The Palace of Illusions (50 page)

“Things could have gone really badly, but we were saved by Duryodhan's arrogance. He said, Not one among the lot of you is a fit opponent for me, other than perhaps Bheem. I invite him to duel me. In this way, when I kill him and gain back my rightful kingdom, I'll have the satisfaction of having fought a good fight.

“ We breathed a sigh of relief, but our joy was short-lived. As soon as they began, we could see how good Duryodhan was, how lightly and gracefully he sidestepped Bheem's blows, how cannily yet viciously he struck. We remembered what our spies had reported: Years back, he'd had his armorers make him an iron statue of Bheem. Every night he practiced on it, and with every strike his hatred of our brother grew. He'd even had it brought to Kurukshetra. Today, he'd called upon all of that hate to fuel his strength. Our Bheem didn't have enough malice in him to counter that force.

“They fought for an hour. Two. Bheem was getting tired, I could tell. Duryodhan hit him so hard in the chest that he staggered and almost fell. Recovering, he hit Duryodhan on the shoulder with all his strength. It was a blow that would have shattered anyone else's bones. But Duryodhan didn't even wince. We remembered another report: Before the war started, his mother, Gandhari, asked him to come before her naked. (Out of modesty, though, he wore a
loincloth.) She undid her blindfold and sent the power of her penances into his body, making invincible whichever part her eyes touched.

“What chance did Bheem have against that?

“Even Krishna was looking worried as he watched the fight. He whispered something to Arjun, who caught Bheem's eye and slapped his thigh. The gesture—it looked familiar. Then it came back: that shameful day in the sabha when Duryodhan had bared his thigh and invited you to come to him. Bheem's oath that he'd take revenge. And he did! He barreled ahead, thrusting his gada at Duryodhan. Duryodhan jumped high to evade him, but Bheem had been feinting. He whirled and struck, catching the tops of Duryodhan's thighs, and, with a sound like a lightning crack, broke them. The duel was over.

“We were delighted but dismayed as well. Bheem had violated the most important law of gada-yuddha, hitting Duryodhan below the navel. There was sure to be consequences. Indeed, the skies grew dark. The earth shook. You must have felt it, even here in the women's tent. Balaram—did I tell you he'd joined us?—was livid. He came after Bheem, threatening to kill him, and stopped only when Krishna grasped his arms and begged him to calm down. Before he left, he told him, Because you cheated so despicably, Duryodhan will be glorified and remembered as the best of fighters. He will reach heaven, whereas you'll face everlasting shame.

“Bheem lowered his head in deference to Balaram, but his back was stiff with stubbornness. He said, I stand by my action. I did it for Yudhisthir, whom Duryodhan cheated of his heritage, and for Panchaali, whom he insulted the way no woman should ever be. What kind of man would I be if I hadn't kept the vow I made for her?

“What did Krishna have to say to all this, you're asking?

“When Duryodhan cursed him for teaching us the unfair tricks by which we won the war, he smiled and said, I take care of my
own—in whichever way possible. The moment when Panchaali gave up struggling with Dussasan and called on me to save her, in that moment your death warrant was signed. If there's sin in what I did, I'll gladly shoulder it for her sake.

“What happened? Why are you crying? Did I say something wrong? Now you're laughing? Ah, women! I'll never understand them!”

That night, following the ancient laws, we stayed in different places. Krishna and my five husbands lay in the vanquished Kaurava camp, as winners were expected to do. Dhri, Sikhandi, my five sons, and the handful of soldiers that had survived the massacre slept in the Pandava camp. I longed to join them. There was so much I wanted to say and to hear from each of them. Above all, I wanted to touch my boys, to feel their arms and legs and faces, to run my hands over their wounds. Only then would I fully believe that the horror of this war was over and that they'd survived it. I swore that I would be a better mother from now on, giving them all the attention they desired, repairing the relationship I'd sadly neglected these past years. But for one more night I had to be patient and remain in the women's tent.

All of the women were too excited to sleep, so late into the night we prepared for the victory feast. It would be tinged with sadness, yes, but at least this terrible war was at an end. Even Uttara was in better spirits. The baby had kicked for the first time today. We took that as a blessing sign. As I rolled balls of sweet dough for frying, I silently thanked the gods that amidst all this devastation, the people I cared for most (all except one) were alive. I was so much more fortunate than the other women: Subhadra, Uttara, Kunti, far-off Hidimba who by now must have received news of her only child's
end. And Gandhari, who would soon be bereft of every one of her hundred sons. A dark thought uncoiled my mind: I who was a major cause of so much destruction had no right to be so lucky. I talked and laughed louder and busied myself with the details of the feast, but it wouldn't leave me.

When at last I went to bed, I was overtaken by a dream unlike any I'd ever had. In it I was transformed to a man—who it was I didn't know, though I could feel his hopeless rage. Was it Duryodhan? No. I moved, slithering on my belly through the night to avoid detection. I made my way across a barren plain to a broken body and wept over it. It was the Kaurava prince—my prince, barely alive, still in agony. How unjustly had he been reduced to this pitiful state! I promised him revenge (that word so familiar on my parched tongue) and crept to the base of a tree in a frenzy of thought. I had no army, no chariot, no horse, no father to guide me (ah, they'd butchered him). My two companions, wounded as I, overcome by exhaustion, slept beside me. But despair would not let me rest. I stared into the tangle of branches overhead where I could see a nest of sleeping crows. As I watched, an owl materialized in the dark sky. It swept down, its wings like smoke. (Where had I seen it before?) It was as silent as the death it brought. It killed every crow in its sleep, then disappeared into the satisfied fog.

I clenched my jaw in glee. I knew what I must do. I shook my companions awake. When they saw my face, they feared I'd gone mad. Be calm, Aswatthama, they begged. But it was not a time for calmness. I told them my plan. By the horror in their eyes, I knew it was good. They resisted, but I reminded them of our oath to our prince. When I led the way, they followed, and I knew they would obey.

I awoke in the women's tent, screaming and thrashing. Failing to calm me, my attendants ran to fetch the other queens. Kunti declared I was possessed by an evil spirit and called for red chilies, which she burned over a flame, making us all cough. Subhadra splashed water on my face and chanted prayers. Uttara watched from the doorway, her arms wrapped around her belly, disquiet on her face. I pushed past them all, not caring that I was still in night-clothes, and shouted for a chariot, for the guards to come with me. My face must have convinced them of my urgency, for they rushed to fetch their weapons. Even Kunti fell silent. But it was too late. The night mists were lifting. I'd wandered too long in the maze of the dream.

When we reached it, the Pandava camp was ablaze. A few servants ran here and there, wailing, trying to drag out bodies. Our guards put out the fire and helped assemble the dead. They brought a man to me. He fell at my feet, gibbering with terror. Through soot and bruises I recognized him: Dhri's charioteer. Dhri had told me once, I'd trust him with my life. Through the carnage of Kurukshetra, he'd managed to keep my brother safe.

He told me that Aswatthama had crept into the camp and overpowered my sleeping brother. When Dhri begged him to give him a chance to die fighting, he'd laughed a maniac's laugh and started to strangle him.

Choking, my brother had entreated, At least kill me cleanly with a weapon and give me an end that's fitting for a warrior!

Aswatthama replied, What end can be more fitting than this for a man who killed his guru when he'd dropped his weapons? I'll make sure you die in a way that will ensure your passage to hell.

He kicked my unconscious brother until he was dead.

“He was as strong and bloodthirsty as a rakshasa,” the man cried, “and like them he struck silently at night. By the time we realized
he was in the camp, he'd already killed your brother Sikhandi, and all five of your children. If only he'd killed me, too—”

My ears refused to hear any more, or maybe it was my mind that stopped. I walked to where they'd laid the bodies. Dhri's face was so swollen and discolored with bruises, at first I couldn't recognize him. I sat and placed his head on my lap. I asked the guards to place my dead children around me, to bring Sikhandi. His long hair had been torn from his head. I ran a hand over his lacerated scalp, too numb to weep. My sons' mouths were O's of blood, open as though they were still screaming.

A part of me screamed, too, but without sound
.
Why should this happen to me now, after all the other things I'd suffered already—just when I thought my troubles were finally over? But a part said, She who sows vengeance must reap its bloody fruit. Have you not had a hand in turning Aswatthama into the monster he is today? But the largest part of me refused to believe what I saw, what I touched. It waited for them to disappear the way dream images do in the morning. When they didn't, my mind detached itself from my body and flew away. I was a girl again in Kampilya, behind a curtain, whispering to Dhri the words he didn't remember from his lessons. Later, on our lonely terrace, I hung on his words as he explained to me the rules of righteous war. I watched Sikhandi walk across the marble floor of my room toward me; I heard him tell me the pain of his past life as Amba. At our gates, I held his callused hand and begged him not to leave us yet. Older, I ran after my children in the gardens of the Palace of Illusions, scolding them for some childhood naughtiness while they dodged me, laughing. One of them plucked an aparajita flower and stuck it in my hair. I gathered him in my arms. I would never let him—any of them—go.

But a flute was calling me, sweet but insistent, refusing to allow me to rest. I cried to be left in peace. I was too weary; the world was
too hard. But its haunting notes snared me and tugged me back across a chasm. When I awoke (is
awoke
the word I'm looking for?) Krishna was passing his hands over my face.

“Be strong!” he said. “Such is the nature of war, and you're not the only one to feel its lash. As a winner, you can't take the easy way of oblivion. Many responsibilities will be waiting for you. We'll speak of this again—but for now I must leave you. Bheem has already gone in pursuit of Aswatthama. Arjun and I must help him, or else Aswatthama will kill him, too.”

In this way the chariot of vengeance, which requires no horses or wheels, rolled on
.

They found Aswatthama by the Ganga, where he'd fled after informing the dying Duryodhan of what he'd done. Aswatthama fought Arjun with the one-pointed strength of desperation, and when it was clear he couldn't win, he loosened upon the world the terrible Brahmaseershastra with the command,
May the earth be rid of the seed of the Pandavas.
Arjun countered it by sending his own astra.