The Palace of Illusions

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  The fight started almost immediately. Twenty kings, perhaps more, rushed at my stranger-husband. He disappeared under the flashing of swords. I stared at the roiling mass of men and weapons. I should have been more worried—for my new husband as well as myself—but I couldn't bring myself to care. Dhri shouted orders as he parried and thrust, but a group of kings had barred the doorway, preventing our soldiers from entering.

  Impossibly, the stranger emerged from the sea of weapons unscathed. Even the shawl around his shoulders hadn't been disturbed. I expected him to look grim. Instead, a fierce glee filled his face. He thrust me behind him and aimed an arrow at the melee. I thought I heard him speak. The arrow split into a hundred points of light, the dots of light connected, and a sizzling net fell onto the kings. They flailed around, falling drunkenly over each other. It was the perfect punishment. When he aimed again, the kings guarding the doorway broke rank and fled.

  “Lady,” the stranger said, his eyes politely lowered, “I apologize for the fright this must have caused you.”

  He was no brahmin, I was sure of that. Conjectures bubbled in my mind. I narrowed my eyes to better examine him. “I'm not so easily frightened,” I said.

  Soon after I sat down under the tree, my husband hurried back. He was scowling. He started to ask a question, then saw my feet. His face flushed. He knelt and examined my soles, his hands unexpectedly gentle, sure of what they were doing. He fashioned a cup of leaves and fetched me water from a nearby pond to drink. He fetched me more water to wash my feet, then tore a strip from his shawl and bandaged them. He apologized for not noticing my troubles. He was distracted by many worries. When I asked what they were, he shook his head.

  I stared at his face, trying to match it to the one I'd seen in a painting a lifetime ago. But that face had sported a moustache, a crown, jeweled earrings, long, flowing locks, oiled and perfumed. This face, thin and sunburned, with its raised, ascetic cheekbones, the hair pulled severely back, confused me. There was only one thing I could think of doing.

  Quickly, before I lost courage, I pulled the shawl from his shoulders. There they were, the battle scars! Daringly, I touched one that ran across his taut upper arm. His eyes flew to my face. Strange—they looked so like another pair of eyes! How could this be? But no, I had no right even to think this question. I'd destroyed that part of my life. This was now my destiny. For the sake of my family and the prophecy at my birth, I had to make the best of it.

  “Are you Arjun?” I asked.

  He didn't answer, but he smiled, and a little of his severity fell away. That should have pleased me, but my heart weighted down my chest like a dead thing. Still, I forced myself to not remove my hand. I am his wife, I told myself. Against my fingers, the scar was puckered and harder than I had imagined, as though the shard of an arrow were still lodged inside the skin. I ran my nail over it as the sorceress had instructed and heard the sharp intake of his breath. Why should that make my face grow hot with guilt?

  He said, “If I were Arjun, would that make you happier?”

  I managed an even tone. “I'm no longer a princess. I'm your wife, and content with my lot, whoever you may be.”

  “Most commendable.” There was a teasing spark in his eyes.

  I risked the next words, treading the dangerous territory of the half-truth. “But I have thought often of Arjun since Krishna spoke to me of his powers.”

  He turned from me, looking over to the side. His brow was corrugated, the line of his lips hard. What if he wasn't Arjun, as I'd so hastily presumed? Why hadn't I heeded Dhai Ma's warning that forwardness would be the ruin of me? Most warriors, after all, had battle scars. Who could blame my stranger-husband if he was furious right now, hearing another man's praise on his new wife's lips?

  But when he spoke, it was with courtesy and some charm, and I realized that whatever troubled him had nothing to do with me. “I cannot reveal my identity without my family's permission. But I'll tell you this: I too have thought of Panchaali since Krishna described her many virtues to me!”

  For the rest of the way he held my arm, supporting me as I limped along. He didn't speak further, and I was thankful for the silence. My mind was trying to encompass all that had happened in the last few hours. Now that I was sure of Arjun's identity, I knew that everyone who cared for me—Dhri, Dhai Ma, my father, Krishna— would be delighted at how things had turned out. I was married to a man who was the greatest warrior of his generation. He would become one of my father's staunchest allies. In the Great War, he would protect my brother as he attempted to fulfill his destiny. Courteous, noble, brave, handsome, he would be a fit husband for me (and I a fit helpmate for him) as together we left our mark on history. Perhaps he would build me the palace I dreamed of, a place where I finally belonged.

  I would no longer waste time on regret. I would turn my face to the future and carve it into the shape I wanted. I would satisfy myself with duty. If I was lucky, love would come.

  That was what I told myself as we walked and walked, the hot day wilting around us, the pathway of stone and thorn taking me further each moment from everything that had been familiar to me.

  14

  I bent over a smoky fire fueled by cow-dung, cooking brinjal curry under the watchful eye of my mother-in-law. The kitchen was tiny and airless. My back ached. The smoke made my throat burn. Sweat poured into my eyes. I wiped it off furiously. I wasn't going to give my mother-in-law the satisfaction of thinking that she'd reduced me to tears, though in fact I was on the verge of weeping with frustration.

  She sat pristine in her white widow's sari, her hair blacker and glossier than it had any right to be (she was old, after all, with five grown sons), flicking stones from the cheap red rice that her sons had begged as alms. The heat didn't seem to affect her. At first I thought it was because she'd positioned herself in front of the single small window. But perhaps she had inner resources beyond what my eyes could see. A subtle disdain flickered under the composure that marked her face. It seemed to say, You find this difficult? Why then, you'd never have survived a hundredth part of what I've been through.

  I'd entered a household full of mysteries, secrets that no one articulated. I'd have to use all my resources to try and decipher them. But one thing I knew already: from the moment she saw me yesterday, my mother-in-law regarded me as her adversary.

  It had turned evening by the time Arjun and I entered a small settlement at the edge of town, with dilapidated mud walls pressed up against each other. I thought I'd prepared myself to accept hardship. But my heart fell as I noted the alleys stinking with refuse, the stray dogs with their open sores. It was all I could do to not clap a hand over my nose.

  As we turned a corner, four young men, all dressed like Arjun as poor brahmins, joined us. I knew these must be the other Pandavas. From under my veil, I darted glances at their faces, but I couldn't recognize a single one. What art of disguise had they learned?

  The brothers embraced Arjun and cuffed him on the shoulder, chiding him for not allowing them to help him in the fight. When they turned to greet me, their eyes were alight with curiosity and (I thought) admiration. Not sure how a new wife should behave with her brothers-in-law, I bowed my head and joined decorous palms, though I was equally curious. They were a lively lot, the two youngest ones miming how the defeated kings had run from my husband, the large, muscled one slapping his knees and doubling over with laughter while the eldest watched indulgently. My husband was pleased by their praise, though he didn't say much. At their approach, he'd let go of my arm, a fact I didn't care for.

  The oldest brother—this would be Yudhisthir—urged us to hurry. “We're late!” he said. “You know how Mother worries.” We turned the final corner and there was their hut, the meanest in the row. From the small kitchen window came the clink of pots.

  The tallest of them—if I remembered right, his name was Bheem—winked at Arjun. “Mother's always so serious! Let's play a trick on her.” Before the others could stop him, he call
ed out, “Ma, come and see what we've brought home today.”

  “Son,” said a woman's voice in a patrician accent, “I can't come right now or the food will burn. But as always, whatever you brought should be shared equally amongst all my sons.”

  The brothers looked at each other, embarrassed.

  Yudhisthir frowned at Bheem. “You certainly have a way of getting into trouble—and dragging us along! Let me go and explain.”

  He disappeared through the low doorway. I thought he would be back soon, but he didn't return for a long time. The brothers waited in awkward silence. I sensed that they hesitated to invite me in without their mother's permission. I looked toward Arjun, but— perhaps deliberately—he was watching a plume of smoke rising from a nearby hut. I stood on the porch feeling parched and unwelcome, the regrets I'd chased away returning to descend on me like vultures. When my legs hurt too much, I sat down on the ground, leaned my back against the hut wall and closed my eyes. I must have dozed. When I opened them again, my mother-in-law loomed above me like a statue carved from ice. And though I'd had doubts about the identity of her sons, I knew at once that I was staring up at the widowed queen Kunti.

  Kunti didn't believe in using spices. Or perhaps she just didn't believe in letting her daughter-in-law have any. She'd handed me a pulpy brinjal, along with a lump of salt and a minute amount of oil, and told me to prepare it for lunch. I asked her if I might have a bit of turmeric and some chilies. Perhaps some cumin. She replied, “This is all there is. This isn't your father's palace!”

  I didn't trust her words. In the alcove behind her I could see bowls and jars, a pouch. On the floor sat a grinding stone, stained yellow from its last use. I swallowed my anger and chopped the brinjal on the dull cutting blade. I rubbed salt into it and dropped it into the pan. There was too little oil. The cow-dung fire burned too high, and I didn't know how to reduce it. In a few minutes, the pieces began to get scorched. I was about to give up and let them burn to blackness when, turning, I saw the smallest of smiles on Kunti's face. I understood. If the fish had been Arjun's test, this was mine.

  This is what Kunti declared to her sons yesterday, before she said a single word to me: “All through my life—even in the hardest of times—everything I said, I made sure it was done. I told myself I'd bring you up as princes in the halls of your forefathers, and no matter how much harassment I faced, I held on to my promise. Sons, if you value what I did for you, you must now honor my word. All five of you must marry this woman.”

  I stared at her, my brain trying to take in what she had said. Was she joking when she said they must all marry me? No, her face made that clear. I wanted to shout, Five husbands? Are you mad? I wanted to say, I'm already married to Arjun! But Vyasa's prophecy recoiled upon me, robbing me of my protests.

  I recognized, too, the thinly veiled insult in Kunti's words. This woman, as though I were a nameless servant. It angered me, but it also hurt. From the stories I'd heard about Kunti, I'd admired her. I'd imagined that if she did indeed become my mother-in-law, she would love me as a daughter. Now I saw how naïve I'd been. A woman like her would never tolerate anyone who might lure her sons away.

  The brothers looked at me with speculation in their eyes. They didn't protest. Maybe they weren't used to contradicting their mother. Or maybe the idea wasn't as repugnant to them as it was to me. Only Arjun blurted out, “Mother, how can you ask us to do this? It's contrary to dharma.”

  “Let us eat now,” Kunti said. Underneath the serenity her voice was like steel. Here was woman's power at work! In spite of my fury, I felt a grudging admiration. “It's late. You're tired. We can discuss it tomorrow.”

  Arjun drew in his breath. I waited for him to stand up for me, to tell his mother that he and I were already husband and wife, committed to each other. She had no right to destroy that.

  To my disappointment, he said nothing.

  Now that she'd had her way, Kunti turned to me. She allowed herself to smile as she welcomed me with a bouquet of gracious words. But I felt the thorns underneath.

  When it was time for bed, the brothers unrolled their mats and lay down, one beside the other. Kunti placed her mat at their heads and gave me the last, rat-nibbled one to lie on. I was to sleep near the brothers' feet, at a chaste distance. I considered refusing, but I was too weary. I'd save my rebellion for another day.

  I drifted in and out of sleep all night, listening to the plaintive call of owls, watching the moon drag itself across the small window. I was uncomfortable, miserable, disillusioned—and most of all, angry with Arjun. I'd expected him to be my champion. It was the least he could have done after plucking me from my home. When inside me a voice whispered, Karna would never have let you down like this, I did not hush it.

  The night seemed endless. Someone snored. Someone else shouted angrily in his dream. Once I thought I saw a man looking in through the window. To my blurred, homesick eyes, his face looked like Dhri's, though that was impossible. And a good thing, too. Dhri would have been enraged to see me like this, lying on the floor at the feet of these men—on my wedding night, no less, when my bed should have been piled with scented silks. When I should have been held close and cherished. But I was no longer my brother's to protect or indulge, I thought, tears of self-pity filling my eyes. I'd placed a garland around the neck of a man who hadn't even cared to tell me his name, and it had changed everything.

  I was about to give in to despair when a thought came to me: This is what she's hoping for! The heat of that realization dried up my tears. I took a resolute breath, the way Kunti might have if she were in my place. I loosened my muscles, using the techniques the sorceress had taught. I no longer resisted the floor but let my body sink into it. One moment at a time, I told myself. What use was it to worry about the future, which might take a shape far different from what either Kunti or I wanted? And with that, sleep came to me.

  “You're burning the brinjal,” Kunti said, her voice kind. “Also, you've put in too much salt. Oh, look how red your eyes are! I should have guessed that a princess like you, brought up in luxury, wouldn't have any experience with cooking.” She gave a patient sigh. “Never mind. You can scrub the pots while I repair the curry.”

  But I was ready now. “Respected mother,” I said, bowing, “being so much younger, I know my culinary skills can't equal yours. But it's my duty to relieve you of your burdens whenever possible. Please let me do so. If your sons are displeased with the food, I'll gladly accept the blame.”

  I turned to the pot and covered it with a battered dish and focused on what the sorceress had taught me. I willed the oil to bubble up, the brinjal to soften. I prayed to the fire to hold back its power. I closed my eyes and imagined a rich paste of poppy seed and cinnamon coating the pieces. I didn't open them until the aroma filled my nostrils.

  When at mealtime the brothers praised the brinjal for its distinctive taste and asked for more, I remained in the kitchen and let Kunti serve her sons. I kept my face carefully impassive, my eyes on the floor. But she and I both knew that I'd won the first round.

  15

  That first night, all my hopes fallen in ruins around me, I dreamed of the palace of lac, where my husbands were supposed to have burned to death. Of how it had come into being.

  In my dream, I was a lac insect. Like my hundred sisters, I attached myself to a new twig and drank its sap. I had no eyes, so I focused my entire impassioned energy on drinking. I drank and grew and secreted resin red as mud until I was covered with it, until we were all covered. Within my shell I held still and grew, like my hundred sisters, and within me grew the eggs. The moon waxed full: once, twice, three times. The resin pooled and spread across the branches, turning them red until the tree seemed to be a dancing flame. The waiting villagers nodded. Yes, soon. The eggs hatched, a hundred new insects attached themselves to other trees, the villagers broke off the branches and scraped the resin clean and sent it to Varanavat where Duryodhan had ordered a palace to be built for his five cousin
s.

  (And I? I died. No need to mourn me. My work was done.)

  Palaces have always fascinated me, even a gloom-filled structure like my father's that was a fitting carapace for his vengeful obsession. For isn't that what our homes are ultimately, our fantasies made corporeal, our secret selves exposed? The converse is also true: we grow to become that which we live within. That was one of the reasons why I longed to escape my father's walls. (But— unknown to me—by the time I left, it was too late. The creed he lived by was already stamped onto my soul.)

  Often I imagined my own palace, the one I would build someday. What would it be made of? What form would it take? Krishna's palace in Dwarka was pink sandstone, the arches like the ocean waves that bordered it. It sounded lovely, but I knew mine would have to be different. It would have to be uniquely mine.

  When I'd asked him what kind of palace he thought I should have, Krishna said, “Already you live within a nine-gated palace, the most wondrous structure of all. Understand it well: it will be your salvation or your downfall.”

  Sometimes his riddles were tiresome. I sighed. I'd have to wait for time to uncover the answers he wouldn't give me. But this much I knew already: my palace would be like no other.