The Palace of Illusions (13 page)

There were two final gifts the sorceress gave me: a story and a parchment. The story was the tale of Kunti, mother of Arjun. The parchment was a map of Bharat's many kingdoms.

In her youth, the sorceress told me, Kunti was given a boon by the irascible sage Durvasa, whom she'd managed somehow to please. Whenever she wanted, she could call upon a god, and he would gift her with a son. It was a strange boon, not without its drawbacks, but it came in handy when her husband Pandu couldn't provide her with children. Thus her eldest, Yudhisthir, was the son of the god of righteousness, her second, Bheem, the son of the god of wind, and Arjun, the son of Indra the king-god. Once, King Pandu's other wife, Madri, begged and begged Kunti to loan her this boon, and Kunti did. Thus, Nakul and Sahadev, sons of the twin healer-gods, were born.

“Do you believe that men can be born from gods?” I asked.

She gave me a look. “As much as they can be born from fire! But my believing is not important, nor yours. That's not why stories are given to you.”

The sorceress was a good storyteller. She brought Kunti's lonely existence alive so I could look into its lightless crevices. Adopted by her uncle, the childless king Kuntibhoj, she had no brothers to cherish her, no sisters to confide in, no mother to turn to for consolation. Her marriage to Pandu—one of political convenience—wasn't happy. Almost immediately he took the beautiful Madri as his second wife and lavished his affection on her. Soon afterward, Pandu was cursed by a brahmin. He left his kingdom in the hands of his blind brother, Dhritarashtra, and went into the forest to do penance. As faithful wives, Kunti and Madri, too, left the comforts of the court and accompanied him (though perhaps they shouldn't have bothered—the curse stipulated that if Pandu touched a woman in desire, he would perish). Years passed. The children appeared. But one day Pandu, no longer able to resist, embraced Madri. He died. The guilt-ridden Madri chose not to live on. Kunti, devastated though she must have been both by her husband's death and his last act, gathered all her willpower. She brought the five princes back to Hastinapur, making no distinction between her own children and those of her rival. She was determined that no one would cheat them out of their inheritance. For years she struggled, a widow alone and in disfavor, to keep them safe in Dhritarashtra's court until finally, now, they were grown.

I wanted to tell the sorceress how moved I was by Kunti's sufferings and her courage, but she forestalled me. “Don't let the waves of your emotion drown you,” she said, fixing me with eyes that were cold as agates. “Understand! Understand what drove a woman like her. What allowed her to survive when she was surrounded by enemies. Understand what makes a queen—and beware!”

I didn't pay the sorceress much attention. With the arrogance of youth I thought that the motives that drove Kunti were too simple to require careful study.

Only when we met would I realize how different she was from my imaginings. And how much more dangerous.

The map was a thick crinkled sheet the color of skin. Before this (though the tutor had spoken of it) I'd never seen the shape of the country I lived in, a triangle that narrowed downward in a wedge that drove itself into the ocean. It was made up of so many kingdoms that I thought I'd never learn them all. The rivers and mountains were easier: I enunciated their names as I traced them with my finger. When I touched the peaks of the Himalayas, my hand tingled, and I knew that those icy ranges would be significant in my life. I looked wonderingly at the kingdom of Panchaal and the dot that was Kampilya. It was a strange feeling, to locate myself for the first time in the world.

“I had this map made just before I came,” the sorceress said. “But it's already outdated.” She passed her hand over the parchment, and it seemed that the boundaries of the kingdoms shifted, some growing larger, some shrinking. A few disappeared altogether while others changed names.

“The kings are always fighting,” she said. “All they want is more land, more power. They tax the common people to starvation and force them to fight in their armies.”

“Surely there must be some good kings,” I argued, “who care for their subjects.” I was thinking of Krishna, though I knew little of how he governed his lands.

“Too few,” she said, “and they're tired with fighting. In this Third Age of Man, the good are mostly weak. That is why the earth needs the Great War, so she can start over.”

There it was again: the Great War, the words like nails scraping my lungs. Hesitantly I said, “I was told I'd be the cause of the war.”

She looked at me. I thought I saw pity in her eyes. But she merely said, “There are many causes for such a gigantic event.”

I persisted. “I was told that a million women would be widowed because of me. It wrings my heart to think that I'll cause so much suffering to those who are innocent.”

“It's always been that way. When did the innocent not suffer? In any case, you're wrong in thinking of woman as an innocent species.” She waved her hand again and the map flickered. It seemed to me that I was looking into a hundred homes, humble and kingly both. I heard the voices and thoughts of women, bitter and bickering. Some wished death and disease on their rivals, others wanted control of their household. Some berated children with words that left scars on their hearts. Some beat servant girls or forced them out, penniless, into the jaws of a ravenous world. Still others whispered their discontent into their sleeping husbands' ears all night, so that the men, waking in the morning, acted out the anger that festered within their wives.

“As you see,” the sorceress said, “women contribute to the world's problems in a hundred insidious ways. And you, who will be more powerful than most, could wreak greater havoc if you aren't careful. I've taught you some better alternatives—if only you can keep them in mind and not get swept away by passion!”

“I can!” I said, with the confidence of the untested. I knew I was intelligent—wasn't Dhai Ma always complaining about how overly smart I was? I knew enough to control passion. I visualized myself as a great queen, dispensing wisdom and love. Panchaali the Peacemaker, people would call me.

The sorceress laughed. That's the last memory I have of her, bent over and clutching her sides until tears ran from her eyes.

9

The artist had set up the paintings, each covered by a silk veil, by the time I entered the hall. Dhri was already seated, his brow crumpled in a frown, and though he nodded at me, he didn't smile. He hadn't touched the mango juice that Dhai Ma had set beside him. Palpable as heat, his anxiety made me anxious, too. But I'd have to wait until we were alone to find out the problem.

The artist had visited Kampilya before. When it was time for Drupad's other daughters to be married, he came to paint their likenesses so that they could be sent to kings with whom my father wished to form alliances. But today he'd brought with him the portraits of the leading kings of the land for me to examine. This way, when I faced my suitors in the wedding hall, I would know who each one was.

I'd hoped to find Krishna here. I was depending on him to tell me the secrets a potential wife needs to know, information the artist was sure to skip over, either from ignorance or fear. Which king had a hidden disease, who was haunted by a family curse, who was a miser, who had retreated from battle, and who was too stubborn to do so. It was mystifying how Krishna knew such things. But he was nowhere around. Probably, I thought with some annoyance, he was in his palace by the sea, enjoying the company of his wives.

The artist uncovered the first portrait. “This is the noble Salya, ruler of the southern kingdom of Madradesh,” he intoned, “and uncle to the Pandava princes.”

I stared at the king, whose elaborately fashioned crown didn't quite hide the whiteness of his hair. His face was good-humored, but his girth betrayed his fondness for the easy life. Under his eyes, the skin sagged.

“He's old!” I whispered to Dhri in distaste. “He probably has daughters my age. Why would he want to come to the swayamvar?”

My even-tempered brother shrugged. “It's a challenge, as you yourself said, and men find it hard to turn down challenges. But he's no danger to us. He's not going to win.”

I appreciated Dhri's choice of a pronoun that coupled our fates, but I found slim comfort in his confidence. If Salya won, I thought with a shudder, he would claim me, and I'd have to go with him, as mute and compliant as the purse of gold a winner carries away at the end of a wrestling match.

The artist uncovered other portraits. Jarasandha, king of Ma-gadha, with his live-coal eyes. (I'd heard Dhri's tutor say he kept a hundred defeated kings chained in a labyrinth under his palace.) Sisupal, his friend—his hooked chin topped by a sneering mouth— who ruled over Chedi and had a long history of disputes with Krishna. Jayadrath, lord of the Sindhus, with his sinister, sensuous lips. I saw king after king until their faces blurred. Many, I knew, were decent men. But I hated them all for coveting me, and I prayed that each would fail.

The long afternoon teetered between boredom and dread. I was waiting for one face alone. I wanted to see if I'd visualized it accurately. Probably not. Doesn't the imagination always exaggerate— or diminish—truth?

When the artist uncovered the last and largest painting, I sat up, certain that it was Arjun's.

But he said, “Here is the mighty Duryodhan, crown prince of Hastinapur, with the scions of his court.”

So this was the notorious Kaurava prince, Arjun's cousin! The tutor had whispered to Dhri that he'd hated the Pandava brothers, his dead uncle's sons, from the day they'd arrived at the court, his competitors for the throne he'd believed from birth to be his. There was some talk that he'd tried to drown one of them when they were still children.

Duryodhan was handsome in a muscle-bound way, though I didn't care for the willful set of his mouth. Encrusted with jewels, he occupied a throne decorated with gold lotuses. Something about the way he leaned forward, his right hand fisted, exuded discontent. To his left sat a man who was a pale, petulant copy of him.

“His younger brother, Dussasan,” the artist explained.

The brothers made me uncomfortable, though I couldn't have explained why.

“Remove the picture,” I commanded, and then, as my eyes were caught by the figure on Duryodhan's right, “No, wait!”

Older than the prince and austere-faced, the man sat upright, his lean body wary, as though he knew the world to be a dangerous place. Though in the midst of a court, he seemed utterly alone. His only ornaments were a pair of gold earrings and a curiously patterned gold armor unlike anything I'd seen. His eyes were filled with an ancient sadness. They pulled me into them. My impatience evaporated. I no longer cared to see Arjun's portrait. Instead, I wanted to know how those eyes would look if the man smiled. Absurdly, I wanted to be the reason for his smile.

“Ah, you are looking at Karna,” the artist said, his voice reverent,
“ruler of Anga, and best friend of Duryodhan. It is said that he is the greatest—”

“Stop!”

The single, sibilant word startled us all. Krishna was standing in the shadow of the doorway. I'd never seen him look so angry.