The Palace of Illusions

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  I turned the resentment I couldn't express toward my father onto his palace. I hated the thick gray slabs of the walls—more suited to a fortress than a king's residence—that surrounded our quarters, their tops bristling with sentries. I hated the narrow windows, the mean, dimly lit corridors, the uneven floors that were always damp, the massive, severe furniture from generations ago that was sized more for giants than men. I hated most of all that the grounds had neither trees nor flowers. King Drupad believed the former to be a hazard to security, obscuring the vision of the sentries. The latter he saw no use for—and what my father did not find useful, he removed from his life.

  Staring down from my rooms at the bare compound stretching below, I'd feel dejection settle on my shoulders like a shawl of iron. When I had my own palace, I promised myself, it would be totally different. I closed my eyes and imagined a riot of color and sound, birds singing in mango and custard apple orchards, butterflies flitting among jasmines, and in the midst of it—but I could not imagine yet the shape that my future home would take. Would it be elegant as crystal? Solidly precious, like a jewel-studded goblet? Delicate and intricate, like gold filigree? I only knew that it would mirror my deepest being. There I would finally be at home.

  My years in my father's house would have been unbearable had I not had my brother. I never forgot the feel of his hand clutching mine, his refusal to abandon me. Perhaps he and I would have been close even otherwise, segregated as we were in the palace wing our father had set aside for us—whether from caring or fear I was never sure. But that first loyalty made us inseparable. We shared our fears of the future with each other, shielded each other with fierce protectiveness from a world that regarded us as not quite normal, and comforted each other in our loneliness. We never spoke of what each one meant to the other—Dhri was uncomfortable with effusiveness. But sometimes I wrote him letters in my head, looping the words into extravagant metaphors. I'll love you, Dhri, until the great Brahman draws the universe back into Himself as a spider does its web.

  I didn't know then how sorely that love would be tested, or how much it would cost both of us.

  2

  Perhaps the reason Krishna and I got along so well was that we were both severely dark-skinned. In a society that looked down its patrician nose on anything except milk-and-almond hues, this was considered most unfortunate, especially for a girl. I paid for it by spending hour upon excruciating hour being slathered in skin-whitening unguents and scrubbed with numerous exfoliants by my industrious nurse. But finally she'd given up in despair. I, too, might have despaired if it hadn't been for Krishna.

  It was clear that Krishna, whose complexion was even darker than mine, didn't consider his color a drawback. I'd heard the stories about how he'd charmed his way into the hearts of the women of his hometown of Vrindavan—all 16,000 of them! And then there was the affair of Princess Rukmini, one of the great beauties of our time. She'd sent him a most indecorous love letter asking him to marry her (to which he'd promptly and chivalrously responded by carrying her off in his chariot). He had other wives, too—over a hundred, at last count. Could the nobility of Kampilya be wrong? Could darkness have its own magnetism?

  When I was fourteen, I gathered up enough courage to ask Krishna if he thought that a princess afflicted with a skin so dark that people termed it blue was capable of changing history. He smiled. That was how he often answered my questions, with an enigmatic smile that forced me to do my own thinking. But this time he must have sensed my confused distress, for he added a few words.

  “A problem becomes a problem only if you believe it to be so. And often others see you as you see yourself.”

  I regarded this oblique advice with some suspicion. It sounded too easy to be true. But when the festival of Lord Shiva approached, I decided to give it a try.

  On this particular night each year, the royal family would go in a procession—the men in front, the women behind—to a Shiva temple and offer their prayers. We didn't go far—the temple was situated within the palace grounds. Still, it was a grand spectacle, with the entire court and many of the prominent citizens of Kampilya accompanying us, dressed in their glittery best—exactly the kind of event that brought out my worst anxieties. I'd make excuses of ill health so I could stay in my room, but Dhai Ma saw through them and forced me to participate. Miserable among a crush of women who chattered among themselves and ignored me, I'd try to make myself invisible. The other princesses with their bright faces and cheerful banter made me feel doubly awkward as I slouched behind them, wishing Dhri were with me. If someone addressed me—a guest or a newcomer, usually, who didn't know who I was—I tended to blush and stammer and (yes, even at this age) trip over the edge of my sari.

  But this year I allowed a delighted Dhai Ma to dress me in a sea-blue silk light as foam, to weave flowers into my braid, to place diamonds in my ears. I examined Queen Sulochana, the youngest and prettiest of my father's wives, as she walked ahead of me, carrying a platter filled with garlands for the god. I observed the confident sway of her hips, the elegant grace with which she inclined her head in response to a greeting. I, too, am beautiful, I told myself, holding Krishna's words in my mind. I tried the same gestures and found them surprisingly easy. When noblewomen came up and complimented me on my looks, I thanked them as though I was used to such praise. People stood back, deferential, as I passed. I raised my chin proudly and showed off the line of my neck as young courtiers whispered among themselves, asking each other who I was, and where I'd been secreted all these years. A visiting bard stared at me admiringly. Later, he would make up a song about my unique comeliness. The song caught public fancy; other songs followed; word traveled to many kingdoms about the amazing princess of Panchaal, as mesmerizing as the ceremonial flames she was born from. Overnight, I who had been shunned for my strangeness became a celebrated beauty!

  Krishna was much amused by the turn of events. When he came to visit, he teased me by playing the tunes of the most extravagant songs on his flute. But when I tried to thank him, he acted as though he didn't know what I was talking about.

  There were other stories about Krishna. How he'd been born in a dungeon where his uncle Kamsa had imprisoned his parents with the intention of killing him at birth. How, in spite of the many prison guards, he'd been miraculously spirited away to safety in Gokul. How, in infancy, he killed a demoness who tried to poison him with her breast milk. How he lifted up Mount Govardhan to shelter his people from a deluge that would have drowned them. I didn't pay too much attention to the stories, some of which claimed that he was a god, descended from celestial realms to save the faithful. People loved to exaggerate, and there was nothing like a dose of the supernatural to spice up the drudgery of facts. But I admitted this much: there was something unusual about him.

  Krishna couldn't have visited us often. He had his own kingdom in distant Dwarka to rule, and his many wives to placate. Additionally, he was involved in the affairs of several monarchies. He was known for his pragmatic intelligence, and kings liked to call on him for counsel. Yet whenever I had a serious question, something I couldn't ask Dhri, who was too straightforward for the knotted ways of the world, it seemed that Krishna was always there to provide an answer. And that too is a puzzle: why did my father allow him to visit me freely when he had kept me segregated from other men and women?

  I was fascinated by Krishna because I couldn't decipher him. I fancied myself an astute observer of people and had already analyzed the other important people in my life. My father was obsessed by pride and the dream of getting even. He had absolute notions of right and wrong and adhered to them rigidly. (This made him a fair ruler, but not a beloved one.) His weakness was that he cared too much about what people might say about the royal house of Panchaal. Dhai Ma loved gossip, laughter, comfort, good food and drink, and, in her own way, power. (She routinely terrorized the lower servants—and, I suspect, Kallu—with her razor tongue.) Her weakness was her inability to say no to me. Dhri was the noblest o
f all the people I knew. He had a sincere love of virtue but, sadly, almost no sense of humor. He was overly protective of me (but I forgave him that). His weakness was that he believed completely in his destiny and had resigned himself to fulfilling it.

  But Krishna was a chameleon. With our father, he was all astute politics, advising him on ways to strengthen his kingdom. He commended Dhri on his skill with the sword but encouraged him to spend more time on the arts. He delighted Dhai Ma with his outrageous compliments and earthy jests. And me? Some days he teased me until he reduced me to tears. On other days he gave me lessons on the precarious political situation of the continent of Bharat, and chastised me if my attention wandered. He asked me what I thought of my place in the world as a woman and a princess—and then challenged my rather traditional beliefs. He brought me news of the world that no one else cared to give me, the world that I was starving for—even news that I suspected would be considered improper for the ears of a young woman. And all the while he watched me carefully, as though for a sign.

  But this I would recognize later. At that time, I only knew that I adored the way he laughed for no reason, quirking up an eyebrow. I often forgot that he was much older than me. Sometimes he dispensed with his kingly jewels and wore only a peacock feather in his hair. He was fond of yellow silk, which he claimed went well with his complexion. He listened with attention to my opinions even though he usually ended up disagreeing. He had been a friend of my father's for many years; he was genuinely fond of my brother; but I had the impression that it was I whom he really came to see. He called me by a special name, the female form of his own: Krishnaa. It had two meanings: the dark one, or the one whose attraction can't be resisted. Even after he returned to Dwarka, the notes of his flute lingered in the walls of our cheerless quarters—my only comfort as Dhri was called away more and more to his princely duties, and I was left behind.

  3

  It was my turn to play storyteller. And so I began. But was began the right word? Hadn't Dhri and I been telling each other this story ever since we were old enough to realize the menace at its heart?

  Once a boy came running in from play and asked, Mother, what is milk? My friends say it is creamy and white and has the sweetest taste, second only to the nectar of the gods. Please, mother, I want milk to drink.

  The mother, who was too poor to buy milk, mixed some flour in water, added jaggery, and gave it to the boy.

  The boy drank it and danced in joy, saying, Now I, too, know what milk tastes like!

  And the mother, who through all the years of her hardship had never shed a tear, wept at his trust and her deception.

  For hours the storm had flung itself at our walls. The ill-fitting shutters that covered the windows hadn't managed to keep out the gusts of freezing rain. The floor was slippery with wetness and the carpet at our feet sodden. I sighed, knowing it would smell of mold for weeks. The lamps flickered, threatening to abandon us to darkness. From time to time, a moth dived into a flame with a sizzling sound, a brief burning smell. On such nights, when the sudden crack of thunder flung our hearts up and down in startled exhilaration, Dhri and I told each other stories to keep our minds occupied. For though our days were overcrowded with lessons, our evenings stretched before us bare as a desert. The only one who ever shattered their monotony by his visits was Krishna. But he came and went without warning, taking mischievous pleasure in his unpredictability. The stories kept us from wondering too much about the rest of Drupad's family—his queens, and the other children whom we saw only on state occasions. What were they doing? Was our father in their lighted, laughing chambers? Why didn't he invite us to join them?

  Dhri shook his head. “No! No! The story must start earlier.” “Very well,” I said, hiding a smile. “When King Sagar discovered that his ancestors had been burnt to ashes by the anger of the great mendicant Kapil…”

  At other times my brother took my teasing equably, but now it irritated him. It was as though the story made him regress into a younger, more anxious self. “You're wasting time,” he scowled. “You know that's too early. Start with the two boys, the other ones.”

  Once in an innocent time, the son of a brahmin and the son of a king were sent to the ashram of a great sage to study. Here they spent many years together, growing into the best of friends, and when it was time for each to return to his home, they wept.

  The prince said to his schoolmate, Drona, I will never forget you. Come to me when I become king of Panchaal, and all I have will be yours as well.

  The brahmin embraced the prince and said, Dear Drupad, your friendship means more to me than all the riches in the treasury of the gods. I will hold your words in my heart forever.

  Each went his way, the prince to learn the ways of the court, the brahmin to study further with Parasuram, the renowned scholar-warrior. He mastered the arts of war, married a virtuous woman, and had a beautiful son. Though poor, he was proud of his learning and dreamed often of the day when he would teach his son all he knew.

  Until one day the boy came home from play asking for milk, and his wife wept.

  Were the stories we told each other true? Who knows? At the best of times, a story is a slippery thing. Certainly no one had told us this particular one, though it was the tale we most needed to know. It was, after all, the reason for our existence. We'd had to cobble it together from rumors and lies, dark hints Dhai Ma let fall, and our own agitated imaginings. Perhaps that was why it changed with each telling. Or is that the nature of all stories, the reason for their power?

  Dhri was still dissatisfied. “You're looking at the story through the wrong window,” he said. “You've got to close it and open a different one. Here, I'll do it.”

  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 ma
n 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.