day before he is to leave Parasuram's ashram, Karna accompanies his teacher on a walk through the forest. When a tired Parasuram wants to rest under a tree, Karna offers his lap as a pillow. As the old man sleeps, a mountain scorpion creeps from its hole and stings Karna repeatedly on the thigh, drawing blood. The pain is intense, but Karna does not want to disturb his teacher. He sits unmoving—but blood spurts from his wound onto Parasuram's face and wakes him. In rage Parasuram curses his favorite student.
Shock forced me to interrupt. “But why?”
Dhri said, “Parasuram realized that a brahmin could never have borne so much pain in silence. Only a kshatriya was capable of that. He accused Karna of having deceived him. And though Karna told him that he didn't belong to the warrior-caste but was merely a charioteer's son, Parasuram wouldn't forgive him. He said, Just as you've deceived me, so will your mind deceive you. When you need the Brahmastra the most, you'll forget the mantra needed to call it up. What you've stolen from me will be of no use to you in the hour of your death.”
I was outraged. “Didn't Karna's years of devoted service mean anything to Parasuram? What of his love for his teacher, because of which he bore the scorpion's sting? Wasn't that worth some forgiveness?”
“Ah, forgiveness,” Dhri said. “It's a virtue that eludes even the great. Isn't our own existence a proof of that?”
A disconsolate Karna makes his way back down the mountain, having gained and then lost that which he'd set his heart on. It is night. Resting in the woods outside a village, he hears a beast lumbering toward him. His mind in turmoil, he shoots an arrow at the sound. From the beast's dying cry, he realizes he has killed a cow, that most sacred of animals.
I shut my eyes. I didn't wish to hear any more of this
story. I willed Karna to walk away from the fallen animal before he was discovered as its killer. I knew he wouldn't.
In the morning he finds the owner of the cow, confesses his deed, and offers compensation. But the enraged brahmin says, You killed my cow when she was defenseless. You, too, will die when you have no means of protection. Karna pleads with him to change his curse. I'm not afraid of dying, he says. But let me die like a warrior. The brahmin refuses.
“How could Karna bear to keep on living after all these misfortunes?” I whispered.
Dhri shrugged. “Suicide is the coward's way. And whatever his faults, Karna isn't a coward.
“I told you this story against Krishna's advice for two reasons. One is that the unknown is always more fascinating than the known.”
(But in this my brother was mistaken. Nothing has more power over us than the truth. Each painful detail of Karna's story became a hook in my flesh, binding me to him, making me wish a happier life for him.)
“But also,” Dhri continued, “I want you to realize that Karna is cursed. Anyone joined to him will become cursed, too. I don't want that to happen to you—because you're my sister, but also because you're born to change history. You don't have the luxury of behaving like an ordinary starstruck girl. The consequences of your action may destroy us all.”
I was annoyed at being pressed in this way. But even more, I was frightened by the conviction in his voice. All this time, I hadn't known that he'd taken my destiny as seriously as his own. Still, I spoke lightly. “I'm glad you have so much confidence in my power! But remember what Krishna said? We're nothing but pawns in Time's hands!”
The Palace of Illusions Page 8