The Palace of Illusions

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  Then Bheeshma turned to Yudhisthir, cuffing him on the ear. “Scoundrel!” he scolded. “Why didn't you let me know that you were alive? When I thought you boys perished in the burning house, it almost killed me!” His tone was jocular, but his face showed the depth of his emotion. Deep grooves were etched around his mouth. All of a sudden, he looked his age. When he wiped his eyes, I couldn't stop myself from staring. I'd never seen a man—least of all a famous warrior—shed tears.

  But in the space of a breath he shook off sorrow and took my hands in his. His face filled with genuine gladness. “Dearest granddaughter,” he said, “I welcome you with all my heart to your new home!” No one had invited me into his life so convincingly. No one had been so eager to find a place for me in his home.

  All this while, for the sake of Sikhandi, I'd decided to hate Bheeshma. But now I found I couldn't withstand his quicksilver charm. I felt my mistrust melting in the warmth of his smile. Perhaps, I thought, I was finally going where I belonged.

  The Pandavas returned to Hastinapur in triumph, escorted by marching soldiers and painted elephants and musicians blowing on conches and horns. Kunti and I rode in a chariot resplendent with silk pillows and cloth of gold curtains. Behind us came a hundred men carrying chests filled with jewels, my father's parting gift. Kunti had a small, satisfied smile on her face—and why shouldn't she? Her sons were safer and wealthier than they'd ever been, with powerful relatives that Duryodhan would hesitate to anger. The whole of Bharat was abuzz with the story of my marriage to five brothers whose filial piety was such that they preferred to share a wife rather than break their mother's word. In our skirmish of wits, too, she had come out ahead, successfully destroying the bond that might have formed between Arjun and me had we only had each other—a bond that might have made him turn, in time, to me instead of her for counsel.

  I swallowed the bitterness that rose like bile to my mouth. Our war wasn't over yet. I would bide my time, observing her, learning her weaknesses. Meanwhile, I would act to perfection my role of daughter-in-law.

  “What's the palace at Hastinapur like?” I asked in my politest voice.

  “It's very grand,” she said, her voice dismissive. With no one else around, she didn't need to put on a show of pleasantness. “It's probably grander than anything you're used to.”

  Though I suspected Kunti's words, they fired my eagerness to see my new home. I fantasized about a structure that would, in every way, be the opposite of my father's fortress: airy and effulgent, with windows everywhere and doors opening onto generous balconies. Its walls would be shimmering red sandstone. Its gardens would be a celebration of color and birdsong. Situated on the topmost floor, my rooms would be washed by breezes carrying the distant fragrance of mango blossoms. From a balcony inlaid with marble I would look out over the entire city and know what was going on, so that when Yudhisthir became king, I could advise him wisely.

  If Dhai Ma (to whom Kunti had taken a dislike, banishing her to the back of the procession with the other servants) had been in the carriage, she would have known right away what I was thinking.

  She would have clicked her tongue and puffed out her bottom lip and warned me with one of her favorite sayings: Expectations are like hidden rocks in your path—all they do is trip you up.

  Nothing could have been more different from my imaginings than the quarters allotted to Yudhisthir and me in Hastinapur. A block of rooms situated squarely in the center of the palace (to keep us safe, Kunti claimed), they looked out onto a courtyard filled with statues of dancing women frozen in torturous poses. The rooms themselves, though large, made me feel cramped. They were crowded with gaudy draperies, oversized bolsters, too-soft carpets that sucked at my ankles, and far more furniture than we had any need for. Intricate artifacts occupied every available surface. A flock of maids were always bustling around, dusting them and gawking at me. It almost made me nostalgic for the stern gloom of my father's court. Once I suggested that the décor might be simplified. But Kunti (whose rooms these must have been when she had arrived at this palace as a young bride) frostily informed me that every item here was sacred, having belonged at one time to King Pandu.

  Though I felt stifled by my apartments, I was strangely reluctant to leave them. The palace itself was a curiosity, with its bulging gold domes and curlicued moldings, its doors embossed with beaten metal, its furniture massive enough to accommodate a race of giants. But beneath the gay pomp crouched something ominous and slavering that wished my husbands ill. Now it had turned its attention on me to ascertain if I was the weakest link in the Pandava chain. I felt it approaching, though I could not guess from which direction. It made me long to tunnel underground and hide—I, who'd chafed so impatiently to leave the safety of my father's house and plunge into history!

  But as the newest royal daughter-in-law, I wasn't allowed to hide myself. On state occasions, I had to ride alongside Yudhisthir in his chariot. (At these I discovered, to my surprise, that I was popular. Something about my wedding had caught the public fancy. My appearances were greeted with much cheering, a fact that caused Kunti to teeter between pride and annoyance.) There were endless banquets among the extended family (the Kauravas loved to carouse) that I was expected to attend (appropriately veiled and chaperoned), though I had to leave these gatherings, along with the other wives, before the drinking and gaming started and matters grew interesting. Afternoons, Kunti would drag me with her to visit the other women in the palace. At these gatherings, the women spent much time in casual display of jewelry and clothing, or in making discreet references to their husbands' feats. When I didn't participate, they whispered maliciously about certain people who thought they were better than others because they were married to more than one man. It would have been amusing if I hadn't felt so lonely.

  I hungered for someone with whom I could have an intelligent and frank conversation. Dhri had accompanied our party to Hastinapur, but as soon as he had met Drona and persuaded him to be his teacher, my father recalled him to Kampilya. It was our first separation, and I missed him dreadfully—his patience, his ability to understand me without words, his unwavering support of me even when he disapproved of my actions. I even missed his exasperation. I missed Krishna, too—the way in which his laughter helped lessen the gravity of my problems. I wished he would visit us. Though from Kunti's comments I gathered that here in Hastinapur a wife was not allowed to meet with men except in the company of her husband, I knew I'd find a way to see him in private. Talking to Dhai Ma would have helped me unburden myself, but Kunti made sure she was kept busy with errands. I couldn't gainsay her without engaging in a fight, and I wasn't ready for that yet. I was desperate enough to have welcomed even Yudhisthir, who had many interesting if unrealistic ideas about the world, but he was occupied by his own duties, and I saw him only in the bedchamber.

  Of the people I'd met since moving here, most blurred into anonymity, but a few stood out. The blind king made a great show, whenever we met, of embracing my husbands and calling loudly on the gods to shower them with good fortune. He blessed me also with such platitudes as May-you-be-the-mother-of-a-hundred-sons, or May-your-wedding-sindur-forever-shine-on-your-forehead. (We knew, of course, that he'd like nothing better than to have the entire Pandava lineage perish.) My other husbands were barely able to tolerate his hypocrisy (Arjun would mutter under his breath, while Bheem's face turned an alarming shade of purple), but Yudhisthir would touch the old man's feet and inquire after his health with genuine affection. Was he a saint, or merely lacking in common sense? In either case, it was most annoying.

  Then there was the blindfolded Gandhari, about whose wifely virtue so many songs had been composed. At first I dismissed her as docile and overly traditional. At the women's gatherings she expressed no opinions; at the family banquets, she focused her entire attention on her blind husband's needs. But after a few weeks of watching and asking around, Dhai Ma said, “Don't be fooled by her quietness! She's dangerous, with more power than most pe
ople realize, and one of these days she just might decide to use it.” She went on to tell me how some god, pleased by Gandhari's devotion to her husband, had granted her a boon. If she ever took off her blindfold and lookedat someone, she could heal him—or burn him to cinders.

  I was impressed. I wouldn't have minded a boon like that. It was more useful than the ones I'd been given, and a lot less awkward.

  “Watch out for her brother, too,” Dhai Ma warned.

  “Who? That Sakuni?” I'd seen him in court, sitting among Duryodhan's cronies, a thin, stooped older man with heavily lidded eyes. He'd given me a leering grin. I'd gathered from servant gossip that he had a penchant for dice and dancing girls. “You worry too much,” I said to Dhai Ma.

  “Someone has to,” she said with asperity. “And it certainly isn't your royal oldest husband, who labors under the delusion that all the world loves him.”

  The one man I hadn't seen since I came to Hastinapur was Karna. I knew that at the request of Duryodhan, who considered him his closest friend, Karna spent much of the year in Hastinapur, leaving Anga in the care of his ministers. I knew also that soon after my swayamvar, Duryodhan had taken a wife and had urged Karna to do the same. But in this one matter he did not oblige his friend. When I heard my husbands wondering why, I had to exert all my self-control to keep my face calm, my breath even and uncaring.

  I confess: in spite of the vows I made each day to forget Karna, to be a better wife to the Pandavas, I longed to see him again. Each time I entered a room, I glanced up under my veil—I couldn't stop myself—hoping he was there. (It was foolish. If he'd been present, surely he'd have turned away, my insult still a fresh gash in his mind.) I eavesdropped shamelessly on the maids, trying to discover his whereabouts. On the verge of asking Dhai Ma to find out where he'd disappeared to (for she had her ways of unearthing secrets), I bit back my tongue a hundred times. If she'd heard me pronounce his name, she would have known how I felt. And even to her who loved me as she loved no one else, I didn't dare reveal this dark flower that refused to be uprooted from my heart.

  18

  The grandfather invited me to join him for a walk along the banks of the Ganga. “It's very pretty there,” he said, smiling that deceptive, charming smile. “And it'll give us a chance to get to know each other better, away from the distractions of the court.” I assented, but with reluctance. The first few weeks after my arrival at Hastinapur, as loneliness tightened itself like a band of iron around my chest, I'd waited for him to contact me (for surely he knew that the rules forbade me from approaching him). He hadn't. Even when we met at banquets, he'd paid me scant attention beyond a greeting, affable though it was. I was surprised and hurt. I'd believed in the warmth of his welcome at our first meeting; I'd believed I'd found an ally in a house of strangers. But he had only been speaking the language of courtesy. Feeling like a fool, I decided I wouldn't trust him again. So by the time this invitation arrived, I no longer wanted him to know me better. And as for him, I was certain that he was far too wily to reveal himself to me.

  Even apart from my personal disappointment at him, the grandfather made me uneasy. I wished there was someone to whom I could confide this, but my husbands adored him. Even Kunti's impassive face took on a beatific glaze when she spoke of the many ways in which he'd helped her.

  “He's the father we never had,” Yudhisthir told me once in a rare burst of emotion. “He kept us safe through the years of our childhood. We were an embarrassment to the blind king, a thorn in his foot, a reminder that he was only a regent. He would have loved to hide us away in some provincial town, to bring us up like the sons of shopkeepers. By herself our mother couldn't have stopped him. But Bheeshma fought for us.”

  “If it weren't for him, Duryodhan would have had us murdered in our beds a long time ago,” Bheem added.

  I had so many questions. Was he really the son of a river goddess, as I'd heard, and did she really drown each of his seven older brothers at birth? The story said that she'd been about to drown him, too, when his father the king had stopped her. She'd left them then, her husband and her newborn, and disappeared into the water. Growing up, how did the boy think of his mother—with loneliness and longing, or with baffled resentment? Hating her, did he hate every woman? Was all his love transferred to his father, his king and savior?

  His father fell in love again, as men tend to do. But the woman wouldn't marry him unless he could assure her that Bheeshma's sons would not dispute her children's claim to the throne. So that his father might have his wish, Bheeshma vowed to remain celibate all his life. He also vowed to protect the throne of Hastinapur, even with his last breath. The gods, who seem to like it when humans make unnatural sacrifices, gave him a boon for that: no one would be able to kill him unless he was ready to die.

  I wanted to warn my husbands that one couldn't depend on a man who plucked frailty and desire so easily out of his heart. How could he have compassion for the faults of others, or understand their need? Keeping his word was more important to him than a human life. That's why he'd sent Amba away without a moment's hesitation. There might come a day when he'd do the same to us.

  Then Arjun said, “He loved us.”

  We were in the chamber where Yudhisthir and I received guests. He was standing at a window that opened onto an ancient ashwattha tree that greedily sucked light from the room, its airborne roots hanging like matted hair. I couldn't see Arjun's face—the ornate draperies obstructed my view. But it didn't matter. The sorceress had taught me well. From the way his voice dipped low I knew what he'd never admit: throughout their childhood my husbands were famished for affection. Kunti had given them her entire steely devotion, but no tenderness. Perhaps she'd cut it out of her nature when she was left in the forest widowed and alone. Perhaps that was the only way she knew to survive.

  Then Bheeshma entered their lives with his large lion's laugh. He carried them on his shoulders and hid sweetmeats in his room for them to find. He told them wondrous, terrifying stories late into the night. He praised their small achievements, which Kunti failed to notice, and bought them toys as good as the ones Duryodhan wouldn't share. When Kunti caned them for waywardness, he secretly rubbed salve on their cuts.

  How could they not give themselves to him?

  Love. There's no argument, no matter how strong, that can overcome that word. I was jealous of Bheeshma for inspiring such a devotion in my husbands—but he had helped me understand something about the Pandavas, something crucial. Your childhood hunger is the one that never leaves you. No matter how famous or powerful they became, my husbands would always long to be cherished. They would always yearn to feel worthy. If a person could make them feel that way, they'd bind themselves to him—or her—forever.

  I held on to this knowledge like a traveler in a desert fists his hand around a gold-veined rock he has stumbled on, knowing there will be a time when it will prove valuable.

  The grandfather had the charioteer drive us to a secluded part of the river some distance from Hastinapur. I sat stiffly in my corner as we traveled, wishing Dhai Ma was with us. I'd tried to bring her along, but he'd waved her away. I'm too old for you to need a chaper-one, my dear! He'd laughed so hard that his hair, which fell to his shoulders, rippled like wind on water.

  We started walking. Wildflowers bloomed along the river, round and yellow, with black centers. There were random piles of white stones. Even I, who preferred gardens to wilderness, could see their strange and asymmetric beauty. The domes of the palace gleamed against a purpling sky, made picturesque by distance. I couldn't take my eyes from the river's foaming rush. How much had happened here! Babies drowned, babies saved.

  As I thought the words, I saw on the waters a bobbing casket, a gold-adorned child moving rapidly on the swirling foam. Even then he knew not to weep. As he passed us, he opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on me, though surely a newborn couldn't have done that.

  Bheeshma shot me a keen glance. “What is it, granddaughter?”


  “I thought I saw—” I broke off, shook my head. It was too difficult to explain. I feared it would give too much of myself away.

  But Bheeshma gave an understanding nod. “The river holds many memories. She offers to you the ones you most long to know. But she's tricky like her currents. Sometimes she shows you what you wish to see, and not the actual truth.”

  He was waiting for a response, but I was saved by a group of tribal women who appeared down the path, balancing large loads on their heads. When they recognized the grandfather, excitement rippled through them. “Bheeshma Pitamaha!” they called in delighted tones. “Grandfather!” He must have walked here often, for they were not surprised to see him—nor, to my amazement, overly awed. They offered him small green bananas from their baskets and asked after his health. Was his gout better? Had the herbs they'd given him helped? He asked about their children, whose names he knew, and gave them silver coins. Later he shared the bananas with me. They were studded with large black seeds and not fully ripe. They made the inside of my mouth pucker up, though Bheeshma chewed his unperturbed way through several.

  The women stared at me with great curiosity. After we passed them, they gathered under a mohua tree to point and giggle, speaking in the local dialect. I thought they said, Five? Are you sure? Five! There was envy in their eyes. But I may be wrong. Maybe it was sympathy.

  It wasn't that I doubted the grandfather's love for the Pandavas—and, by association, myself—or his promise that he'd guard them with his life. But what if there came a time when he had to choose between this vow and that other, older one by which he'd lived his entire life: to protect Hastinapur against all enemies?