The Palace of Illusions (6 page)

Dhri nudged me with a scowl. He was good at guessing my thoughts. “Go on.”

A king was made to kneel at the feet of a brahmin. A brahmin said to a king, Your land and life belong to me. Who is the beggar now?

A king said, Kill me, but do not mock me.

A brahmin said, But I do not wish to kill you. I wish to be your friend. And since you said that friendship was possible only between equals, I needed a kingdom. Now I will give you back half your land. South of the river Ganga, you will rule. The north will belong to me. Are we not truly equal, then?

A brahmin embraced a king, a king embraced a brahmin. And the anger that the brahmin had carried smoldering within him all these years left his body with his out-breath in the form of dark vapor, and he was at peace. But the king saw the vapor and knew it for what it was. Eagerly, he opened his mouth and swallowed it. It would fuel him for the rest of his life.

I was hoping Dhri would let it be, but he was like a hunting dog at a boar's throat: “And then?”

Suddenly I was tired and heartsick. I thought, I shouldn't have chosen this story. Every time I spoke it, it embedded itself deeper into my brother's flesh, for a story gains power with retelling. It deepened his belief in the inevitability of a destiny he might have otherwise sidestepped: to kill Drona. Yet like a scab that children pick at until it falls to bleeding, neither of us could leave it alone.

And then you were called into the world, Dhri. So that what started with milk could end one day in blood.

There was more to the story. Whose blood, and when, and how many times. All that, however, I would learn much later.

“What do you think Drona looks like?” Dhri asked.

But I had no idea.

Years later, after my marriage, I met Drona in the Kaurava court. He held our hands—for Dhri was with me, too—in his firm
grasp and looked into us with his hooded eagle eyes. He knew of the prophecies by then. Everyone did. Still, with great courtesy, he said, Welcome, son. Welcome, daughter. I was breathless, unable to reply. Behind me, Dhri made a small sound in his throat. And I knew that he saw what I saw: Drona looked exactly like our father.

4

“What is the form of the world?”

The prince recited, “Above are the heavens, abode of Indra and the gods who sit around his throne. There, in the center of the seven worlds peopled by celestial beings, lies the milky ocean on which Vishnu sleeps, waking only when the earth grows overburdened with unrighteousness. Below it stretches our earth, which would tumble into the great void if it were not supported upon the hoods of Sesha, the thousand-headed serpent. Further below is the underworld, where the demons, who hate the light of the sun, have their kingdom.”

The tutor asked, “What is the origin of the four castes?”

“When the Supreme Being manifested Himself, the brahmin was born from his head, the kshatriya from his arm, the vaishya from his thigh, and the sudra from his foot.”

“What therefore is the duty of the kshatriya?”

“The warrior-king must honor men of wisdom, treat other kings with the respect due to equals, and rule his people with a firm yet merciful hand. In war he should be fierce and fearless until death, for the warrior who dies on the battlefield goes to the highest of heavens. He must protect anyone who seeks refuge with him, be generous to the needy, and keep his given word though it lead to his destruction.”

“And… ?”

My brother faltered, forcing me to offer assistance from behind the curtain. “Forefathers,” I hissed. “Vengeance.”

“And most of all,” Dhri took a breath and continued, “he must bring renown to his forefathers by avenging the honor of his family.”

Through the gauze of the curtain I could see the tutor frown. The holy thread that hung across his bony chest quivered with agitation. Though he was alarmingly learned, he wasn't much older than us. The curtain was there because otherwise my presence flustered him so much that he was quite unable to teach.

“O great prince,” he said now, “kindly ask your sister princess to refrain from prompting you. She is not helping you to learn. Will she be sitting behind you in your chariot in battle when you need to remember these important precepts? Perhaps it is best if she no longer joins us during your studies.”

He was always trying to discourage me from attending Dhri's lessons—and he wasn't the only one. At first, no matter how much I begged, King Drupad had balked at the thought of me studying with my brother. A girl being taught what a boy was supposed to learn? Such a thing had never been heard of in the royal family of Panchaal! Only when Krishna insisted that the prophecy at my birth required me to get an education beyond what women were usually given, and that it was the king's duty to provide this to me, did he agree with reluctance. Even Dhai Ma, my accomplice in so many other areas of my life, regarded the lessons with misgiving. She complained that they were making me too hardheaded and argumentative, too manlike in my speech. Dhri, too, sometimes wondered if I wasn't learning the wrong things, ideas that would only confuse me as I took up a woman's life with its prescribed, restrictive laws. But I hungered to know about the amazing, mysterious world that extended past what I could imagine, the world of the
senses and of that which lay beyond them. And so I refused to give up the lessons, no matter who disapproved.

Now, not wanting to antagonize the tutor further, I made my voice contrite. “Respected teacher, my apologies. I promise not to interrupt again.”

The tutor stared fixedly at the ground. “Great prince, kindly remind your sister that last week, too, she promised us the same thing.”

Dhri hid his smile. “Most learned one, please forgive her. As you know, being a girl, she is cursed with a short memory. Additionally, she is of an impulsive nature, a failing in many females. Perhaps you could instruct her as to the conduct expected of a kshatriya woman?”

The tutor shook his head. “That is not my area of expertise, for it is not fitting that a celibate should think too much on the ways of women, who are the path to ruin. It would be better if the princess learns such things—and others as well—from the large and daunting lady who is her nurse and who can, one hopes, discipline her better than I. I will recommend this excellent course of action to your royal father.”

I was dismayed by this sudden turn in events. No doubt my father, armed with the tutor's complaints, would try once again to dissuade me from attending the lessons. Now we'd spend a great deal of time arguing—rather, he would rant and I would be forced to listen. Or worse: he would order me to stop, and I would be forced to obey.

Additionally, I resented the tutor's declaration that women were the root of all the world's troubles. Perhaps that was why, when he gathered up his palm leaf manuscripts and rose to leave, I pushed the curtain aside and gave him a brilliant smile as I bowed. The effect was better than I had hoped. He jumped as though stung;
manuscripts fell, helter-skelter, from his hands. I had to pull the end of my sari over my face to hide my laughter, although I knew there would be trouble later. But inside a current surged through me at the discovery of a power I didn't know I had.

Dhri shot me a remonstrative look as he helped the tutor pick everything up. Later he would say, “Did you have to do that!”

“He was being so difficult. And all those things he accused women of—you know they're not true!”

I'd expected my brother to agree but instead he gave me a considering look. With a shock I realized that he was changing.

“Besides, it was just a smile!” I continued, but with less confidence.

“The problem with you is, you're too pretty for your own good. It'll get you into trouble with men sooner or later, if you're not careful. No wonder Father's been worrying about what to do with you.”

I was surprised—first at the news that my father spared me any thought, and second at my brother's compliment, backhanded though it was. Dhri never commented on my looks; nor did he encourage me to comment on his. Such useless talk, he believed, made people vain. Was this another sign of change?

But I merely said, “How is it that Father never worries about you? Is it because you're so ugly?”

My brother refused to rise to the bait. “Boys are different from girls,” he said with stolid patience. “When will you accept that?”