The Palace of Illusions

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  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.

  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, ple
ase 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?”

  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 j
oking! 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.