The Palace of Illusions

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  It begins to rain, if one can give that name to the icy needles piercing my face—the only part of my body that remains with me. To distract myself from the pain I place my mind on how Krishna had loved rain, how once when I visited Dwarka he had called me to the wet balcony to show me peacocks dancing in the downpour.

  “About time you thought of me,” he says.

  Amazed, I try to turn toward that beloved, familiar voice, but I can no longer move my head. I think I catch, out of the corner of my eye, a glimpse of yellow. Or is it merely the force of my desire?

  “So now you think you've imagined me! I'm quite real, I'd like you to know. But what are you doing here, lying in the snow in this awkward and downright unqueenly posture?”

  “I'm trying to recite a prayer,” I tell him with what little dignity I can muster. “But the problem is, I can't recall a single verse.”

  “You probably didn't know too many of them to begin with!”

  He's right—I've never been one for formal rituals. Still, I want to tell him off—as I did so many times—for his ill-timed levity. But annoyance takes too much energy. “I'm dying, in case you didn't notice,” I say, in a tone that is, for me, fairly mild. “If I don't put my mind to praying, I'll probably be whisked off to the fires of the underworld—if they're real. Are they? You should know, being dead already.”

  “They are and they aren't,” he says, “just as I am and am not dead.” I see that he hasn't lost his old habit of speaking in riddles. “But don't think of hellfire now. And if you can't remember a prayer, don't let that distress you. Think instead of something that makes you happy.”

  I consider my life. What was it that made me joyful? What made me experience peace? For I guess that's the kind of happiness Krishna means, not the wild up-and-down of the wheel of passion I'd ridden all these years, delighted one moment, distraught the next. Certainly none of the men or women I'd been close to had given me that type of joy—nor I them, if I were to admit the truth. Even my palace with its strange and beautiful fantasies, the palace that in some way I'd loved more than any of my husbands, the palace that was my greatest pride, had ultimately brought me only sorrow.

  There's the lightest of touches on my head, Krishna's hand, I imagine—for I can't see it—moving in a soothing motion such as a mother might use to comfort a fevered child. Though here, too, I'm mostly imagining, having had no mother, and having relegated most of the mothering of my own children to other women.

  “Can't remember,” I say, the words beginning to knot up in my mouth. Soon, I know, I'll be unable to form them. I don't want to die with the question that had bothered me for so long still pent up within my chest, so I ask, “Why didn't Bheeshma help me in the sabha even when he saw how much I suffered?”

  “How your mind leaps, like a drunken monkey! Bheeshma thought too deeply about the laws of men. It paralyzed him. He wasn't sure whether you were already Duryodhan's property—in which case he had no right to intervene. But sometimes one has to drop logic and go with the instinct of the heart, even if it contradicts law.”

  I want to agree, but a treacherous lethargy is taking me over. I recognize the signs, and though all this while I'd resolved to be brave, I find that I'm suddenly terrified of this dissolution into nothingness. Don't let go of me, I try to tell Krishna. For some reason I don't fully understand, it's crucial that he keeps touching me when I die. But I can't bring out the words.

  “Don't worry,” he says as though he'd heard. “Focus now: you have work to do. Take another look at your life. Are you sure you can't remember a single happy moment?”

  And, unexpectedly, I do.

  I stand beside Krishna's chariot at the gates of Hastinapur, handing him a cool drink of coconut water before he leaves for Dwarka. I complain that we hardly see him nowadays, that perhaps we were better off when we were wandering in the forest because there he came to us more often. He says, You needed me differently then. But in my heart I'm with you just as much! When he smiles, there are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, strands of white in his hair, the first soft footfalls of age, hastened by the war he let himself be pulled into for friendship's sake. Love takes me in a wave even as I pretend annoyance. Don't wait so long next time, I tell him. I won't, he says. I'll come when you're not expecting me. I watch him ride away. The winter sun lies soft as a shawl around my shoulders. If someone were to ask me, at this moment, what I wanted, I would say, Nothing.

  I don't know that this will be the last time I wave him goodbye.

  Other memories follow, tumbling like fallen leaves in wind. They're in no particular order, for here I am, a child in the courtyard of my father's palace, chasing after a butterfly that evades me, getting sweaty and teary until Krishna holds out a hand. The butterfly lands on it, and silently he extends it to me. And I, understanding something beyond my years, don't grab but instead gently stroke, once, the dusty yellow wings.

  Here's one in Indra Prastha, in our great hall, where Krishna is pretending to read our palms, my husbands' and mine, only when it's my turn, he makes me double over with embarrassed laughter by prophesying a hundred and fifty children. Here's one where I've prepared a meal for him myself, waving away the services of our many cooks—something I don't do even for my husbands—and he's complaining (falsely, of course) that the food is too salty. And here I'm showing him my garden—which is the most beautiful garden on earth, which would be perfect except for the fact that I haven't been able to find, anywhere, a parijat tree to plant. He smiles and extends his fist, and when I pull it open, it holds a single seed. I'll plant it, and it will grow into an entire grove of parijats.

  Here's a more somber moment when I'm going from Kampilya to Hastinapur after my marriage. All of a sudden I'm afraid of leaving behind the walls that I'd chafed against all these years as though they'd imprisoned me. Of exchanging the company of my dearest brother for that of husbands who are strangers. Krishna takes me by the hand—how familiar the gesture, though I'm sure he's never done this before—and guides me to Yudhisthir's chariot. He helps me up, whispering that it'll be a great adventure—and when I hear him say so, that's what it becomes. Here, years later, after the Rajasuya yagna is tarnished by Sisupal's blood, we sit shrouded in gloom. But Krishna will not let us mope. He claps his hands and calls for the servants to bring lamps, more lamps. In their glowing halo he assures me—for though he speaks to my husbands it's me he looks at—that Sisupal brought his death upon himself, that throughout the incident we behaved honorably, that if a curse should follow, it will fall on his head rather than ours.

  And here's one I'd forgotten all this while:

  In my year of disguise, I stood one evening on a small, seldom-used balcony in Queen Sudeshna's palace. I'd escaped there for a moment of peace away from her nagging demands, from Keechak's hot eyes that raked my body more boldly each day. I hadn't seen my husbands for days, not even those fleeting, distant glimpses that left me so frustrated. I still had months to live out like this, lonely and beleaguered. Despair swirled in me like ink, drowning my heart. In my confusion I wondered if all this suffering had descended upon me as punishment because in my heart of hearts I had been unfaithful to my husbands. Perhaps it would be easier to throw myself from the balcony, to end it all right now. It would be only a minor tragedy. My husbands would weep a while in secret, but when our year of disguise ended, they'd shake off their sorrow and busy themselves with fulfilling their destiny.

  The balcony looked out onto a narrow street frequented mostly by vendors or servant maids hurrying from one great house to another. But today a group of horsemen—strangers by their garments—were riding down it. Perhaps they'd lost their way. I drew my veil partway over my face, as was the custom for women in this city. I need not have bothered. Busy arguing about directions, the men did not notice me. They spoke in the accents of my hometown. Nostalgia shook me as I listened, and I had to suppress the inappropriate—and dangerous—desire to call out a greeting. They had passed me by when the last man
looked up at me. It was Krishna!

  Such a thing was impossible—but there he was, a peacock feather waving cheerily in his turban. He neither spoke nor gestured. But a current of consolation coursed through my body as we exchanged glances. Over the next months that glance would remain with me, as palpable as a warm hand slipped into mine, reminding me that I wasn't forgotten. It gave me the strength I needed to survive, to hold back from acts of desperation that might have exposed us all.

  It's only now I see that he'd always been there, sometimes in the forefront, sometimes blended into the shadows of my life. When I thought myself abandoned, he was busy supporting me—but so subtly that I often didn't notice. He loved me even when I behaved in a most unlovable manner. And his love was totally different from every other love in my life. Unlike them, it didn't expect me to behave in a certain way. It didn't change into displeasure or anger or even hatred if I didn't comply. It healed me. If what I felt for Karna was a singeing fire, Krishna's love was a balm, moonlight over a parched landscape. How blind I'd been not to recognize it for the precious gift it was!

  I have just one question now, one yearning. I want to remember the very first time. The moment when he entered my life—what happened then? What were his first words to me? How did this love, the only love that is here to uphold me at the moment of my death, begin?

  How will I ask with these frozen lips?

  But he understands. I feel his breath, warm and perfumed with a scent I do not know, on my forehead. And the memory comes.

  I was surrounded by redness, though I wasn't in a room. The walls undulated, gave off warmth. I had no body, no name. Yet I knew who I was. Someone spoke to me encouragingly, in a familiar voice, telling me that it was my turn now. I must go forth to do my duty. But I held back. It was so comfortable in this place. So safe and undemanding. Also, I was worried by the enormousness of my task.

  Can I really change history? I asked. What about the sins I'll incur, being the cause of so much devastation?

  The voice was as gentle as a brook wending through pebbles. Try to remember that you are the instrument and I the doer. If you can hold on to this, no sin can touch you.

  Instrument, I repeated. Doer. It sounded simple enough, though I suspected that it would become more complicated once the game began. I asked, What if I forget?

  He said, You probably will. Most of them do. That's the beguiling trick the world plays on you. You'll suffer for it—or dream that you're suffering. But no matter. At the time of your death I'll remind you. That'll be enough.

  A force pushed me forward, loving yet implacable. I felt myself gliding through the redness, taking on form as I went. I had arms and legs now, jewels around my neck. I was wrapped in gold cloth. It was getting hotter. I had to hurry. Smoke from the fire made me cough and stumble. Under my feet, the stone was slippery from the ghee the priests had poured into the flames for a hundred days, the air acrid with an odor I hadn't smelled before. The name for it came to me as I stepped out, dizzying me: vengeance. My brother gripped my hand so I wouldn't fall.

  Everything's turning to snow-dust, even my brain. But with the last of my strength I formulate a thought: That was the yagna fire out of which I came into this world! Were you there with me even then, before I took on this birth?

  I feel him smile. He's glad I made the connection in time.

  I did forget everything, didn't I? Made a mess of things?

  There's something else I want to ask, but it's hard to focus because thoughts are passing through me like water through a sieve.

  “You did what you were supposed to. Played your part perfectly.”

  Even when I got furious? When I held hatred in my heart? Loved the wrong man? Tortured the ones closest to me? Harmed so many people?

  “Even then. You didn't harm them that much. Look!”

  Above me there is light—or rather, the absence of darkness. The mountains have vanished. The air is full of men—but not men exactly, nor women, for their bodies are sleek and sexless and glowing. Their faces are unlined and calm, devoid of the various passions that distinguished them in life, but with some effort I recognize each one. Here's Kunti and my father, finishing up a conversation. Here's Bheeshma, floating amicably beside Sikhandi and Dhai Ma. Duryodhan is positioned between Drona and my brother, all of them smiling as though at a recent joke. Four of my husbands are here (Yudhisthir must still be toiling up the path), along with Gandhari, who holds Sahadev close as one would a young child. Spread out behind them are countless others, their bodies erased of the wounds that killed them at Kurukshetra, their faces evincing the satisfaction of actors who have successfully concluded their roles in a great drama.

  Is this real, or am I seeing things?

  Krishna gives a mock sigh. “Skeptical to the last! It's real enough, though seeing isn't quite the word for it. You're going to have to learn a whole new vocabulary for all the things you'll be undergoing shortly. For now let me just say that each person experiences this moment differently.”

  Am I dying? I ask—with admirable equanimity, I think.

  “You could call it that.”

  I wait for fear to scrape my spine with its frozen nail, but it surprises me by its absence. Is it because this moment is so different from what I've always imagined death to be?

  “You could also call it waking,” Krishna continues. “Or intermission, as when one scene in a play ends and the next hasn't yet begun. But look—”

  In front of me floats a tall, spare form, gold glinting on his chest, his ears. He bends forward and holds out his hand. The expression on his face is one I never saw on it in life—serene, affectionate, content. I hesitate, wondering what my husbands would think, then realize it doesn't matter. We are husband and wife no more; nor is Karna (if I can still use that name for this being with his joyous, patient eyes) any longer the forbidden one. I can take his arm in view of everyone. If I wish, I can embrace him with all of myself.

  But first—for in a moment human inquiry will become irrelevant—I must ask Krishna the question that had slipped from me earlier, the question that has plagued me all my life.

  Are you truly divine?

  “Will you never be done with questioning?” Krishna laughs. Like the small brass bells tied around the necks of calves, that sound will remain with me even when hearing has gone. “Yes, I am. You are, too, you know!”

  I try hard to comprehend what he means. I know it's critical that I do so. But his words baffle me. I don't feel divine. With this body dissolving away, my thoughts fraying, I feel as though I'm less than nothing.

  Krishna touches my hand. If you can call it a hand, these pinpricks of light that are newly coalescing into the shape of fingers and palm. At his touch something breaks, a chain that was tied to the woman-shape crumpled on the snow below. I am buoyant and expansive and uncontainable—but I always was so, only I never knew it! I am beyond name and gender and the imprisoning patterns of ego. And yet, for the first time, I'm truly Panchaali. I reach with my other hand for Karna—how surprisingly solid his clasp! Above us our palace waits, the only one I've ever needed. Its walls are space, its floor is sky, its center everywhere. We rise; the shapes cluster around us in welcome, dissolving and forming and dissolving again like fireflies in a summer evening.

  Copyright © 2008 by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of

  the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living

  or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the Doubleday edition as follows:

  Divakaruni, Chitra Banerjee.

  The palace of illusions: a novel / Chitra Lekha Banerjee Divakaruni.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Retelling of the Mahabharata.

  1. India—History—
To 324 B.C.—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3554.186P35 2008

  813′.54—dc22 2007033784

  eISBN: 978-0-307-47249-6

  Photo of a peacock feather by Siede Preis/Photodisc/Getty Images

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