The Palace of Illusions (35 page)

We had many visitors in the forest— more than when we were kings. Was it because, having lost everything, we were more approachable? Dhri came often, bringing with him colorful silken tents that he set up around our huts. His cooks cleared out a compound and prepared feast foods for us all. Musicians strummed on their veenas at dusk, sending their serene notes into the darkness. For a few days while he was with us, my husbands set down the bundle of their cares to eat, drink, and laugh together.

One time, while we were at our midday meal, Yudhisthir said, in his simple way, “Why, this is almost as good as living in a palace!”

I felt as though someone had poured scalding oil over me. The food turned to clay in my mouth.

“No, it isn't!” I cried, startling all around me by my vehemence. “Nothing can make up for the palace that I lost because of your folly.”

The brightness went out of Yudhisthir's face and he left us without finishing his meal. The others looked at me reproachfully, and even Dhri pulled me aside later to say that I should guard my tongue. There was nothing to be gained by destroying what little pleasure Yudhisthir could glean from his forest existence. Wasn't he suffering enough already?

“It would be good for you if you could be philosophical like him,” he added. “That way you won't torture yourself all the time.” He touched my face, the new, bitter wrinkles that bracketed my mouth, and spoke more gently. “Where's my sweet sister who used to bully me and play tricks on my tutor, who used to dream about breaking out of the bonds that shackled women, who was determined to change history?”

I turned away to hide the sudden tears that welled in my eyes. Even Dhri, who had once known all my dreams and fears, wouldn't understand how I felt about the one place where I had belonged, where I had been truly a queen. To be happy anywhere else was a betrayal of my beautiful palace. I didn't want to hurt my brother, who was trying so hard to cheer us—I was sorry, already, at having ruined his feast. So I kept my thoughts hidden in the dark cave that had opened within me.
She's dead. Half of her died the day when everyone she had loved and counted on to save her sat without protest and watched her being shamed. The other half perished with her beloved home. But never fear. The woman who has taken her place will gouge a deeper mark into history than that naïve girl ever imagined.

In an attempt to get me to return with him, Dhri brought me messages from Dhai Ma, who was failing and wanted to see me before she died. As further incentive, he brought along my sons, who lived at Dwarka and holidayed with their uncle at Kampilya and were, I feared, overly indulged in both places. Sometimes Abhimanyu, Subhadra and Arjun's son, accompanied them, shining with unselfconscious charm and his uncle Krishna's easy laughter. Arjun was delighted by his martial talents and went on for hours about how the boy knew more battle tactics than a grown warrior. I felt a twinge as I watched the warm pride in his eyes. He never looked at
our son this way, though he loved him well enough. But I didn't blame him. We all adored Abhimanyu. We knew he was meant for great things.

As for my own children, I found myself awkward and tongue-tied with them. I tried to find words to tell them I loved them, that I was sorry destiny had separated us in this way. But already they were strangers, cool and distant when they weren't sulking because they'd been dragged away from courtly amusements. Perhaps their petulance also stemmed from the fact that I'd chosen my husbands over them. Which child wouldn't resent that?

Perhaps it was a mistake, but I wouldn't leave the forest, not even for a brief visit. I told a disappointed Dhri that my place was with my husbands. That I could not bear to live in luxury while they suffered the hardships of forest life. It wasn't, however, as simple as that.

What was the real reason I rejected my brother's entreaties to return with him to the simpler environment of my childhood? Why did I give up the opportunity to create memories with my children that would give them—and me—solace in the long years that stretched ahead? Why, even as I thought longingly of burying my face in her copious bosom, did I refuse to visit Dhai Ma, who had dedicated her life to caring for me and mine? Was it the fear that my husbands would learn they could live without me, that they would heave a sigh of relief at the quiet peace of my absence? Or was it a different kind of fear: that if I gave myself to softer emotions, I would blunt the edge of my vengeance and fail to achieve the destruction that had become the goal of my life?

Among all our guests, Yudhisthir most enjoyed the sages. He'd always been attracted to holy men. Sometimes I thought that if he
didn't have to be a king, he would have liked to be a monk. He spent hours discussing philosophy with them. Their serenity, I'm sure, was a welcome change from my laments or his brothers' silent fuming. Unlike our friends and relatives, they neither blamed nor pitied him. Unlike strangers, they didn't come to gawk at our altered circumstance. To them, our situation was merely a thread in destiny's great pattern, something to be borne with patience until the colors of the weave changed around us. To divert our minds from our misfortunes, they told us stories of people whose sufferings were far worse.

Yudhisthir loved these tales. They appealed to his didactic nature. For weeks after a sage left us he'd go over them, drawing morals, making sure we hadn't missed the virtues they upheld. I, too, was intrigued by the stories, though I noticed that the things they led me to contemplate were not necessarily ideas of which my husband would have approved.

My favorite was the story of Nal and Damayanti, perhaps because of its parallels to our life—parallels that Yudhisthir didn't seem to see. (Though later I wondered if Yudhisthir understood a lot more than he admitted to. Who knows, perhaps it was a wiser way of living, allowing him to avoid a great deal of unpleasantness.)

This is the story, in the bareness of its bones: Nal the Nishad king loved the beautiful princess Damayanti. At her swayamvar, she chose him over gods. One of the gods, Kali, infuriated by this, tricked Nal into losing his kingdom in a game of dice to his brother Pushkar. (Nal did, however, stop short of wagering his wife.) Nal then begged Damayanti to return to the safety of her father's palace, but she would not leave him. When he lost his last piece of clothing, she tore her own sari and shared it with him. But he left her sleeping
in a forest, believing it would be the best for her to be rid of him. They suffered apart for many years. Finally, he—deformed now, and with a false name—became the charioteer of King Rituparna, who was an expert at dice, and learned the subtleties of the game from him. Meanwhile, Damayanti, back in her father's kingdom, sent out searchers for her husband, and suspecting this charioteer to be Nal, invited Rituparna to a swayamvar. But the swayamvar was only a ruse so she could meet Nal. At this meeting, there were accusations and weeping, forgiveness and new declarations of love. Nal regained his handsome looks, challenged Pushkar to another game of dice and regained his kingdom.

The sage telling us the story said, “All through the history of the world, the virtuous have suffered for causes unseen. Learn from Nal and Damayanti to bear your misfortunes bravely. Like theirs, your evil times, too, will come to an end.”

Yudhisthir said, “Look how Nal never swerved from righteousness, no matter what happened. And Damayanti never rebuked him for his losses but gave him all the support a man needs when in trouble.”

I said, “And how did he repay her? By abandoning her in a forest. How was that righteous?”

Yudhisthir looked pained. The sage diplomatically declared it was time for his prayers. I went to the kitchen. But I couldn't put Damayanti out of my mind. Waking in a forest not unlike this, with only the sounds of night animals for company, how frightened she must have been—and how brave. Because she didn't go back to her parents right away. Instead, she searched for Nal for years. Once she was almost stoned to death as a witch—her, a princess who had been famed the world over for her beauty!

That's what loss can do to you, I thought, touching my own matted hair, wondering if I, too, looked like a witch. I knew, though

Yudhisthir was too polite to ever say so, that I was no ideal wife. He would have been happier with someone like Damayanti. She was a better woman than I. (But is
better
the word I was looking for? At what point does forbearance cease to be a virtue and become a weakness?) Once I returned to my father's home, I wouldn't have kept searching for my husband. And had I called for a second swayamvar, I would have made sure it was a real one.

28

It was Bheem's year to be my spouse, and he was determined to make the most of it. No, not in the obvious bodily way, though he certainly enjoyed sex, the iron-limbed Bheem, and his enthusiasm left ample evidence upon my body. If I pointed out a bruise, he grew shy and penitent. He wanted to redeem himself by doing whatever I desired. That was his weakness: his need to make me happy. None of my other husbands cared in the same way. When I lost my temper, they pragmatically found themselves things to do elsewhere. Only Bheem would remain, hanging his head as I railed on, until I grew ashamed and skidded to a stop.