The Palace of Illusions (31 page)

“I hope the flowers will still be in bloom when we return,” I said to Kunti.

She didn't reply. She hadn't spoken to me since I'd persuaded my husbands to accept Duryodhan's invitation. Annoyed, I decided
I wouldn't speak to her either until she decided to get over her sulking.

I didn't know that she was right in her misgivings. That in traveling to Hastinapur we were making one of the biggest mistakes of our life. I didn't know that I'd never see this fragrant flower-laden road—or the palace I so loved—again.

24

It was a vastly different Hastinapur I came to this time—or maybe it was I that was different. Being mistress of the Palace of Illusions had transformed me in ways I hadn't realized. I was no longer intimidated by the Kaurava court, and though Duryodhan's new palace impressed many visitors with its sparkling novelties, I saw at once that it was merely a pale copy of ours, without true magic to give it a soul. Nor did the elders intimidate me. I found myself speaking to the blind king Dhritarashtra, Kripa, and even Drona, my brother's nemesis, with polite self-possession. The grandfather watched my conversations with approval in his eye, and when we were alone, he said, “Why, you've become a true queen now, equal to the best of us! You no longer care what people think of you, and that has given you a great freedom.” He didn't know the shifting sands on which my freedom rested, nor that my confidence ebbed each time I entered a hall and only returned when I'd ascertained that Karna wasn't present. He didn't know how much I cared about all the wrong things.

But he was right in this: in some matters, I was equal to—or better off than—his peers. In Indra Prastha my husbands had listened carefully to my opinions concerning the kingdom, and though we sometimes argued, they followed many of my suggestions. But
in Hastinapur, though the blind king sat on the throne with the elders in the seats of honor beside him, Duryodhan was the one who wielded power. He put on a polite face while they discussed treaties and laws, but ultimately, things happened the way he wanted. Dhritarashtra couldn't bear to oppose his favorite son, who would fly into a rage if contradicted and think nothing of insulting the old warriors who had kept the kingdom safe for him all these years. At such times, only Karna was able to calm him, but often he, too, was impatient with the cautious advice of the elders. Seeing this, the elders protected their own dignity and withdrew into silence. Each day they were more like ornate figureheads on a ship that had changed its course without their consent and was sailing into dangerous waters.

I didn't see any of this for myself, for Hastinapur was more conservative than our city. Although there was a covered women's section in court, we were only allowed there by invitation. My sources of information were meager, limited to tidbits Dhai Ma gleaned from the other servants, or random facts my husbands mentioned in passing. But I did learn this much: Karna had left for his kingdom just before we arrived in Hastinapur. In spite of the many messengers Duryodhan had sent, urging him to return, he had not complied.

My conversations with my husbands were brief and unsatisfying, for Duryodhan had pulled them into a whirlwind of entertainments during the day, and at night there were the infamous gambling parties I'd dreaded. This time, though, some things were different. Before leaving Indra Prastha, I'd made Yudhisthir promise to control his drinking, and he kept that promise. Sobriety helped his game. To his delight, he won even more often than before. But this meant that he was in no hurry to return home. At times this worried me, for I couldn't shake off a sense of unease, a feeling that we were
in enemy territory. At other times I was glad when I thought there was still a chance that I might see Karna, though the gladness had a bitter aftertaste.

This time our rooms were not in the old palace but in the new building, resplendent, in the gaudy style Duryodhan favored, with statues of curvaceous beauties and lurid paintings of hunts and battles. They were conveniently located next to his sabha so that my husbands could go back and forth as they desired. I was not displeased with this change. It was a relief to be away from that malicious old labyrinth with its stares and gossip, its complicated histories of hate. Here I could spend my days as I wished, for my husbands were kept busy, and the boys went off each morning to play with other children or to watch jugglers and dancing monkeys. Once I'd paid my obligatory visits to the palace women, I was left with few responsibilities. It was a luxury I hadn't enjoyed since girlhood— and at that time I'd not known enough to appreciate its precious rareness. I read, composed poems, or walked in the courtyard. (I was amused to find that Duryodhan had filled it with as many of the flowers from our gardens as he could find, each crowded upon the other with little regard for aesthetics.) I had the maids bring me a light meal under the fragrant trees. I listened to birdsong. I dressed informally, in cool, thin cottons, for all the attendants in our quarters were women. I daydreamed while Dhai Ma combed my hair, and if my imagination went where it should not, I consoled myself with the thought that it harmed no one.

I was further pleased that Kunti wasn't staying with us, for though we continued to be polite to each other, matters had grown thorny between us. Since the day when I swayed my husbands' opinions about accepting Duryodhan's invitation, I often caught her
watching me with narrowed eyes. I could tell that she suspected my motives in coming here, though she wasn't sure what they were. She made me feel nervous and guilty—and as a result, irritable. Fortunately when we reached Hastinapur, Gandhari, with whom she'd kept up a correspondence, invited her to stay in her chambers. “We two old women,” she said, smiling from beneath that ambiguous blindfold, “have much to talk about that you youngsters wouldn't understand.” I hadn't thought Kunti would agree—Gandhari's sons had, after all, tried to kill hers. But she accepted with alacrity. Perhaps the two dowagers relished this chance to complain to each other about their daughters-in-law!

Duryodhan's new wife, Bhanumati, was coming to visit. I prepared by donning dauntingly elegant clothing and a haughty expression, but I need not have bothered. She was just a girl and regarded me with such a mix of awe and apprehension that she could hardly speak without stammering. I felt a stab of anger at Duryodhan for having plucked her so soon from her parents. I also wondered what she'd heard about me that made her so nervous.

Watching her fidget with the heavy brocade that weighed her down, I guessed that Duryodhan had dictated this entire visit, including what she should wear. I brought up his name in our conversation; a painful blush spread over her pretty face. The poor girl was in love with him even as she feared him! I felt a twinge of pity—any woman who gave her heart to the egoistic Duryodhan was bound to suffer—and did what I could to put her at her ease. She responded with such gratitude that I suspected few in this palace had befriended her. Soon she was jingling her bangles, showing me her new silver toe rings and chattering about her favorite activities—eating sweetmeats, teaching her pet parrot to talk, and playing hide-and-seek
with the friends who had accompanied her from Kasi. Sometimes, she confided, Duryodhan and a few of his close friends joined her in these games.

She amazed me further by adding, “Among my husband's friends, I like Karna the best. He doesn't make fun of me for being afraid of lizards, like Dussasan. And sometimes when he finds my hiding place, he pretends he hasn't seen me.” Her face lit up with an uncomplicated pleasure when she spoke of Karna. Clearly, she adored him.

I was still trying to digest this information—and to ignore a foolish pang of jealousy—when she said goodbye, inviting me charmingly to come and visit her, too. At the doorway, she gave me an impulsive hug. “You're so kind,” she said. “Not cruel-tongued like they warned me.”

I bit the aforementioned cruel tongue to keep from asking who her cautioners were, but she carried on, oblivious. “Karna never said that, though. He took me aside and said you were noble and beautiful—and he was right.” Then she was gone in a tinkling of ankle bells, leaving me without words.

Karna had returned from Anga. (This, Dhai Ma said, was in response to a taunting letter from Duryodhan that asked if he was afraid to face the Pandavas, especially his erstwhile rival Arjun.) To celebrate his friend's arrival, or perhaps the success of his own persuasive tactics, Duryodhan planned a lavish “family” banquet. This meant that all his relatives and close friends were expected to attend, accompanied by the women of their household.

I was at once excited and agitated by this news and spent much time trying to decide what to wear. Even my most exquisite sari seemed paltry, old-fashioned. Finally I ordered the royal weavers
back at Indra Prastha to design a new outfit that would be unlike anything they'd made before, outstanding enough to make it unforgettable. They were to rush it to me as soon as it was completed. They promised me they would work on it night and day. It had not yet arrived when a flustered and tearful Bhanumati begged me to help her pick out appropriate clothing for the event. I arrived in her chambers to find her knee-deep in saris, each one more vibrantly colored and more finely embroidered with gold thread than the last, while sandalwood boxes holding jewels covered the entire floor. It took me the whole afternoon to convince her that she would be beautiful in almost any of them.