The Palace of Illusions (24 page)

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?

A well-meaning man, Dhai Ma liked to say, is more dangerous because he believes in the rightness of what he does. Give me an honest rascal any day!

“My mother,” the grandfather said, staring at the river, “used to call me Devavrata.”

“Your mother?” I was surprised into blurting. “But I thought—”

He smiled. “That my father had brought me up single-handed? Not quite, though that's the story he preferred to tell. She kept me with her until I was eight—my happiest years, I think. She taught me everything I know that's of any value. She still comes to me sometimes, here in the river, if I have a really serious problem or need her opinion.”

I wasn't sure how to take his words. Did he mean them literally? Or did the river soothe his mind, helping him to think better? There was a boyish yearning on his weathered face. I felt he didn't speak like this often. Against my better judgment, it made me lower my defenses, so that when he asked me how I liked living at Hastinapur, I told him the truth.

“The palace makes me uneasy. Too many people there hate my husbands. It'll never be home to me.”

He smoothed his beard. I thought I'd offended him. But perhaps he knew what it was to be hated, for he said, “You need a palace of your own. I should have thought of it earlier. I'll speak to Dhritarashtra about it. It's high time, anyway, that he announced an heir to the kingdom.”

On our way back, I asked, a little self-consciously, “Did you tell your mother about me?”

“I did,” he said. “She said you were a great flame, capable of lighting our way to fame—or destroying our entire clan.”

My mouth went dry. Once again, when I least expected them, Vyasa's prophecies had returned to haunt me. “Why would she say that? How can I destroy the great house of the Kurus, and why would I want to do that when I'm part of them?”

Bheeshma shrugged. He didn't seem overly concerned. “I don't know. She loves to tease me with riddles. Don't look so worried! Sometimes what she says shouldn't be taken literally.”

His casual kindness put me at ease. “I know someone like that, too,” I said wryly, and it struck me with a pang how long it had been since I'd seen Krishna.

Bheeshma laughed his vigorous, delighted laugh. “Impossible, aren't they? They drive you insane, but you can't imagine life without them.”

As he helped me up into the carriage with old-fashioned gallantry, telling me that we must do this again soon, I felt that a door had opened between us. I believed that in some inexplicable way I understood him better than people who had spent their entire lives around him. What I sensed, I liked and trusted. And so (not knowing that one day I would rue it bitterly) I relaxed, allowing him into my heart.

Bheeshma was, indeed, a man of his word. The very next day, in open court, he gave the blind king a severe tongue-lashing until the chastised Dhritarashtra agreed to hand Yudhisthir his birthright. He would divide the kingdom in two, he announced, his voice tremulous with largesse, and give the Pandavas the bigger half, leaving the smaller portion for his own son. From behind the curtain where the women sat, I was elated—more so for having been the catalyst for our good fortune. (I planned to make sure that my husbands learned of the part I'd played in it.) But Kunti, who knew the blind king better, pursed her lips. And rightly. The next day we discovered that he'd given my husbands Khandav, the most barren and desolate portion of the kingdom, keeping Hastinapur for his own Duryodhan. The younger Pandavas clamored to fight this injustice, but Yudhisthir said, “Wouldn't you rather live in your own home, even if it's a desert? Besides, it's an opportunity
for us to make something out of nothing. To prove our worth.”

Dhritarashtra held a rushed coronation for Yudhisthir, then promptly packed us off. Perhaps he feared we would change our minds about going.

“After all,” he told Yudhisthir, “it's now your duty to govern your new subjects.”

“Which subjects does he mean?” Bheem asked as we climbed onto the large and ornate chariot the king had given us as a parting gift. “The cobras or the hyenas?”

Our departure was a quiet one; only a meager entourage accompanied us. (Khandav had a bad reputation among the servants.) To my delight, we left Kunti behind. I don't know what Bheeshma had deduced from our talk at the river, but he persuaded her—and only he could have done it—that the journey would be too strenuous. Waving us goodbye at the palace gate, she looked astonished that her sons could go off to live their lives without her. Framed by the giant doorway, her figure appeared so small that I was ashamed of my jubilation. (But not for long. Perhaps as revenge, Kunti insisted that I leave Dhai Ma with her. “She'll keep me company until I'm able to join you,” she said. Short of flagrant disobedience, I couldn't refuse.)