The Palace of Illusions (49 page)

As for myself, I prayed desperately for the sight to be taken from me—at least for the duration of this duel. Whatever its outcome (and already I guessed what it would be), for me there was only pain. But the sight, inexorable, descended on me clearer than ever so that it was as though I were in the midst of the fighting, close enough to hear every indrawn hiss of pain.

Vyasa describes it as a glorious battle, equally matched, each hero countering the other's astras with unconcern. This was certainly true of Arjun. For the first time, I felt his concentration, pure, exhilarated, the way he focused on his task as if it were the one point
of light in a drowning darkness. Who could resist admiring a talent so absolute and deadly? Not I, even as my heart twisted in fear of what would happen to Karna.

As Karna ordered his chariot to be driven up to Arjun's, his face was equally calm. But I felt the storm of agitation that swept through him. He was not a man to deceive himself. He knew already that, having used up the Shakti, he could not defeat Arjun. He knew that Arjun was determined to kill him. But it wasn't the fear of death that shook him. Nor did his charioteer, Salya, the uncle of the Pandavas, manage to dispirit him by extolling Arjun's greatness. No. Karna was debilitated by his own knowledge. Because where Arjun faced a hated enemy, Karna was facing his younger brother.

Had Kunti realized this would happen? Had she told him her secret on purpose, so that when the moment arrived, he wouldn't be able to focus his entire will behind the arrows he let fly at the son she loved more?

Still, Karna was a true warrior—and a true friend. He gave the battle everything he had. He quenched Arjun's fire arrows with his storm arrows. He invoked the Bhargav astra, named after his guru, powerful enough to wipe out tens of thousands of warriors. When Arjun neutralized it with the Brahmastra, he invoked the Nagastra, the deadliest missile he had left. It turned into a poisonous serpent and sped toward Arjun. Who knows what might have happened if Krishna hadn't intervened? He spoke a word to the horses. They knelt in response, lowering the front of the chariot. The arrow passed through Arjun's jeweled crown, disintegrating it, but Arjun's life was saved.

I noticed with relief that the sun was setting. The duel would have to be called off until the next day. I let out a breath I'd been holding for so long that my lungs burned. My entire body ached with tension. But I'd been granted a reprieve! Tonight, I decided, I
would do what I should have done much earlier. I would tell my husbands the truth about Karna. Many would hate me for doing this. Perhaps it would sway the outcome of the war against us. Still, I couldn't bear to watch my husband killing his brother without knowing what a terrible thing he did.

But as I waited for the commanders to give the signal for the armies to withdraw, Karna's chariot suddenly tilted sideways. One of his wheels was embedded in the earth—strange, for they were on high, hard ground. Karna jumped down to free it, but he failed. His face grew pale; his brow was beaded with sweat. He was remembering the brahmin's curse:
You will die when you are helpless
. No! He couldn't perish like this, so pitifully, without a chance to fight back! Still struggling with the wheel, he called out to Arjun to remember the code of honor and give him a moment to ready himself.

Before Arjun could respond, Krishna turned to him. “Don't do it! This is the man who instigated Dussasan to humiliate Panchaali in the royal court, in the sight of all! Did he think of honor then?”

No!
I cried. No matter how terrible that incident had been, I didn't want to be the goad Krishna used to prod Arjun into killing Karna.

Rage flashed across Arjun's face, but he hesitated. He was thinking that he didn't want to be remembered as a warrior who attacked an unarmed opponent. He wanted people to know that he was powerful enough to kill Karna in a fair fight.

“He butchered your son, who was fighting off five other men. He approached him from the back and cut the strings of his bow,” Krishna continued. “What would the shade of Abhimanyu feel if he saw your misplaced mercy now?”

Ah, Krishna! He knew the exact note he needed to play upon the flute of our passions! Arjun's jaw hardened. He raised his bow.
Karna saw the look on his face. He dropped the wheel and began to chant a mantra—a simple one to bring him a weapon, any weapon, but almost immediately he faltered. He realized what was happening. The cruelest curse, his dear teacher's, was taking effect.
Your knowledge will fail,
Parasuram had raged,
when you need it the most
. He knew his time had come. He raised his hand in a gesture that an observer might have taken as a plea, but I recognized it as one of forgiveness. Arjun released his arrow. It sped through the air like a comet, trailing unhindered fire. Just before it reached its mark, Karna smiled.

What did I feel, seeing Karna fall? Part of me was glad that the unbearable tension of the battle was over. Part was relieved that my husband had won, that he was safe. Part realized that we were now very close to achieving the vengeance I'd craved—though it gave me no satisfaction. Part was thankful that this dreadful war would now end—for without Karna, what hope did Duryodhan have? Part sorrowed that a great warrior and a noble soul had died. But the part that was a girl at a swayamvar facing a young man whose eyes grew dark with pain at her words, the part that didn't owe loyalty to the Pandavas yet, couldn't hold back her tears. Regret racked me. How might Karna's life have turned out if I'd allowed him to compete that day? If he'd won? The longing that I'd suppressed all these years crashed over me like a wave, bringing me to my knees. He'd died believing that I hated him. How I wished it could have been otherwise!

Vyasa writes:
At the moment when Karna died, the sun plunged behind a cloud so dark that people feared it would not return. Despite the brutality of his death, his face held an enigmatic smile. A divine glow

left his body and circled the battlefield as though searching for something before it discarded this world.
Some have doubted his words, but I can vouch for their truth.

But here's something Vyasa didn't put down in his
Mahabharat
: Leaving the field, the glow traveled to a nearby hill, where it paused for a moment over a weeping woman. Before it soared into the sky and disappeared, it grew into a great radiance around me. A feeling emanated from it that I have no words for. It wasn't sorrow or rage. Perhaps, freed of its mortal bondage, Karna's spirit knew what I hadn't ever been able to tell him.

When the glow faded, I was left with a strange comfort, a belief that this was not the end of Karna's story.

37

After the death of Karna, I didn't want to climb the hill again. I was no longer interested in the war. I didn't want anyone to realize this, so I continued to go up there. But once there I would lie on the ground and close my eyes and try to send my mind far away. I realized now that the main reason I'd accepted the sight from Vyasa was for the opportunity to watch Karna the way I never could in real life, to decipher the enigma that he was. Now I understood him—his nobility, his loyalty, his pride, his anger, his uncomplaining acceptance of the injustice of his life, his forgiveness. But the weight of this knowledge that I could not share with anyone was crushing me.

We'd hoped that with Karna's death the war would end, but Duryodhan refused to give up. How could he? As he declaimed to Aswatthama, the only friend he had left after Karna's fall: Having been emperor of the earth, having tasted life's pleasures to the full, having stamped on the heads of my enemies, how can I now go with joined palms to my hated cousins, begging for mercy? For once, I understood him and agreed. Any end other than a death-by-battle would have been an anticlimax to the Kaurava prince's furious life. I shut my eyes, but as I'd feared, the sight did not release me. And so I saw Salya, last of the commanders, fall to Yudhisthir's
javelin. With his final breath he sent a blessing to his nephew, not knowing that in doing so he burdened him further with guilt. I saw the last of the Kaurava chariots explode, the last of the horses and foot soldiers die. Now only four warriors were left: Duryodhan, Kripa, Kritavarma, and Aswatthama. The wounded, heart-sore king entered a lake, chanting a mantra that would allow him to rest underwater for a time. But spies informed the Pandavas of this; they arrived at the lake and challenged Duryodhan to a final confrontation. I saw the Kaurava prince leave his sanctuary, impelled by the pride that had always been his downfall.

And so the last battle took place at Samantapanchaka, a place once considered holy but now laid waste by war. Around my husbands the land stretched sick and discolored, great, gaping holes torn into its side by the blasts of astras. The few remaining trees were leafless skeletons. There was no sign of the many birds and beasts that had roamed here peacefully just a few weeks ago. Only vultures sat on dead branches, waiting in eerie silence. This was what we had done to our earth.

Nakul said: “You know how Eldest Brother is, very noble and admirable, only sometimes he doesn't think things through. So he tells Duryodhan, You're alone here and tired out, and there's five of us against you, which isn't fair. Why don't you fight a duel with one of us—you can choose the person you want to fight, and you can choose your weapon, too. Whoever wins will rule Hastinapur.

“We stared at him, quite horrified. We knew that none of us except Bheem was equal to Duryodhan, not if he chose to battle with the gada, which of course he would, it being his favorite weapon. Krishna was furious. He told Eldest Brother, You're a fool. Millions
of men have died in the last few days to protect you from Duryodhan. Your brothers have faced the greatest dangers to secure your victory. Panchaali has wept and prayed for this moment through thirteen years of hardship and humiliation. I myself have manipulated dharma to help you. Now you throw it all away with one grandiose gesture? You know that Duryodhan learned gada-yuddha from my brother Balaram, the world's greatest mace fighter. No one in the world can beat him at it. You should have just killed him when you had the chance.