But Krishna said, “Maya is right. Everyone who sees this palace will want it for himself. Envy is dangerous. You'll have to deal with it eventually—but why call it down on yourself before its time?”
We didn't like what Krishna said, but we trusted his wisdom. So, reluctantly, we cancelled the grand celebration we'd planned. No doubt some people spoke ill of us, wondering at our inhospitality. (This distressed Yudhisthir; opinions were important to him.) Still, those who loved us came to visit anyway, even without an invitation, and they returned home with such amazing stories that others followed. Many stayed on, for Yudhisthir was a just and kind ruler. Soon a prosperous city grew up around Khandav. People called it Indra Prastha—that's how impressive it was. Minstrels began to make up songs about the unparalleled grandeur of the Pandava court. Slowly, the warnings we'd been given—by Maya, by Krishna, by Vyasa long ago—retreated into the lightless crevices of memory.
These were good years for me. I loved my palace, and in return I felt its warmth embracing me as though it were alive. Some of its serenity seeped into me, some wisdom, so that I learned to be happy with my lot in the world. (And now that I had such a palace, how could I be otherwise?) I took my place beside each of my husbands at the proper moment, and saw our pairings as movements in an elaborate dance. I saw my husbands, too, differently. They were a unit together, five fingers that complemented each other to make up a powerful hand—a hand that would protect me if the need arose. A hand that had gifted me this beautiful palace. Wasn't that sufficient to be thankful for?
My husbands, too, learned to appreciate my strengths. We were all surprised to discover that I had a good eye for matters of governance. More and more, Yudhisthir began to ask my advice when a tricky judgment had to be delivered. And I, having learned more of the workings of women's power, was careful to offer my opinion only in private, deferring to him always in front of others.
These were the years when I gave birth to my five sons, one from each husband: Prativindhya, Sutasoma, Srutakarman, Sata-neeka, and Srutasena. (Their names were chosen by Yudhisthir, who favored hefty, polysyllabic appellations. Sometimes, when I was flustered by the children's clamoring, I'd get them confused.) I loved the boys dearly, but I wasn't particularly maternal. Or perhaps my energies were used up in being a wife five times over, and a queen besides. Fortunately, Dhai Ma, whom I'd rescued from Kunti's tyrant grasp, was more than happy to take them off my hands. She chased after them day and night, regaling them with invectives, but in truth she was far more indulgent with them than she'd ever been with me—a fact that they took full advantage of.
Dhri, who was busy helping my aging and increasingly cantankerous father rule his kingdom, visited me whenever he could. Here, for a while, he could set aside his cares as he hunted and rode and argued boisterously with my husbands about gaming strategies, or wrestled with my boys and showered them with too many gifts, or strolled with me in the gardens that were my delight. Once, when we were by ourselves, he praised me for the way I handled my unconventional domestic situation.
“I didn't think you could have done it,” he said. “You were so prickly about little things, always ready to rebel. Now you're truly a queen!”
I smiled. “If I am, I owe it to my palace.”
When I repeated this to Krishna, he frowned. “Don't be so attached to what is, after all, no more than stone and metal and asura sleight of hand. All things in this world change and pass away— some after many years, some overnight. Appreciate the Palace of Illusions, by all means. But if you identify so deeply with it, you set yourself up for sorrow.”
Out of my fondness for him, I didn't argue. But inside I knew I had nothing to fear. Maya had promised us that no human would be able to harm our palace, no natural disaster lay it low. No one could wrest it from us. As long as we—or our descendants—lived in it, it was indestructible, and in turn, it would protect us.
It was as close to immortality as I could imagine—and enough to satisfy me.
I dreaded bringing Kunti to my palace and made excuses to delay it as long as possible. But finally she arrived, stepping from the carriage with an elaborate groan and disapproval stitched onto her prim, pursed lips.
As my husbands guided her through the palace, I steeled myself for criticism. But the palace must have worked its magic on her, for after a few superficial complaints she fell silent, and a childlike look of wonder came into her eyes. Once or twice I heard her laugh in delight as Sahadev or Nakul—strangely, they who were not born of her were her favorites—explained one of Maya's illusions to her. And though she never complimented me on the planning of the palace, her pleasure in it melted some of the aversion that had encrusted my heart for so long.
Kunti was a wise woman—wiser than me, if truth were told. In those first days, her shrewd eyes examined much more than the curiosities in the palace. She saw that in this place, I was mistress. Where my husbands had once relied on her, they now depended on me. She could not disrupt this state of affairs without causing her sons serious unhappiness. Perhaps the palace laid its calming finger on her, making her realize that she loved them more than she resented me. Had we remained in Hastinapur, in her husband's palace, I am sure she would have fought me fiercely for control. But the Palace of Illusions was my domain, and she accepted this, spending her days in the cool, fragrant garden (for here it was always cool) listening to the bulbuls sing.
Or was she a better actress than I gave her credit for, biding her time, waiting for the mistakes she knew I'd make?
20
I didn't win all my battles. My husbands took other wives: Hidimba, Kali, Devika, Balandhara, Chitrangada, Ulupi, Karuna-mati. How naïve I'd been to think I could have prevented it! Sometimes there were political reasons, but mostly it was male desire. I retaliated by locking myself up in my quarters, refusing food, and throwing expensive objects at my husbands if they dared to approach me. My tantrums became almost as famous as Yudhisthir's righteousness, and over the years not a few songs were composed about Panchaali's jealousy.
In truth, I wasn't nearly as upset as I made out to be. I was a practical woman. I knew I couldn't expect my husbands to remain celibate while they waited for their turn as my spouse. I knew also that I was special to them in a way that none of the syrupy beauties they married later could ever be. I'd been at their side when they were young and in danger. Marriage to me had protected them from the murderous wrath of Duryodhan. I'd played a crucial role in bringing them to their destiny. I'd shared their hardship in Khan-dav. I'd helped them design this unique palace, which so many longed to see. If they were pearls, I was the gold wire on which they were strung. Alone, they would have scattered, each to his dusty corner. They would have pursued separate interests, deposited their loyalties with different women. But together, we formed something precious and unique. Together, we were capable of what none of us could do alone. I finally began to see what the wily Kunti had in mind when she'd insisted that I was to be married to all of them, and though they never made my heart beat wildly, the way I'd hoped as a girl, I committed myself totally to the welfare of the Pandavas.
Still, it's never a good idea to let one's husbands grow too complacent. My displays of temper ensured that the Pandavas continued to regard me with a healthy respect. When I finally forgave them, they were appropriately penitent. It kept the number of their wives to a minimum and—what was more important—made the wives reluctant to visit the palace.
Only once was I truly shaken, when Arjun chose Subhadra, Krishna's sister, as his mate and carried her away in a wildly romantic chariot race, with her other brother, the irate Balaram, chasing after them. After they were married, Arjun brought her to me so she could pay her respects. He'd made her dress in a simple cotton sari, but it didn't hide her translucent beauty. Her lips trembled with nervousness. (She'd heard of the tantrums.) Drops of sweat shone on her temples like a circlet of pearls. Still, nothing could dampen the drunken love in her eyes—a look that was reflected on Arjun's fac
e. He'd never looked at me that way, and never would. A pang went through me, remembrance of another man that I'd put away successfully for so long that I'd thought it was erased. And though one part of me sympathized with Subhadra's fear, the other part raged that she had so easily and thoughtlessly gained what I in spite of all my renown as the chief queen of the Pandavas would never possess. And so I turned from her, making deliberate, cutting remarks about seduction and betrayal until she was reduced to tears.
More than Subhadra (who after all owed me nothing), more than Arjun (whose perfidies I was used to by now), it was Krishna I felt had betrayed me. But when I accused him of having encouraged his sister to snatch Arjun from me, he was quite unabashed.
“Arjun's not like a nose ring that someone can snatch from you,” he said sternly. “He comes and goes of his own will. Besides, you know that no matter whom else he marries, his commitment to you remains the same. But most important, out of their union will come a great warrior, and out of him will come a king even greater.” He touched my shoulder, perhaps to lessen the harshness of his words. “Isn't that more important than the brief heartache you suffer?”
Over time, I found myself becoming friendly with the wives. (This was aided by the fact that they all chose to remain with their own people, in the kingdoms of their birth. Distance is a great promoter of harmony: a fact that women who find themselves in situations similar to mine should keep in mind.) Surprisingly, Subhadra became my favorite. On her visits, she put up with my petty tyrannies without complaint—bringing me water, combing my hair, even fanning me on hot afternoons—until I was shamed into desisting. Though no one could accuse her of weakness, she was more pliant than I. Perhaps that was why, when tragedy fell upon us both, she would handle it more gracefully. In the years of my misfortune, she would take my sons into her home, treating them no differently from her own child, deftly balancing affection and discipline. I would love her for that. But no, she'd made her way into my heart long before. Her mannerisms—the way she raised an eyebrow or burst into laughter or shook her head at a display of folly—were Krishna's, and watching her made me feel that he was by my side.
A decade passed thus, as in a dream. And as in a dream, I recall those years only faintly, the way one remembers the colors of a serene sunset. Is it always like this when life goes the way we want? My husbands and I grew older, richer, more comfortable with our good fortune. And with each other, so that when at the end of a year I went from one bed to the next, it no longer caused us awkwardness. Trade and industry and art prospered in our city. Our reputation spread across kingdoms. Our subjects, flourishing, blessed us in their prayers. We held in our palms all the things we'd once longed for. But deep down, though no one would admit it, we were a little restless, a little bored. The current of destiny seemed to have flung us ashore and receded. Not knowing that it was gathering in a tidal wave, we chafed in our calmness, wondering if it would ever claim us again.
21
The boundaries of afterlife are even more complicated than the rules that pen us in on earth. Depending on their deeds, the dead can be dispatched to many different abodes. Fortunate brahmins are sent to Brahmaloka, where they can learn divine wisdom directly from the Creator. The best among kshatriyas go to Indraloka, filled as it is with pleasures both artistic and hedonistic. Lesser warriors must be content with the courts of the god of death, or the sun and moon deities. For evildoers, there are one hundred and thirty-six levels of hell, each corresponding to a particular sin, and each with its own set of tortures, such as tongue-tearing, being boiled in oil, or being devoured by ravenous birds, all of which our scriptures describe with great relish. Dhri's tutor was of the opinion that virtuous women were sent directly into their next birth, where, if they were lucky, they reincarnated as men. But I thought that if lokas existed at all, good women would surely go to one where men were not allowed so that they could be finally free of male demands. However, I prudently kept this theory to myself.
In any case, I knew enough to realize that there would be trouble when Sage Narad, who had paid us a surprise visit, said to Yudhisthir, “No, great king, while visiting Indra's court, I didn't see the spirit of your respected father there.”
We'd dined on the finest fare our cooks could come up with at such short notice (for Narad had a discriminating palate)—from fried bitter melons and stuffed brinjals to lentils cooked to a buttery paste that melted in the mouth and thickened rice pudding bristling with almonds. Having eaten their fill, the men were now relaxing on silken cushions. I sat behind Yudhisthir, passing around a platter of silvered betel leaf and digestive spices and assessing the sage from under my veil.
With his slight build and his simple white clothes, Narad looked harmless, but he had quite a reputation. He had powerful family connections (emerging, it was said, directly from the brain of Brahma) and was a formidable devotee of Lord Vishnu. His favorite activity was to travel from court to court and world to world, collecting gossip and spreading mayhem. He had already contributed to the demise of several regimes, and was justly known as Narad Troublemaker. I wondered what he was planning.
“I did see him, however, in the court of the god of death,” he added, cocking his head like a mischievous raven.
“But why is my father in Yama's court and not Indra's?” Yudhisthir asked, peeved by this slight to family honor.
“Your grandfather's there, too,” Narad said, yawning delicately behind his hand. “But don't let it disturb you. They were quite comfortable, though the thrones there aren't as splendid as those in Indra's court, nor the cushions as easeful to the posterior. However…”
“What can we do to ensure that our ancestors enter Indra's court?” Yudhisthir interrupted.
“By a strange coincidence,” Narad said, “that is just what I asked them. They said that if you performed the Rajasuya sacrifice, they'd be sent there.”
“Then we shall certainly perform it!” Yudhisthir announced. “Tell us how it's to be done.”
Narad wrinkled his brow, feigning anxiety. “It's too dangerous! First you must make all the kings of Bharat pay you tribute. And if they don't, you must battle and defeat them. And then you must hold a huge fire ceremony that they all have to attend.”
I was skeptical about the entire endeavor. Even if there were lokas, what proof was there that the dead could be promoted from one to the next based on what we did here on earth? Yudhisthir, too, hesitated. He was a peace-loving man. But Arjun's eyes glittered and Bheem raised his fists high. Sahadev and Nakul sat intent and still. I doubted that they cared about ancestors or believed any more than I did in the lokas. However, Narad's story gave them the perfect opportunity to shake off their lassitude, polish their rusting battle skills, fill the royal coffers, and gain renown—and be lauded as dutiful offspring at the same time.
“When do we start?” Arjun asked.
“Let's not rush into things!” Yudhisthir said. “We'll send for Krishna. He'll advise us.”
“Ah, Krishna, the master tactician!” Narad cried, clasping his palms. “How fortunate you are to have him as your friend! You do know that he's the incarnation of Vishnu himself, don't you?” He threw me a sly glance, checking to see if I believed this outrageous claim.
“Is he really an incarnation?” Arjun asked curiously. “He seems so… normal, always joking around with us—”
“He only reveals his divinity to those who are ready for it,” Narad said, and though he spoke to Arjun, it was me that he fixed with his gaze.
I had dismissed Narad's words as another of his teasing tricks, but later, when I was alone, I couldn't stop thinking about them. What if I had presumed wrongly? What if there were, in truth, worlds upon worlds invisible to ordinary mortals the ways stars are in the daytime? What if the gods did come down, from time to time, to live among us and guide our destinies? Past the sleeping silhouette of Nakul, my current husband, beyond the dark window of my bedroom, a pale yellow moon hung low in the sky. What mysteries were hidden b
ehind its pockmarked face? I could not decide if the laws of those worlds should supersede ours. If we should bow before the advice of a god-man even when it went against everything that made sense.
I watched Krishna carefully when he arrived. He didn't act particularly godlike. He teased me as usual, remarking that I'd put on weight (a blatant lie). He insisted that I cook for him and then claimed (another lie) that my milk-sweets were nowhere as good as the ones he'd grown up on in Vrindavan. When my husbands asked him about the Rajasuya, he was surprisingly amenable to the idea. He said the country was filled with corruption and needed shaking up. A carefully controlled bloodletting now might prevent a great carnage later on. He seemed to have forgotten his earlier warnings about envy.
Krishna helped my husbands create a strategy. They began by killing Jarasandha, the most feared ruler of the time—and incidentally, a longtime enemy of Krishna. (Bheem tore his body in two during a wrestling match, a feat he described to me later in delighted, excruciating detail.) They then released the many kings Jarasandha had imprisoned in his labyrinths and gave them back their kingdoms. This made my husbands so popular that wherever they went after that, they were greeted with friendship. Who knows what would have happened in Anga, Karna's kingdom? But Krishna adroitly avoided the problem by instructing Yudhisthir to send a courteous letter to the blind king, stating that out of respect for their uncle, the Pandavas would not challenge any of his allies. Not to be outdone in sophistry, the blind king sent back a flowery missive stating that he would be delighted if the Pandavas managed to gain the support of all the kings of Bharat and increase their father's fame. After they had been victorious and sent him an invitation, he wrote back that though he himself could not travel because of his infirmity, Duryodhan and his friends would be happy to attend the festivities at this palace of ours that everyone spoke of so highly.
The Palace of Illusions Page 14