The Palace of Illusions (5 page)

A young prince inherited a troubled kingdom, a court filled with intrigue, legacy of a complacent king who had trusted his nobles too much. After much strife and bloodshed, when the son managed to establish
his power over these same nobles, he promised himself that he would not repeat his father's error. He ruled well but watchfully, making closer friends with justice than with mercy. And always he listened for whispers and mocking laughter, which to him were the forerunners of insurgence
.

“You're too partial,” I complained. “You're always trying to make him look good, pretending he wasn't at fault.”

He shrugged. “He
is
our father, after all! He deserves some partiality!”

“I'm taking back the story,” I said.

One day, while the king held court, a brahmin came into the hall and stood in front of him. The king was surprised to see that though his clothes were threadbare, the man did not look like a supplicant. He stood as straight as a flame, his head held high, his eyes shining like agates. A submerged memory half rose in the king's mind, and sank again. Around him he could hear murmurs, courtiers wondering who the stranger was. He ordered a councillor to lead the stranger to the treasury, where each day gifts were given to the needy, but the brahmin shook off the man's hand.

Drupad, he said, his voice reverberating through the hall, I am no beggar! I come to hold you to your promise of friendship. Once you asked that I should come and live with you, that all you had would be mine also. I do not want your riches, but I ask that you find a place for me at your court. You will gain much from this, for I will share with you the secret science of warfare that my guru taught me. No enemy would dare to approach Panchaal with me at your side.

I paused, knowing Dhri wanted the next part.

Like lightning an image etched itself against the king's eyelids, two boys embracing, wiping their tears at parting time. That old, dear name was on his tongue,
Drona.
But behind him, people were laughing, pointing at the mad brahmin—for surely he was mad to speak with such presumption to the king!

If Drupad acknowledged him, if he stepped down from the royal dais and took him by the hand, would they laugh at him, too? Would they think him weak and fanciful, unfit to rule?

He could not risk it.

Brahmin, he said sternly, how can a learned man such as you claim to bespeak such folly? Do you not know that friendship is possible only between equals? Go to the treasury door, and the gatekeeper will see to it that you get enough alms to live a comfortable life.

Drona stared at him for a moment. Drupad thought he could see his body shaking with rage and disbelief. He braced himself, thinking he would shout—lay a curse upon him, maybe, like brahmins were known to do. But Drona merely turned on his heel and left. None of the courtiers, when questioned later, knew where he went.

For days, weeks, perhaps months, Drupad could not taste anything he ate. Regret layered his mouth like mud. At night, lying sleepless, he considered sending messengers across the country, secretly, in search of his friend. In the morning it always seemed a foolish notion.

Dhri stopped. Having shaped our father's motivations the way he wished them to be, he was willing to let me tell the rest.

Time is the great eraser, both of sorrow and of joy. In time, the incident grew dim in Drupad's memory. In time, he married and fathered children, though none turned out to be as gifted a warrior as he had hoped.
The old rebellious nobles died or retired to their ancestral villages. The new ones respected or feared him, so that he believed himself to be safe. For him this was the same as happiness.

Until one dawn, before the sun was up, he was awakened by the sentries on the palace walls blowing their horns. The Kaurava army was at the gates of Kampilya.

Drupad was mystified. He'd had little to do with the Kaurava clan, whose kingdom lay to the northwest, in Hastinapur. From what he'd heard, their blind ruler, Dhritarashtra, was a quiet, careful man. Why would they attack him without provocation? He gathered his own formidable forces, and when he marched on the intruders, he was further mystified to find that the leaders of the foray were mere teenagers—the Kaurava princes, he gathered. What folly had possessed them? It was easy enough to rout their army. But as he turned his chariot back in victory, a new chariot approached him, moving so fast that he could not tell from where it came. A cloud of arrows flew from it, darkening the entire sky, cutting Drupad off from his army and causing his horses to rear up in alarm. Before his charioteer could calm them, a young man had leaped from the other chariot onto his. His sword was at Drupad's throat.

We do not wish to harm you, the young man said. But you must come with my brothers and myself as our prisoner.

Dhri laid a finger on my lips. For some paradoxical reason, he wanted to narrate the moment that pained him most, that laid bare his longing.

Even in mortal danger, Drupad could not but admire the young man—his poise, his courtesy, his skill at arms. A fleeting yearning rose up in him: if only he were my son.

“Don't say that!” I interrupted angrily. “You're the best son a
father could ever desire. Aren't you giving up your entire life to get King Drupad what he wants—senseless though it is?”

“Go on with the story,” he said.

Who are you? Drupad asked. And why have you attacked me when I have no enmity with you?

I am Arjun, son of the late King Pandu, the young man said. I have captured you at my guru's bidding.

Who is your guru?

A flash of proud love illumined Arjun's face. He is the greatest teacher of warcraft, he said. He taught us princes for many years. Now our studies are complete, and for his dakshina he has asked that we capture you. You must know of him. His name is Drona.

I paused here to picture the moment. How would Arjun have looked? How would he move? Was he good-looking as well as brave? Krishna, to whom he was related through some convoluted family tie, had mentioned his many accomplishments from time to time, piquing my interest. Though I would never confess this to Dhri (I sensed his unspoken jealousy), for me Arjun was the most exciting part of the story.