The Palace of Illusions (28 page)

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.

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?”