The Palace of Illusions (30 page)

My rooms overlooked the most beautiful garden in the palace, one I'd designed myself (although Maya had added the finer touches) to create an impression of unplanned abundance. Amidst flowering trees and shrubs with jewel-hued leaves was a large, irregularly shaped lake where many birds would come to swim. It was filled with wild lilies and its water was a brilliant blue that shone even on cloudy days. In its center rose a pavilion with intricately carved pillars depicting stories of gods and goddesses that changed even as one gazed at them. To get to the pavilion, visitors had to use one of several slender bridges suspended over the water. But here Maya had worked his mischief: though all the bridges looked solid, only
one was real. The others were illusions, made of light and air and trickery, and they had caused many a visitor to end up with a drenching.

It was toward this pool that Duryodhan was making his way. He hadn't seen us, for Maya had shielded the women's balconies with a clever latticework. I hushed my companions so I could observe him without his knowledge. Perhaps this way I could learn his intentions regarding Yudhisthir.

Duryodhan loved fine clothing. Today he wore an outfit of spotless white silk (quite unsuitable for walking in gardens) and far too much jewelry and strode at the head of his retinue, who, believing themselves unobserved, acted more insolent than usual. They pointed with lewd gestures to the statuettes of apsaras, laughing so loudly that my pet doves took startled flight. Some tore off flowers and twirled them in their fingers. Others bit into fruit they'd picked from the trees, then threw them half-eaten into the bushes. Only Karna, who brought up the rear, was silent and empty-handed. His armor, which I'd heard he never removed, caught the sun, dazzling my eyes. The disdain on his face—for Duryodhan's men or for my garden?—made it clear that he regarded the entire expedition as a waste of his time. Though I tried my best, I couldn't tear my eyes from him. Disappointment and anger battled in my heart as I wished I could find a way to wipe the indifference from his face.

I was so preoccupied with Karna that I failed to notice what Duryodhan was doing until I heard the splash. He must have stepped onto an illusory bridge, for now he was floundering about in the pool. I stared, horrified, as he flailed and cursed, calling to his flustered courtiers who milled around, unwilling to jump in and ruin their own expensive clothes. My attendants burst into peals of laughter. I should have stopped them, but I couldn't help smiling myself,
he looked so comical. Or was it that a part of me felt vindicated because my palace had done what I could not: brought low—if only for a moment—the man who I knew still hated my husbands, no matter what he pretended. Encouraged by my smile, one of the younger women cried out in her gay, clear voice, “It seems the blind king's son is also blind!”

I reprimanded her sharply, but the harm was done. All eyes turned to the balcony. Duryodhan glared at the latticework. I could see what he thought: I'd deliberately chosen not to warn him and then insulted him in the worst of ways, by bringing up his father's infirmity. Karna, who had stepped into the pool to help his friend, stared up, too—giving me, finally, ironically, the attention I'd been craving since his arrival. Had I acted immediately, calling out my apologies, sending down maids with dry clothes, and publicly punishing the girl who had spoken, I might have minimized the damage. But the cold fury on Karna's face paralyzed my tongue. I couldn't bear to humble myself in front of him to Duryodhan, to admit that I had been at fault, to listen in silence, with bent head, as he blamed me for my palace's trickery. What could I have said, in any case, in my defense? That Karna had distracted me from noticing what Duryodhan was doing? And so I stood struggling with my ego until the brief moment of opportunity vanished. The two friends stalked off, whispering angrily to each other, leaving me to wonder what would come of this.

In one thing my palace was no different from others: here, too, news flew on the swift wings of gossip. Not even an hour had passed after Duryodhan's mishap when Kunti summoned me to her quarters. (It made me wonder how many of my women she had bribed to
be her informants.) I was surprised at the summons; since coming to this palace, my mother-in-law hadn't behaved in such an imperialistic manner. When I went to her, I found on her face that old expression, exasperation at my stupidity. For a moment, it was as though the years spun away and I was a new bride again. Politely and scathingly, she wondered how it was that I could not control my women's tongues. She recommended that I confess what had happened to Yudhisthir without delay.

“Perhaps my son can calm down his cousin and repair his insulted pride,” she said. “It's too bad that he'll have to debase himself because of your foolishness, but it's absolutely essential. You don't know how vindictive Duryodhan can be, or how dangerous.”

A part of me realized she was right. What she suggested was sensible; I had been considering it myself. Had she spoken differently, I would have followed her advice. After all, she knew the Kaurava clan far better than I and had survived, over and over, their labyrinthine plots. But her peremptory tone—coupled with my own guilt—made me intractable. I told her—equally politely—that I would handle the matter. Was I not, after all, queen of this palace? If I felt that my husband should be informed, I would certainly do it. There was no need for her to concern herself with such paltry events at an age where no doubt she preferred to focus on spiritual activities.

Kunti stared at me, lips pressed together in fury until they almost disappeared. Perhaps she realized that if she said anything more, the façade of politeness between us would crumble, and it would be out-and-out war—the result of which could only hurt her sons. Perhaps our clash brought home to her, with cruel clarity, that she was not in charge here. Perhaps she thought, Let her suffer the results of her folly.

I bowed to indicate our meeting was over.

I did not tell Yudhisthir what had happened. He was irritable already and hard to handle; this would make things worse. I told myself that I'd apologize if Duryodhan complained to my husbands, but he never brought the matter up. Was it because he was embarrassed? Or had Kunti made too much of what was, after all, no more than an accident? He spent his days spying around as usual and his nights gambling with Yudhisthir. Karna, too, acted in the same way as before, treating all around him with a weary courtesy. But perhaps something good did come out of the prince's drenching, for a week later, he announced that his father had sent word asking him to return to Hastinapur. At the farewell banquet, he made it a point to include me in his fulsome thanks, and I responded in a similar vein.

With the departure of the Kauravas, our lives returned to normal. And yet there was a difference. The Rajasuya ceremonies had unbalanced something, leaving behind a feeling of emptiness. Maybe all who complete a great enterprise feel this way. The mundane activities that we'd longed to pursue while the palace was crowded with guests now left us unsatisfied. Yudhisthir conducted the affairs of state with only half a heart, and in the evenings he sat in the sabha, listless, not talking. Bheem stomped about the kitchen and threw away half the dishes he cooked, complaining that they were tasteless. Nakul neglected his beloved horses, and Sahadev left unread the new books that traders brought him from distant lands. Arjun watched the mountains to the north, upon whose peaks Shiva was supposed to live, with yearning in his eyes. I tended my gardens, repairing the damage Duryodhan's cronies had inflicted upon it, but often in the middle of giving instructions, I would forget what I was saying. My eye would go to a bench where Karna had sat, a path where he had walked, and once again I would be stung that my palace had failed to impress him.

Sometimes I found myself thinking of the prophecy made at my birth. Had I fulfilled it? I'd done something unforeseen: married five kings and combined their strength so they could become overlords of the entire continent of Bharat. Surely in this I'd already made a significant mark on history? One part of me answered yes. But the other part of me whispered, Is this all, is this all that my life was meant to be?

Desire is a powerful magnet. Was my careless longing responsible in part for the invitation that arrived within the year? In it Duryodhan requested his dearest cousins to honor him with a visit to his just-constructed palace, though it was nowhere as resplendent as that of the Pandavas. Perhaps there would be an opportunity to continue the games he had enjoyed so much at Indra Prastha? He concluded by extending a special invitation to Queen Draupadi, whom his new wife Bhanumati, Princess of Kasi, had long admired and desired to meet.

This was unexpected. Wives did not usually accompany kings on their journeys. Kunti snorted at the impropriety of the idea, but my heart gave a leap.

“He's certainly been busy!” Arjun commented. “A new sabha and a new wife! I wonder what prompted him to marry again—he's got so many wives already. And sons, too. In any case, I don't want to go and gratify his ego.”

Sahadev shook his head. “It's not just his ego. There's something else about the invitation—something I don't trust.”

Nakul frowned. “I think he's concocting some kind of plan.”

“I'd sooner trust a cobra,” Bheem added, then turned to me. “Am I not right, Panchaali?”

I should have agreed at once, and emphatically. It would have ended the matter right then. Yudhisthir might have grumbled, but he would have listened to our combined voice and declined Duryodhan's
invitation. What weakness made me remain silent? What dark desire?

Kunti glared at me, but carefully, so that no one else would notice. “You're absolutely correct,” she said to Bheem. “Only the most foolish go looking for trouble.”

Yudhisthir said, “You're all worrying unnecessarily! Duryodhan has finally realized that it's to his advantage to have us as his friends. Besides, he had such a good time when he was here. It's natural that he should want to repay our hospitality. It would be churlish to refuse.”

“You're too trusting!” Kunti burst out. “Just like your father— that's always been your—”

“I think Yudhisthir's right,” I broke in. “Duryodhan's made an effort to put old enmities aside. It's only right that we do our part.”

What made me interrupt Kunti with words that I knew, even while speaking them, to be untrue? Was it just my annoyance at her efforts to control, once more, my husband and my home? Or was it the hope of seeing someone when I arrived in Hastinapur—just one more time—even though I knew his sight would only bring me heartache? Or was it, as Vyasa would have claimed, that I was following a destiny that had already been written?

Kunti bit her lip and said no more. She was too proud to engage in an argument with me. But she gave me a strange look, as though she realized that the words I spoke didn't match the thoughts hidden in my mind. My other husbands looked uncertain for a moment. But I'd given them good advice so many times in the past that they put aside their unease.

“We'll go,” Nakul said to his brother, “since you and Panchaali both wish it. But, brother, surely you see that Duryodhan doesn't care about us. He only wants to show off his new possessions.”

“Let him!” Yudhisthir said airily. “ We know that our possessions”—
here he waved a gallant hand at me—”older though they might be, are incomparable.”

I bowed in response to this Yudhisthir-like compliment. I was already planning to pack my finest silks and most impressive jewelry and order my sairindhri to design some new hairdos. A couple of rejuvenating poultices wouldn't be a bad idea, either. I wanted to make sure that Bhanumati (or was I thinking of someone else?) continued to admire me.

“You're making a mistake,” Kunti said to Yudhisthir. “At least leave Draupadi behind—it's neither right nor prudent that she goes with you.”

I was ready with hot protests, but I didn't need them. “Oh, Mother!” Yudhisthir said. “You're always imagining the worst. Panchaali will be just fine. In fact, she'll make sure that the rest of us don't do anything imprudent.”

Our entourage left on a beautiful spring day. My husbands rode ahead, their prancing steeds matching their impatience. Beside them, our sons spurred their ponies, equally eager to be on their way. Behind us came a hundred horsemen, bearing gifts. A curtain of fine dust rose from the horses' hooves like early morning mist. Behind it, the palace glimmered, its wavering golden domes suddenly far away. From the chariot I shared with the sullen Kunti, I leaned out to sniff the perfume of the parijat trees that lined the long driveway. I was as excited as a lad setting out on his first adventure.