The Palace of Illusions

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  Dhritarashtra's letter sent us into a frenzy of activity. We'd been prepared for a large gathering, but we hadn't thought that the Kau-ravas would come. Knowing that they would be here changed everything. My husbands strode up and down the palace, examining everything with a newly critical eye—the way they thought Duryodhan would. Even the mild-mannered Yudhisthir grew snappish. It was imperative that everything be perfect by the time the Kauravas arrived. Then they'd be forced to acknowledge how well their poor cousins—the ones they'd always insulted and ridiculed—had done.

  And I? I threw myself into the preparations, holding nothing back, as a good wife should. It wasn't difficult. I, too, wanted Duryodhan to stare openmouthed at what they'd made of the wilderness. I, too, wanted him to be dazzled by all their treasures—including myself, their crown possession. It was the least my husbands deserved after all those years of struggle and shame, of fleeing in fear for their lives. If there was another reason why I forced my maids to work deep into the night, polishing and laundering, or spurred my cooks to create exotic new dishes for every banquet we would hold, or commissioned the royal tailor to design clothing more elaborate than anything we'd ever worn, or ordered the gardeners to coax each plant in my garden into blooming, I was careful not to examine it.

  22

  The celebrations began well. My husbands were gracious and modest in their triumph, and they welcomed the visiting kings with ebullient enthusiasm. This was their first opportunity to be hosts, and they were determined to do it right. For their part, the kings appreciated the courtesy—not to mention the costly gifts that were heaped on them—and settled down to enjoying the festivities. But later we would realize that discontent had been simmering in many hearts from the very first. It's a rare man—and an even rarer ruler—that can remain untouched by jealousy in the face of a peer's sudden prosperity. All of us (except perhaps Yudhisthir) knew this truth. We should have been more vigilant, but we were all distracted, in different ways, by the presence of the Kaurava contingent.

  The day I learned that what I both feared and longed for was about to happen—that Karna would be part of Duryodhan's party— I went into the small private courtyard that my bedroom opened onto, and sat among the ashwagandha plants with my back against the warm stone wall. Give me strength to do the right thing, I whispered, though to whom I don't know. I didn't put much trust in the gods. They were too involved in their own quarrels and weren't above employing trickery to get what they wanted. A soft afternoon wind sighed around me; the yellow ashwagandha blooms trembled, releasing their pungent, sweaty odor; it seemed to me that my palace was counseling me as it held me in its embrace. I thought it said that Karna's coming was my chance for reparation.

  And so when Karna arrived, I put away passion and folly and the awkwardness that goes with it. I stood by my husbands and welcomed him the same way I welcomed the rest of the Kaurava party, without my voice trembling, or my gaze faltering. I created occasions where I could be hospitable to him. I was determined to erase, through graciousness, my past insult. We were none of us young and foolish as we'd been at the time of my marriage. We could put the past behind us.

  But Karna wouldn't accommodate me. I'd assigned him one of our grandest guest chambers, with a balcony that looked out onto a lake that turned silver each night under the moon, but he gave it to Dussasan, choosing instead a small, spare room that opened only to courtyard walls. To everyone else's eye, his behavior was faultless. He accompanied Duryodhan to every public event—sacrificial ceremonies, dance performances, the discussions of courtly matters— and sat through them patiently, if not with pleasure. But whenever Yudhisthir planned an intimate gathering where I would play a part—a dinner in the private chambers for family, or an evening where we might recite poetry—Karna excused himself. If by chance we passed each other along a palace path, he responded to my warmest greetings with correctness—and nothing else. Slowly it came to me, with a sinking of the heart, that he was not going to allow me to redeem myself.

  On the final day of the yagna, after Yudhisthir was crowned as the greatest among the kings of Bharat, he was expected to choose a guest of honor from among the assembled rulers. For many nights my husbands had been trying to decide who this should be. Should they recognize the oldest? The one with the largest territory? The one best known for his acts of charity? The one they wanted most as their ally? But they'd failed to agree.

  Now in the assembly Yudhisthir said to Bheeshma, “Grandfather, everyone here will agree that you are the wisest among us. It is therefore fitting that you choose our guest of honor.”

  Standing behind him, I could see what Yudhisthir was too blind to notice: everyone did not agree with him. Though they didn't dare speak out against Bheeshma, he had many enemies. Some mistrusted him because of the oath he'd taken, which they considered terrible and unnatural. Others resented him because he kept them from carving the Kaurava kingdom up for themselves. Others hated him merely because he loved us.

  When I realized this last bit, my hands grew shaky. All this time, tucked within the safety of my palace, I'd believed we were safe. I'd believed that as long as we wished no one harm, no harm would come to us. But envy had been lurking outside our walls all this while—and now we'd given it the perfect opportunity to creep in. It disfigured the faces in front of me as the kings whispered to each other, their facile friendship for my husbands evaporating with each word.

  “Krishna!” Bheeshma announced, making me start. “Krishna should be the guest of honor.”

  His statement was like a stone tossed into a wasp's nest. The assembly exploded in an uproar. A few were pleased (my husbands could not contain their smiles), more were angry, but most were perplexed. I was perplexed, too, much though I loved Krishna. He was a relatively minor king, in spite of the colorful stories that surrounded him. What did Bheeshma know of him that I didn't?

  Krishna, who had been sitting halfway down the hall with the rest of the Yadu clan, stood up. He didn't appear particularly elated. It has always been hard for me to read his chameleon expressions, but I thought he looked resigned. He joined his palms in acceptance of the honor and walked quietly to the dais. His demeanor affected the audience; they too, began to quieten. Yudhisthir gave a sigh of relief.

  Then Sisupal, king of the Chedis, leaped up red-faced from his seat. I remembered him from the swayamvar—he'd been at the forefront of the disgruntled suitors who had tried to kill Arjun. He was a master at inciting others, lending credence to the shameful thoughts they'd pushed deep inside. My heart constricted as I wondered what he would do now.

  Sisupal clapped his hands in derisive applause. “This is wonderful indeed! With so many great heroes in the assembly, the prize goes to a cowherd who became a king by treacherously killing his uncle! The man my friend Jarasandha sent running from the battlefield a score of times! The man who took his revenge by instigating Bheem to kill my friend through trickery! Such a man is to be honored above us all today! But what else can one expect in the court of a bastard king?”

  There was a collective gasp. I didn't dare look at Yudhisthir's face. Arjun took a step forward, hand on his sword.

  “Sisupal,” Bheeshma said, controlling himself with effort, “you're a guest here, though you've obviously forgotten the courtesies you owe your hosts. I don't want the Pandavas to incur the sin of killing you, so I ask you to take back your gravely offending words.”

  “I don't take back what I say,” Sisupal said, “particularly when it's true. Very convenient, wasn't it, all those gods visiting Kunti and that poor eunuch, Pandu, in the forest? And speaking of eunuchs, did you ever wonder, all you great kings, why Bheeshma was so quick to take the oath that's made him so famous?”

  With a roar, Bheem barreled his way to the front of the dais. But Bheeshma gripped Bheem's arm. He no longer seemed angry. He pointed to where Krishna stood by the dais. As always, Krishna carried no sword, but something I'd never seen—a disc with serrated edges—was in his right hand. The sun
struck its surface, dazzling me, creating the illusion that it spun very fast around his forefinger.

  “I promised to forgive you a hundred insults,” Krishna said to Sisupal, his voice conversational. “You crossed that number long ago, but I was patient, knowing that you weren't too skilled at counting.” He waited until Sisupal's roar of rage died away. “This time you've gone too far, insulting the grandfather. Still, I'll let it go if you apologize. This way Yudhisthir can complete his yagna in peace.”

  “Coward! Don't try to fool me with your honeyed words,” Sisupal yelled, his words slurring with fury, “the way you lured my beautiful Rukmini away.”

  I vaguely recalled an old story—something about how Krishna's favorite wife had once been promised by her brother to Sisupal— but there was no time to sort out my thoughts. Sisupal had broken into a run, his sword leveled at Krishna. I clutched at Arjun's arm. (Yudhisthir was not much use at such times.) “Help him!” I cried.

  He looked at me incredulously. “I can't interfere in Krishna's fight!”

  “Don't worry, Panchaali,” Yudhisthir said, patting my shoulder. “Remember what Narad said about Krishna's powers?”

  Sisupal thrust his sword with sudden savagery at Krishna's belly. The blade moved so fast, it was a blur. I screamed and covered my face. Around me people were crying out in dismay. I felt a piercing sorrow as though the blade had gone through my own body, then emptiness like I'd never felt before. It struck me like an iron fist, the realization that if Krishna wasn't in my life, nothing mattered. Not my husbands, not my brother, not this palace I was so proud of, not the look I longed to see in Karna's eye.

  When did he start mattering this much to me? Or had it always been so, only I'd been impervious to it until calamity forced it to my attention?

  “Panchaali,” I heard Bheem call. “You can open your eyes now. It's over.”

  Indeed it was. Sisupal's head lay on the floor, spewing blood. I closed my eyes again hastily.

  “Krishna chopped it off with his chakra,” Bheem explained. “But the headless body kept moving forward, its sword still aimed at Krishna. It was something to see! It keeled over at the last moment, right at his feet. The strangest thing happened when the body fell. A light flashed from it and disappeared into Krishna! What do you make of that?”

  I was too dazed to make sense of any of it—the outer occurrences, or the turbulence inside me. This time when I opened my eyes, I focused them on Krishna. He didn't look like he'd just killed a man. A slight smile danced on his lips, as though he was recalling an old and not unpleasant memory. Did it have anything to do with the light Bheem had mentioned—and had that been Sisupal's soul? His feet were splattered with blood.

  “It isn't mine,” he told me, seeing the expression on my face. “I'm not hurt.” But that wasn't quite true. Blood dripped from the index finger of his right hand. (Could a god bleed?) He must have used it to fling the disc. (Of the disc itself there was no sign. I wouldn't see it again for many years.) I tore a strip off the end of my sari and bandaged the wound.

  “Now you've ruined that abominably expensive sari,” he said. “I'll have to get you a new one, although it's probably not going to be as fine. I'm a relatively minor king, after all!”

  I stared at him in shock, then reddened. Did he know my other thoughts, including those about Karna?

  Kings had leaped up from their seats. Some were protesting angrily. A few had drawn their swords. I thought I saw Narad crouched in a corner of the sabha, observing the chaos with a mix of dread and ecstasy on his face. An unhappy Yudhisthir was vainly calling for order. My other husbands climbed down into the audience, trying to calm people. Was that Karna I saw helping them, arms raised, his back like a giant tree trunk, keeping the roiling crowd away from the dais where I stood? But for once my attention slipped away from him.

  If I wanted to tell Krishna what I'd felt, this was the time. (Why was it so important that I articulate for him my confused grief?) The ground felt unsteady under my feet. My face was hot. I'd never bared my soul to Krishna in this way. I was afraid he would laugh at me. Still, I said, “When I thought you had died, I wanted to die, too.”

  Krishna gazed into my eyes. Was it love I saw in his face? If so, it was different in kind from all the loves I knew. Or perhaps the loves I'd known had been something different, and this alone was love. It reached past my body, my thoughts, my shaking heart, into some part of me that I hadn't known existed. My eyes closed of their own accord. I felt myself coming apart like the braided edge of a shawl, the threads reaching everywhere.

  How long did I stand there? A moment or an eon? Some things can't be measured. I know this much: I didn't want it to end.

  Then his voice intruded into my reverie, laughter stitched into its edges, just as I'd feared. “You'd better not let my dear friends the Pandavas hear that! It could get me into a lot of trouble!”

  “Can't you ever be serious?” I said, mortified.

  “It's difficult,” he said. “There's so little in life that's worth it.”

  There was no opportunity for further conversation, for this time the ground shook in earnest. The pillars of the sabha swayed. Though the magic Maya had woven into them kept them from toppling, people panicked, yelling as they ran. I thought I heard the cawing of ravens. Someone grabbed my arm. I struck out, then saw it was Bheem, his hair wild about his face.

  “Steady there!” he said, rubbing his cheek ruefully. “Elder brother asked me to escort you to your quarters. This is no place for you.”

  I bristled at the comment, but Krishna gave me a gentle push. “Go, Krishnaa. We wouldn't want you to get hurt.”

  Bheem shook his head in dismay. “What an unfortunate end to our yagna! What will happen now? The priests are saying the earthquake is a bad omen. They're saying the gods are angry at Sisupal's death.”

  “Priests like to say such things,” Krishna replied. He didn't seem too concerned about the anger of the gods.

  As Bheem hurried me along, I noticed Karna. He'd been holding back the surging crowds that were trying to rush to the doorway near the dais, patient with their flailing terror. When he saw that I was safe with Bheem, he gave him a curt nod and turned to leave. I focused all my mental energy at his receding back, thanking him, willing him to look once at me. I know he must have felt the force of my wish—even Bheem glanced at me, his brow furrowed in perplexity. But Karna walked away, his footsteps as steady as though I'd never existed.

  23

  Duryodhan was acting strangely.

  The other kings had departed soon after Sisupal's death—most of them sullen-faced and disapproving, without observing the courtesies of leave-taking—but the Kaurava party lingered on. The rest of us wished them gone, but Yudhisthir was too polite to let us hint at this. Perhaps also, stung by the distrust of our other guests and disappointed at the unpleasant end to the yagna he'd so looked forward to, he was gratified that Duryodhan courted his company. That he was so fascinated by our palace. It pleased him to possess something his cousin admired, and he gave Duryodhan leave to wander where he wished.

  As a result, I would come upon the Kaurava prince in unexpected places—in the kitchen, where he examined the cook fires with acute interest, or in the garden, where he interrogated the gardeners as to where we'd acquired certain plants. Soon I realized what he wanted: to build himself a similar palace. But when I expressed my indignation to my husbands, demanding that they stop him, they merely scoffed at his ambition. They pointed out that he'd never be able to accomplish such a task, not unless he got hold of an architect as skilled in magic as Maya, and how would he manage that?

  “He'll just drain the coffers of Hastinapur,” Arjun said, “and then burden the people with unjust taxes.”

  “Maybe they'll get so fed up, they'll rebel and depose him,” Bheem said.

  “Maybe they'll set up one of his saner younger brothers to become crown prince,” Nakul said.

  “No chance of that!” Sahadev cried. “You kno
w how blindly our revered uncle dotes on Duryodhan.” The four of them guffawed until Yudhisthir put an end to it.

  I couldn't take Duryodhan's plans as lightly. We'd poured our hearts into designing this palace. It was an embodiment of our most intimate desires, our secret wishes. It was us. Every time I saw Duryodhan measuring a doorway with his eyes, or pointing at a floating stairwell while his uncle Sakuni jotted down notes, I felt violated— the more so because Duryodhan's smirk indicated that he knew exactly what was going through my mind.

  The presence of Karna at such moments made things worse. He'd be standing beside Duryodhan, looking supremely uninterested. I'd already heard, through servants, that he'd repeatedly asked Duryodhan for his leave to return to Anga. But each time Duryodhan entreated him to stay, stating that he needed his dearest friend with him.

  I knew I shouldn't care. Still, it hurt me that Karna was so keen to leave my palace, that none of its charms were able to entrance him. For the first time, it made me look at the palace with a doubtful eye, wondering if it was truly as special as we'd believed it to be. Or had Maya laid a spell not upon the palace foundations but on us, so that the beauties we doted on had no existence outside of our own longing?

  But in this I was mistaken. The palace was fully as magical as Maya had claimed, and like all magical dwellings, it sensed its inhabitants' thoughts. In the next days, I would feel from it a coolness, a withdrawal. Later I would wonder, was its displeasure with me the cause of the accident that occurred, the accident that would have such far-reaching consequences?

  If Duryodhan's days were spent reconnoitering, his nights were spent at elaborate revels that he organized. I resented these bitterly. They were a reminder that, no matter how important I was to my husbands, there would always be places where I couldn't accompany—or advise—them. But my uneasiness had causes more serious than a hurt ego. The reports I heard were disquieting—the scantily clad dancers, the expensive sura Duryodhan ordered in wagonloads and presented to my husbands, the miasma of opium smoke in the sabha by the end of the evening. And the gaming! Each night dice would be set up on boards of ivory, and Duryodhan, with Sakuni at his elbow, would challenge Yudhisthir.