He had a reason, of course: the impending war, for which he needed to improve his battle skills and learn new techniques. And how could he do that, hemmed in by our rustic, rusting existence? Time gnaws on me, he told Yudhisthir. I fear I will disintegrate before the war even begins. He decided to go to the mountains of Hi-mavan and try, through penance, to please Shiva. He would ask him for Pasupat, the divine astra that would make him invincible.
“Once I have the Pasupat,” he said, “Karna is a dead man!”
When I heard that, the blood fled from my face. My knees buckled and I fell to the ground. I, who hadn't weakened so even at the moment of my great insult in Duryodhan's court. My husbands bustled around me. Yudhisthir lifted my head onto his lap. Bheem splashed water on my face. The twins fanned me. A flattered Arjun took my hands in his, even though it was not his year as my husband, in a rare gesture of affection.
“Don't worry,” he said. “I go so that, when the time comes, I can restore your honor.” (His words, if not totally honest about his motives, were true enough.) “Wish me godspeed.”
Why did I hesitate?
My husbands thought I was too overcome with fear for Arjun to speak. They considered it sweet and womanly and assured me he would be in no danger. He was, after all, the world's greatest warrior. And his father Indra would surely be keeping an eye out for him.
Why was my heart so weak, so unreasonable? After all that had transpired, why should I care what happened to a man with ancient eyes? Wasn't he my enemy, the deadly rival of this man who was willing to risk his life to avenge me? My folly angered me, but I couldn't shake it off. To stop the voices, both inner and outer, I said, “May you be successful. May you return safely with your heart's desire.”
But my voice faltered. Perhaps that is why Arjun would have so much trouble on his journey.
On Indrakila mountain, where the air is like crystal, Arjun meditated and prayed to Shiva. But Shiva did not answer. Instead, a wild boar charged at him from a copse. Arjun lifted the Gandiva bow, but as he shot, a different arrow flew through the air and struck the boar dead. Enraged by this encroachment, Arjun turned to find a man dressed in skins. He didn't seem intimidated by Arjun's threats. When Arjun in his anger shot at him, all his arrows—even his divine astras—fell useless at the hunter's feet, whereas each arrow of the hunter found its target.
“There I was, bleeding, while the hunter mocked me,” Arjun would tell us later, his voice conveying his astonished outrage. “I, who hadn't been touched by an arrow since I completed my studies with Drona! I prayed to Shiva for help, but nothing happened. My heart sank.”
Dispirited, he made a garland from wildflowers and offered it to an earthen image of the god in a final attempt to please him. But when he opened his eyes, the garland was gone. “I was sure the god had abandoned me,” he said. “Then I saw the garland—it was around the neck of the hunter, who glowed with a golden light!”
Understanding Shiva's play, he fell at his feet. The god embraced him and gave him the dreaded Pasupat, asking only that he use it in righteous war.
But would the war still be righteous when Arjun shot the astra at Karna? Or had it swerved darkly a long time before? The blood of Abhimanyu had soaked the earth of Kurukshetra by then, Bheeshma had been made to give away the secret of his death, and Drona had been overcome not by my brother's valor but by a lie.
Enveloped in triumph, giddy with the god's presence, Arjun did not suspect any of this. “Yes!” he cried, raising his chin in that way he had, full of self-belief. Did Chitragupta, keeper of the divine books, record his promise, smiling his secret, crooked smile at the vanity of humans? Is that why Arjun, too, would fall on the mountain when we went on our final journey?
There was more to Arjun's story: How Indra and the other gods appeared, promising him more astras, to be given when the war began. How they took him up to Indra's palace where he sat by the king-god on the same throne, enjoying celestial music and dance. (I wondered if his forefathers were there, but I knew better than to ask.) How the celestial dancer Urvasi fell in love with him and asked him to satisfy her desire. He refused. (He made sure to catch my eye while narrating this part.) She cursed him. As a result he would have to spend a year of his life as a eunuch. Fortunately his father interceded. He couldn't nullify the curse, but at least Arjun could choose the year when it would happen.
There were things Arjun kept to himself. (Isn't it thus with all stories, even this one I'm telling?) But when you share a man's pillow, his dreams seep into you. And so I knew.
The very first night he was there, Urvasi came to him dressed only in a mantle of clouds. She entered his bedroom and took him by the hand.
“I burn for you,” she said. “Put an end to my suffering.”
Arjun turned from her, covering his ears. “You are the beloved of Pururava, my ancestor,” he said, “and thus like a mother to me.”
Urvasi smiled at the folly of his words. “The rules that bind earthly women do not bind us,” she said. “While Pururava lived, I was faithful to him. But he has been dust for many ages, and I am free to choose the man I want. Come, let us not waste time!”
Her face shone like the moon; her breasts were pearly with the sweat of passion; the sight of her navel alone would have made kings forsake their kingdoms. What gave Arjun the power to resist her? Earlier I'd thought that it was for my sake. O vanity! Now in my dream I knew the truth. Arjun was determined to show the gods that he was stronger than their strongest enchantment, a worthy recipient of the astras they'd promised him. Against the sharp metallic seduction of instruments of death, what chance did Urvasi have?
When Krishna learned that his favorite friend would become a eunuch for a year, he laughed—the more so when Arjun glowered. “Don't you see?” he said. “It's the perfect concealment for your thirteenth year. Who'd ever suspect the manly Arjun in a skirt and veil, his mighty arms atinkle with bracelets? You should send a message of special thanks to Urvasi! Narad's always going up there— maybe he could act as your emissary—”
“No, thank you,” said my husband, his manly eyebrows drawing together.
Krishna turned to me. “Even a curse can be a blessing, Krishnaa. Don't you agree?”
I nodded, but warily. He was always trying to convince me that bad luck—particularly ours—was really something else, something better in disguise. Caught between him and Yudhisthir, a woman couldn't even enjoy being miserable.
That year, our last in the forest, was filled with divine visitations. Yudhisthir had his own encounter one blazing afternoon beside a lake with a yaksha, an invisible being of power who had already overpowered his brothers. It threatened him with death unless he could provide him with the correct responses to a hundred questions. Philosophical questions, however, were Yudhisthir's forte; he forgot the danger that faced him and dived into this game of wits—and won. As a reward the yaksha brought his brothers back to life and offered him a boon. I wasn't surprised when Yudhisthir told me what he'd asked for. Victory—not in the upcoming battle but against the six inner enemies that plague us all: lust, anger, greed, ignorance, arrogance, and envy.
But his real reward was that for weeks afterward he got to ask us the yaksha's questions (and to provide us, triumphantly, with the answers when we failed). Though I professed annoyance at this catechism, I secretly enjoyed it.
What is more numerous than the grass?
The thoughts that rise in the mind of man.
Who is truly wealthy?
That man to whom the agreeable and disagreeable, wealth and woe, past and future, are the same.
What is the most wondrous thing on earth?
Each day countless humans enter the Temple of Death, yet the ones left behind continue to live as though they were immortal.
In bed with Arjun, I searched for that part of his mind where he'd stored his memory of Shiva, but when I finally found it, there was only an ocean of light in which I longed to dissolve but could not. I think I was most envi
ous of him then. He had been in the presence of a great and blissful mystery. He had glimpsed the truth of existence that extended beyond this oscillating world of pleasure and sorrow. I lay awake all night, my soul hungering to know what he had known.
Once I complained to Krishna, “Why don't the gods appear to me? Is it because I'm a woman?”
“You have the drollest notions!” Krishna laughed. “Why do you think that should matter to the gods, who are beyond gender?”
I wanted to ask, if that were true, why our scriptures were filled with tales concerning the marriages of gods and goddesses. But I had a more urgent question. “Having embraced God, how could Arjun still care about gaining astras, no matter how powerful they were? If I'd been in his place, I wouldn't have wanted anything else.”
Krishna put his arm around my shoulders in that good-natured way he had. “Wouldn't you, sakhi?” (That was what he'd taken to calling me of late: sakhi, dearest companion. I liked the appellation, though sometimes I suspected he used it facetiously.) “Then you're a lot wiser than most of us!” For a time, a smile flitted over his lips as though he were privy to a joke no one else knew.
30
Our twelve years in the forest were ending. Now, according to the wager Yudhisthir had lost, we would have to spend a year in hiding. If during this year Duryodhan discovered our whereabouts, we would have to endure another twelve years in exile. Yudhisthir decided we would spend the year in the kingdom of Matsya, just south of Indra Prastha. “No one will think of searching for us this close,” he said. “We'll disguise ourselves and take up jobs in King Virat's palace. I've heard his household is large and loosely managed. As long as we don't draw attention to ourselves, we should be safe. But no one must suspect that we know each other. If we come across each other, we must act as though we're strangers. On no account must we contact each other. Remember, if we're detected, we'll be forced to endure another twelve years of exile.”
As agreed, I came into the city of Virat alone in the evening, when the sky was a bruised blue. I stepped hastily, uneasily, along the busy thoroughfare that led to the palace. Never in my life had I ventured on a public street without an escort. With difficulty I maneuvered my way around raucous peddlers pushing carts and horsemen who spurred their mounts along, uncaring of pedestrians. Men stared at me—and who could blame them? All decent women were safe in their homes by this time. Besides, in my sari made of flattened bark, my crow's nest of hair that hadn't seen a comb in years, I must have looked like a madwoman. I tried to ignore their comments, tried to hide my distress. Somewhere in the shadows, dressed in the rough homespun a cook might wear, Bheem was watching to make sure I reached Queen Sudeshna's palace safely. I didn't want him to forget Yudhisthir's injunctions and come forward to help me.
To keep my mind off my own misery, I thought of my husbands. Once I was inside the gates, Bheem would make his way to the royal kitchens and ask for a job. He would prepare delicacies for men who weren't even worthy of washing the dishes from which he ate! Yudhisthir was already settled in the palace. A few days ago he'd dressed himself in a brahmin's white dhoti, fastened tulsi beads around his neck, and entered the old king's court. He said that he excelled in philosophic conversation and in the game of dice and needed a home. Virat, who loved to gamble, took him on. Now Yudhisthir, upholder of truth, would have to learn to flatter courtiers. Nakul and Sahadev were working in the king's barns. Over the years Virat had lovingly collected the finest of cows from all over Bharat. They would care for these. Taking leave of me, they'd tried to cheer me, reminding me how much they loved animals. But I knew the truth: they would be toiling in the hot sun, cleaning dung from sheds, enduring the jibes of overseers.
And Arjun, our warrior? In the inky depths of last night he'd spoken the words that would activate Urvasi's curse. By morning his hair cascaded down his back. Without mustache or beard his face looked naked. His form was lithe and slender, draped in red silk. When he walked, his hips swayed; his smile was shy yet confident. How had his body learned these feminine subtleties? There were coral bracelets on his arms. When he asked me to braid his hair, I couldn't stop my tears. He was going to be Princess Uttara's dance tutor. He, too, would live in the women's quarters. I would have to curb my emotions at the sight of his lost manhood, at the jibes to which, as a eunuch, he was bound to be subjected.
“How will I spend an entire year without even one of you to confide my troubles?” I said.
Arjun dried my eyes with the edge of his sari. Perhaps the change had been more than physical, for he spoke with a new gentleness. “You'll do it. You're stronger than you think. Remember what Krishna said when he came to bid us goodbye: Time is even and merciful. No matter how long this year might seem, it will in truth be no longer than a year of joy in Indra Prastha.” He'd concealed his beloved Gandiva in a sami tree outside the city, wrapping it in cowhide to keep it safe from a year's weathering. I thought of Krishna, who had driven us in his chariot to the edge of the sleeping city. Leaving us, he'd waved as nonchalantly as though we'd see each other in a week. I held fast to the two images: the wrapped weapon and Krishna's smile, cutting through the dark. As I knocked with a shaky fist on the queen's gate, readying myself to beg for a servant's job, somehow they consoled me. I would be patient. I would be brave. Even this year would pass.
Sudeshna said: “I'm sorry to hear of all the troubles you've had, but I can't hire you. Even though you've been Queen Draupadi's attendant all these years, doing her clothes and hair. You must be good—everyone knows how bad-tempered this woman was! Is it really true that she used to throw things at her husbands when she got angry?
“You're too beautiful, that's why. Even with your torn clothes and dirty hair. Imagine what'll happen once you clean up! What if my husband falls in love with you? Or my son? Or my brother? Although I'm not too worried about my brother. He can take care of himself. You've heard of him? The greatest fighter in Matsya— maybe in all of Bharat, and the general of Virat's army? He's always falling in and out of love with my maids. He makes sure to give them enough gifts to keep them quiet, though, when he tires of them. He's a generous man, my Keechak.
“You say you're going to remain veiled at all times? And stay in the inner apartments? Never come out when any man is around? You've taken a vow not to beautify yourself until Queen Draupadi gains revenge for the way she was insulted?
“That's loyal of you, though a bit excessive.
“What's that about your husbands? They're gandharvas, half-men, half-gods? You say they're watching you at all times, even though you've been cursed and must be separated from each other? They're powerful and extremely hot-tempered? Well, that should give you plenty of incentive to remain chaste!
“I guess it's safe enough to employ you.
“That's always been my problem—I'm too kindhearted. Just can't say no.
“So can you do my hair the way Draupadi wore it for the Rajasuya yagna? Let's see—Virat's going to have a big gathering this coming full moon—some kind of poetry festival, he likes those things. How about then? And can you get rid of these spots on my face?
“Good, good! I've a feeling we're going to get along well.
“What's your name, by the way? You want me to just call you maid? Oh, very well, if that's what you prefer.
“Now tell me something I've been dying to know: How did Draupadi manage to control five husbands? I can barely handle Vi-rat, and he's old! What kind of sleeping arrangements did they have? Oh yes: one more thing. Those gandharva husbands of yours—how is it, being married to them? I mean, do they have the same kind of equipment as men do?”
At times I felt the year would never end, that time had spitefully dug in its heels. It was humiliating to be at the beck and call of a woman as feckless as Sudeshna. Fetch my mirror, sairindhri. Make some more sandalwood paste—the red kind—and grind it smoother this time. I don't like this hairstyle. Do it over! Even amidst the worst hardships of the forest, I'd had my dignity. Our guests had shown m
e respect. The people I loved had stayed in touch, even if I didn't see them often. And Krishna. Was there ever a time when he hadn't visited me for an entire year? My chest ached with a strange thirst when I thought of that. I wondered if one could die of loneliness.
I must be fair to Sudeshna: in her scatterbrained way, she was kind. She told me I could sit in her private garden whenever I wanted. I know you're sad. It'll give you a little peace. But perhaps it would have been better if she had been truly callous. For it was in her garden that the amorous Keechak would see me.
Sudeshna's garden was what I had expected: large, unimaginative, overfull of ostentatious, expensive blooms. Still, I couldn't stay away from it even though it only made me long for my own intricately arranged garden, where around every corner there had been a surprise: a single seat half hidden under a mountain ebony tree, a row of usir releasing their pungent odor—but only if one knew to rub their leaves. Lost now, all lost: the grove of banyans, fully grown, thanks to Maya's magic; the ketaki flowers, palest gold; the simsupa trees that whispered my name. At one end of Sudeshna's garden, I found an asoka—the same tree under which, in the Ra-mayana, Sita had borne her sorrows. When I had a moment, I sat under it, trying to draw upon her fortitude. She'd lifted her mind from the demonesses taunting her and sent it to her beloved Ram and found peace. But I didn't know how to do that. When I wasn't distracted by my tasks, anger filled my mind like dense smoke: anger for the Kauravas, whom I blamed for my present condition; anger for Yudhisthir, whose foolish nobility had made him their prey; anger for my other husbands, who obeyed him blindly; and anger for Karna, with whom I had no right to be angry.
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