The Palace of Illusions (7 page)

In revenge, the tutor shot a last comment at me from behind the safety of the door that led to the passage. “Prince, I have recalled one rule of conduct which you may tell your sister: A kshatriya
woman's highest purpose in life is to support the warriors in her life: her father, brother, husband, and sons. If they should be called to war, she must be happy that they have the opportunity to fulfill a heroic destiny. Instead of praying for their safe return, she must pray that they die with glory on the battlefield.”

“And who decided that a woman's highest purpose was to support men?” I burst out as soon as we were alone. “A man, I would wager! Myself, I plan on doing other things with my life.”

Dhri smiled, but halfheartedly. “The tutor wasn't totally wrong. When I leave for the final battle, that's what I'd like you to pray for.”

The word moved over me like a finger of ice. Not
if
but
when.
With what chill acceptance my brother spoke it. He left the room before I could contradict him.

I thought of the husband and sons that everyone assumed I would have someday. The husband I couldn't visualize, but the sons I imagined as miniature versions of Dhri, with the same straight, serious eyebrows. I promised myself I'd never pray for their deaths. I'd teach them, instead, to be survivors. And why was a battle necessary at all? Surely there were other ways to glory, even for men? I'd teach them to search for those.

I wished I could teach this to Dhri as well, but I feared it was too late. Already he had started thinking like the men around him, embracing the world of the court with open arms. And I? Each day I thought less and less like the women around me. Each day I moved further from them into a dusky solitude.

Dhri was given other lessons, though these I couldn't share.

Late mornings, he fought with sword and spear and mace with the commander of the Panchaal army. He learned to wrestle, to ride
horses and elephants, to manage a chariot in case his charioteer was killed in battle. From the nishad who was my father's chief hunter, he learned archery and the ways of forest people: how to survive without food or water, how to read the spoor of animals. In the afternoons, he sat in court and observed my father dispensing justice. Evenings—for a king must know how to use his leisure appropriately—he played dice with other noble-born youth, or attended quail fights, or went boating. He visited the homes of courtesans, where he partook of drink, music, dance, and other pleasures. We never discussed these visits, though sometimes I spied on him when he returned late at night, his lips reddened from alaktaka, a garland around his neck. I spent hours imagining the woman who had placed it there. But no matter how much sura he drank or lotus fiber he ate, each morning my brother was up before daybreak. From my window I would see him bathe, shivering, in the cold water he insisted on drawing, himself, from our courtyard cistern, ignoring Dhai Ma's remonstrations. I would hear him chanting prayers to the sun.
O great son of Kashyap, colored like the hibiscus, O light of lights, destroyer of disease and sin, I bow to you.
And then, from the Manu Samhita,
He who has not conquered himself, how will that king conquer enemies?

Some evenings, Dhri didn't go out. Instead, closeted in with one minister or another, he learned statecraft: the art of preserving a kingdom, of strengthening its borders, of allying with other rulers— or subduing them without battle, of recognizing spies who may have wormed their way into the palace. He learned also the differences between righteous and unrighteous war, and when to use each. These were the lessons I most envied him, the lessons that conferred power. They were the ones I needed to know if I were to change history. And so I cajoled Dhri shamelessly, forcing him to share reluctant bits with me.

“In righteous war, you fight only with men that are your equal in rank. You don't attack your enemies at night, or when they're retreating or unarmed. You don't strike them on the back or below the navel. You use your celestial astras only on warriors who themselves have such weapons.”

“What about unrighteous war?”

“You don't need to know about that!” my brother said. “I've told you too much already. Why do you want all this information, anyway?”

One day I said, “Tell me about the celestial astras.”

I didn't think he'd agree, but he shrugged. “I guess there's no harm in telling you, since you'll never have anything to do with them. They're weapons that must be invoked with special chants. They come from the gods and return to them after being used. The most powerful ones can be used only once in a warrior's lifetime.”

“Do you have an astra? Can I see it?”

“They can't be seen, not until you've called them. And then you must use them right away; otherwise their power might turn against you. They say that some, like the Brahmastra, wrongly used, can destroy all of creation. In any case, I don't have any—not yet.”

I had my suspicions about the existence of such astras. They sounded too much like tales old soldiers would make up to impress novices.

“Oh, they're real enough!” he said. “For instance, when Arjun captured our father, he used the Rajju astra to enclose him in an invisible net. That's the reason the Panchaal forces couldn't rescue him, even though he was only a spear's length away. But very few teachers know the art of summoning them. That's why Father has
decided that when the time is right I must go to Drona in Hastinapur and ask him to accept me as his student.”

I stared at him in shock. Surely he was joking! But my brother never joked.

Finally I managed to say, “Father has no right to humiliate you this way! You must refuse. Besides, why would Drona agree to teach you when he knows you'll use the knowledge to try and kill him?”

“He'll teach me,” my brother said. He must have been tired, for he sounded bitter, which was rare for him. “He'll teach me because he's a man of honor. And I'll go because it's the only way I can fulfill my destiny.”

I don't wish to imply that King Drupad neglected my education. An unending stream of women flowed through my apartments each day, attempting to instruct me in the sixty-four arts that noble ladies must know. I was given lessons in singing, dancing, and playing music. (The lessons were painful, both for my teachers and me, for I was not musically inclined, nor deft on my feet.) I was taught to draw, paint, sew, and decorate the ground with age-old auspicious designs, each meant for a special festival. (My paintings were blotchy, and my designs full of improvisations that my teachers frowned at.) I was better at composing and solving riddles, responding to witty remarks, and writing poetry, but my heart was not in such frivolities. With each lesson I felt the world of women tightening its noose around me. I had a destiny to fulfill that was no less momentous than Dhri's. Why was no one concerned about preparing me for it?

When I mentioned this to Dhai Ma, she clicked her tongue with impatience.

“Where do you get all these notions? Your destiny as important as the prince's!” She rubbed brahmi oil into my scalp to cool my brain. “Besides, don't you know, a woman must be prepared for her destiny in a different way.”

Dhai Ma herself taught me the rules of comportment—how to walk, talk, and sit in the company of men; how to do the same when only women are present; how to show respect to queens who are more important; how to subtly snub lesser princesses; how to intimidate the other wives of my husband.

“I don't need to learn that!” I protested. “My husband won't take another wife—I'll make him promise that before I marry him!”

“Your arrogance, girl,” she said, “is only exceeded by your optimism. Kings always take other wives. And men always break the promises they make before marriage. Besides, if you're married off like Panchaal's other princesses, you won't even get a chance to talk to your husband before he beds you.”

I drew in a sharp breath to contradict her. She gave me a challenging grin. She relished our arguments, most of which she won. But this time I didn't launch into my usual tirade. Was it a memory of Krishna, the cool silence with which he countered disagreement, that stopped me? I saw something I hadn't realized before: words wasted energy. I would use my strength instead to nurture my belief that my life would unfurl uniquely.

“Perhaps you're right,” I said sweetly. “Only time will tell.”

She scowled. It wasn't what she was expecting. But then a different kind of grin appeared on her face. “Why, princess,” she said, “I do believe you're growing up.”

The day Dhai Ma told me I was ready to visit my father's wives to test my social skills, I was surprised by the excitement that surged
through me. I hadn't realized how much I craved companionship. I'd long been curious about the queens—especially Sulochana— who flitted elegant and bejeweled along the periphery of my life. In the past I'd resented them for ignoring me, but I was willing to let go of that. Perhaps, now that I was grown, we could be friends.

Surprisingly, although the queens knew I was coming, I had to wait a long time in the visitor's hall before they appeared. When they did arrive, they spoke to me stiffly, in brief inanities, and wouldn't meet my eyes. I drew on all my speaking skills, but the conversations I began soon disintegrated into silence. Even Sulochana, whose blithe grace I had so admired during the festival of Shiva, seemed a different person. She responded to my greetings in monosyllables and kept her two daughters close to her. But one of them, a charming girl of about five years with curly hair and her mother's shining complexion, squirmed away from Sulochana and ran to me. Her eye must have been caught by the jeweled peacock pendant I wore—I'd dressed with care for the visit—for she put out a finger to touch it. I lifted her onto my lap and unclasped the chain so she could play with the pendant. But Sulochana snatched her away and slapped her so hard that red finger marks marred the child's fair cheek. She burst into bewildered tears, not knowing why she was punished. I stared at the queen in shock, my own face tingling with shame as though I were the one who'd been slapped. Soon afterward, Sulochana retired to her chambers with excuses of ill health that were clearly false.