The Palace of Illusions (45 page)

The ninth day—when, according to Vyasa, the war had reached its mid mark—was the worst. On this day there was a great battle between Arjun and Bheeshma. But Arjun's heart was not in it. In spite of all that Krishna had said to him, he couldn't forget his childhood memories. He couldn't bear to hurt the man who had held him in his arms and comforted him through his childhood sorrows. Bheeshma, however, didn't have such qualms. He shot arrow after harassing arrow at Arjun until he bled. In between, with maddening nonchalance, he sent out astras that destroyed entire phalanxes. Finally an enraged Krishna, convinced that our army was about to perish, leaped from the chariot and, discus in hand, rushed at Bheeshma.

The grandfather dropped his weapons and knelt before him. On his face was a look I could only interpret as hope.

“And have you come to set me free finally, Govinda?” he asked. “Have I paid sufficiently for my theft?”

Krishna raised his discus, but Arjun, recalling his friend's vow not to fight, held on to him with all his strength.

“You must not break your word for my sake! That would be a terrible sin!” he cried. “Tomorrow I'll face Bheeshma as a true kshatriya faces his enemy—focused on the moment, with no memories of the past to disable him and no fear of future regrets. I swear it!”

Krishna stared at him almost as though he didn't know who he was. Then, very slowly, he lowered his weapon. When he spoke, it was to Bheeshma. “O Vasu, by your own act you bound yourself. Therefore you alone can set yourself free.”

What, I asked Arjun later, did Bheeshma mean by
theft
? I couldn't imagine the scrupulous old patriarch taking anything that didn't belong to him. Why did Krishna call him by that strange name,
Vasu
? And what act was he talking about?

Arjun shrugged. The elders were always referring to mysterious events from the past that were important only to themselves. And as for Krishna, it would take an entire lifetime to figure out even a fraction of his comments. Surely I knew that!

But I couldn't let go so easily. It wasn't merely because of what Yudhisthir termed the insidious curiosity of womankind. Stories were important. Even when I was a child, I'd realized that they had to be understood and preserved for the future, so that we didn't make the same mistakes over and over. I held my questions in my mind, waiting for the right circumstance. That opportunity would arrive sooner than I expected.

Late that night, at Krishna's urging, the Pandavas went bareheaded to Bheeshma's tent. They touched the grandfather's feet and asked him how he could be killed. And he—with compassion and some relief—told them what to do.

So it was that Sikhandi was stationed in the front of Arjun's chariot, his unbound hair blowing in the wind. He challenged Bheeshma to battle, and Bheeshma laid down his bow, saying, Amba, you know I will not fight you. He did not take up his weapons again, even when a weeping Arjun shot arrow after arrow that went through him, and Sikhandi, also weeping, covered his face in his hands.

Much has been sung of how Bheeshma fell on his bed of arrows. On that day the war came to a standstill while both armies mourned side by side. Bheeshma asked for a support for his head, but when Duryodhan brought him silken pillows he rejected them. Only Arjun knew what he wanted: he shot three arrows into the ground for his grandfather to rest his head, and at that, even through his pain, Bheeshma smiled.

Bheeshma did not die for a long while. Not until the auspicious time when the sun began his northern journey would he choose to let go of his body—and that, too, only after discharging his final duty: teaching Yudhisthir the rules of kingship that Duryodhan had refused to learn from him. Meanwhile, news of the war was brought to him every day, and warriors from both sides came to ask his advice. Flocks of swans flew over him, crying in melodious voices. Men whispered that they were celestial beings in disguise, bringing messages from heaven. At night, too, Bheeshma received visitors. They came to him each alone, wrapped in cloaks of secrecy, to tell him things that could not be spoken in the company of others.

How do I know this? Because I was one of them.

I went to Bheeshma the very first night, when the moon was frail as the edge of a fingernail and sudden gusts of wind sent shadows scampering along the ground. I'd taken great care to be silent—I did not wish to be questioned by Kunti, who would have
wanted me to visit him in the daytime, appropriately chaperoned. But such a visit would have kept me from speaking freely, from asking him what I'd kept locked in my heart for years: How could he— who prided himself on his righteousness, who named me his dearest granddaughter and made me believe he cared for me—have remained silent when I called for his help, when I was the victim of such grave injustice that day in the court?

Once I left the guardsmen's fires behind, I walked more easily. I didn't think I'd encounter anyone. The leading warriors of both sides, who had been with him all day, were now resting in preparation for morning—for even the fall of Bheeshma could not stop the war. In deference to the grandfather's condition, they had decided to move the battle away from where he lay and had cleared the area. But they couldn't mask the stench of rotting carcasses or hush the anguished cries of the wounded. Did the sounds wrench Bheeshma as he lay wrapped in the gauze of his own pain? Did he regret having caused much of this destruction? Or did he see it as the unpleasant by-product of his duty, a lesser evil to be endured for the sake of an ultimate good?

I'd been wrong to assume that no one would be with Bheeshma. A man knelt by him, bent low over his feet. I heard the grandfather say—how weak he sounded—”Who is it whose tears burn me more than these wounds?” As I ducked behind a knot of shrubs I heard the man reply, in choked tones, “It's Karna. I've come to beg pardon for the many ways in which I've angered you, grandfather.”

I held my breath, regretting my imprudence. If Karna discovered me, he would be livid that I'd caught him at such a vulnerable moment. What might he not do in retaliation? I doubted that, after all that had passed, he felt any tenderness toward me. Instead, with
a hunter's sure instincts, he would know that the best way to get at my husbands was by humiliating me—and he would use it. What new trouble had I brought upon the Pandavas by my impulsiveness?

I should have crept away then, but I was like a bird caught in a snare. Only, the wires of this snare were made of curiosity and a disobedient heart.

Bheeshma extended a hand toward Karna. I thought I saw his fingers tremble. His breath sounded like someone was tearing old clothes into strips. He said, “I was never truly angry with you. I only chastised you for your own good—and because you encouraged Duryodhan's evil ambitions. But how can I be angry with my own grandson?”

When Karna had addressed Bheeshma as grandfather, I'd thought nothing of it. It was what everyone called him. But this reply seemed more than mere courtesy. A jolt went through my heart as I wondered what Bheeshma's reply might mean.

Karna's head jerked up. “You knew? You knew that the Pandavas are my brothers? Did Kunti tell you, too, when she told me?”

Shock dizzied me. Karna? Brother to my husbands? My brain couldn't encompass his words—words that would change everything I felt for him. Impossible, I whispered to myself. But then I remembered my dream of Karna and Kunti.

Suddenly, everything that had puzzled me began to make sense.

Bheeshma said, “I knew it a long time before that. Vyasa told me of it—but only after I'd promised to be silent. How many times since then have I wished I hadn't made that rash vow! But you know me. Once I make a promise I can't break it. Call it my strength—or my weakness.”

Karna smiled without mirth. “I know. I have the same problem.” Then his tone darkened. “Kunti told me she had me when she was little more than a girl. Out of curiosity she'd tested Durvasa's
boon and called down the sun god. He gifted me to her—but when I was born she grew afraid of what people would say.” He ran agitated fingers through his hair. “I understand how she must have felt. I don't blame her—no, I do! How could she have thrown me away, her own child, her firstborn? But worse than that, when she saw me again at Hastinapur, how could she have let me suffer, over and over, the shame of illegitimacy?” His voice grew impassioned—it was a new Karna I was hearing, so anguished, so different from the man who prided himself on his self-control. In that moment I forgave him everything he'd done while in the grip of his sorrow. “She should have told me the truth in secret—I would have kept it to myself, as I'm doing now. Just knowing it would have made all the difference. It would have kept me from making the terrible mistakes that continue to haunt my life. Oh, why didn't my mother trust me?”

With difficulty, Bheeshma placed a trembling hand on Karna's head. “I, too, wish she'd had the courage to do so. This entire war might have been avoided then. Remember the time when Yudhisthir asked for a mere five villages, saying he'd be satisfied with that? Had you known the secret of your birth, surely you would have counseled Duryodhan to agree. And because of his love and esteem for you, surely Duryodhan would have listened to you. So many men have died already—and yet I'm afraid that their suffering is nothing compared to what awaits all of you.”

“I'm not afraid of suffering,” Karna said. “Hasn't my entire life been one suffering after another? What stings me worse is how much I hated and envied my own brothers ever since I met them at that ill-fated tournament in Hastinapur. I, who dreamed all through my lonely childhood of having kinsmen to love and cherish! And Draupadi! The wife of my younger brothers, who, the scriptures tell us, should be like a daughter to me—I humiliated her in open court.
I knew what Duryodhan and Sakuni were planning. Out of decency I should have stopped them. Instead, because I was angry with her, I instigated Dussasan to remove her clothes! I—” His voice broke. “How shamefully I've acted! Even the most glorious death on the battlefield can't make up for it.”

“The fates are cruel,” Bheeshma whispered, “and they've been crueler than usual to you. But the sins you committed in ignorance are not your fault.”

“I'll still have to pay for them,” Karna said. “Isn't that how karma works? Look at what happened to Pandu, who killed a sage by accident, thinking him to be a wild deer. He had to bear the consequences of it for the rest of his life.”

A fit of coughing shook Bheeshma; he continued with some difficulty. “It's not too late. Join your brothers. I know them—they'll welcome you and honor you as the eldest.”

Karna shook his head. “No. It was too late the moment Kripa insulted me by declaring that I couldn't participate in the tournament, and Duryodhan rescued me by giving me a kingdom. He stood by me when everyone was against me. I've eaten his salt. I can't abandon him.”

Bheeshma drew in a long, ragged breath. I could tell he was making a special effort to say something he considered crucial. “You've repaid him many times. You've fought his enemies, won him treasures, expanded the boundaries of his kingdom. Perhaps by leaving, you'll be doing him the greatest service. Without you by his side, Duryodhan will not have the heart to continue fighting. He'll be forced to end the war. But if you continue to support him, it can only lead to his death—and the death of all his supporters.”