The Palace Of Illusions Pdf

1. Palace Of Illusions Online

Through the long,lonely years of my childhood, when my father’s palace seemed to tighten itsgrip around me until I couldn’t breathe, I would go to my nurse and ask for astory. And though she knew many wondrousand edifying tales, the one that I made her tell me over and over was the storyof my birth. I think I liked it so much because it made me feel special, and inthose days there was little else in my life that did. Perhaps Dhai Ma realizedthis. Perhaps that was why she agreed to my demands even though we both knew Ishould be using my time more gainfully, in ways more befitting the daughter ofKing Drupad, ruler of Panchaal, one of the richest kingdoms in the continent ofBharat.The story inspiredme to make up fancy names for myself: Offspring of vengeance, or Theunexpected one. But Dhai Ma puffed out her cheeks at my tendency to drama, callingme The girl who wasn’t invited.

Palace Of Illusions Online

Who knows, perhaps she was more accuratethan I.This winterafternoon, sitting cross-legged in the meager sunlight that managed to find itsway through my slit of a window, she said, “When your brother stepped out ofthe sacrificial fire onto the cold stone slabs of the palace hall, all theassembly cried out in amazement.”She was shellingpeas. I watched her flashing fingers with envy, wishing she would let me help.But Dhai Ma had very specific ideas about activities that were appropriate forprincesses.“An eye-blinklater,” she continued, “when you emerged from the fire, our jaws dropped. Itwas so quiet, you could have heard a housefly fart.”I reminded her that flies do not perform thatparticular bodily function.She smiled hersquint-eyed, cunning smile. “Child, the things you don’t know would fill themilky ocean where Lord Vishnu sleeps-and spill over its edges.”I considered beingoffended, but I wanted to hear the story. So I held my tongue, and after amoment she picked up the tale again.“We’d been prayingfor thirty days, from sun-up to sundown. All of us: your father, the hundredpriests he’d invited to Kampilya to perform the fire-ceremony, headed by thatshifty-eyed pair, Yaja and Upayaja, the queens, the ministers, and of coursethe servants. We’d been fasting, too—not that we were given a choice-just onemeal, each evening, of flattened rice soaked in milk.

King Drupad wouldn’t eateven that. He only drank water carried up from the holy Ganga,so that the gods would feel obligated to answer his prayers.”“What did he looklike?”“He was thin asthe point of a sword, and hard like it, too. You could count every bone on him.His eyes, sunk deep into their sockets, glittered like black pearls. He couldbarely hold up his head, but of course he wouldn’t remove that monstrosity of acrown that no one has ever seen him without- not even his wives, I’ve heard,not even in bed.”Dhai Ma had a goodeye for detail. Father was, even now, much the same, though age—and the beliefthat he was finally close to getting what he’d wanted for so long-had softenedhis impatience.“Some people,” shecontinued, “thought he was going to die, but I had no such fears. Anyone whowanted revenge as badly as your royal father did wouldn’t let go of body andbreath so easily.” She chewed ruminatively on a handful of peas.“Finally,” Iprompted her, “it was the thirtieth day.”“And I for one washeartily thankful. Milk and rice-husk is all very well for priests and widows,but give me fish curry with green chilies and tamarind pickle any day!

Besides,my throat was scraped raw from gabbling all those unpronounceable Sanskrit words.And my buttocks, I swear, they were flat as chapatis from sitting on thatfreezing stone floor.‘But I was scared,too, and stealing a glance here and there, I saw I wasn’t the only one. What ifthe fire-ceremony didn’t work the way the scriptures had claimed it would?Would King Drupad put us all to death, claiming we hadn’t prayed hard enough?Once I’d have laughed if someone had suggested our king might do that. Butthings had changed since the day when Drona appeared at court.”I wanted to askabout Drona, but I knew what she’d say.Impatient as mustard seedssputtering in oil, that’s what you are, even though you’re old enough to bemarried off any day now! Each story will come in its time.“So when yourroyal father stood up and poured that last pot of ghee into the flames, we allheld our breath.

I prayed harder than I’d ever done in my life—though it wasn’t for your brother I waspraying, not exactly. Kallu, who was cook’s apprentice then, had been courtingme, and I didn’t want to die before I’d experienced the joys of having a man inmy bed. But now that we’ve been married for seven years-” Here Dhai Ma pausedto snort at the folly of her younger self.If she got onto the subject of Kallu, Iwouldn’t hear the rest of the story today.“Then the smoke rose,” I interjected, withexperienced dexterity.She allowed herself to be pulled back intothe tale. “Yes, and a spiraling, nasty-smelling black smoke it was, with voicesin it. The voices said, Here isthe son you asked for.

He’ll bring you the vengeance you desire, but it’llbreak your life in two.‘I don’t care about that, your father said. Give him to me.‘And then your brother stepped from thefire.”I sat up straight to listen better. I lovedthis part of the story.

“What did he look like?”“He was a true prince, that one! His browwas noble. His face shone like gold. Even his clothes were golden. He stoodtall and unafraid, though he couldn’t have been more than five years old.

Buthis eyes troubled me. They were too soft. I said to myself, How can this boy avenge King Drupad?

Howcan he kill a fearsome warrior like Drona?”I worried about my brother, too, though in adifferent way. He would succeed in completing the task he was born for, I hadno doubt of that. He did everything with such meticulous care. But what wouldit do to him?I didn’t want to think of it. I said, “Andthen?”Dhai Ma made a face.

“Can’t wait till youappear, eh, Madam full-of yourself?” Then she relented.“Even before we’d finished cheering andclapping, even before your father had a chance to greet your brother, youappeared. You were as dark as he was fair, as hasty as he was calm. Coughingfrom the smoke, tripping over the hem of your sari, grabbing for his hand andalmost sending him tumbling, too-”“But we didn’tfall!”“No. Somehow youmanaged to hold each other up. And then the voices came again.

They said, Behold,we give you this girl, a gift beyond what you asked for. Take good care of her,for she will change the course of history.”“ Change thecourse of history! Did they really say that?”Dhai Ma shrugged.“That’s what the priests claimed. Who can tell for sure? You know how soundsboom and echo in that hall.

The king looked startled, but then he picked thetwo of you up, holding you close to his chest. For the first time in years, Isaw him smile. He said to your brother, I name you Dhristadyumna. Hesaid to you, I name you Draupadi.

And then we had the best feastthis kingdom has ever seen.”As Dhai Ma countedout the feast-foods on her fingers, smacking her lips in happy remembrance, myattention veered to the meaning of the names our father chose. Dhristadyumna,Destroyer of Enemies. Draupadi, Daughter of Drupad.Dhri’s name fell withinthe bounds of acceptability—though if I were his parent I might have picked amore cheerful name, like Celestial Victor, or Light of the Universe.But Daughter of Drupad? Granted, he hadn’t been expecting me, butcouldn’t my father have come up with something a little less egoistic?Something more suited to a girl who was supposed to change history?I answered to Draupadi forthe moment because I had no choice.

Butin the long run, it would not do. I needed a more heroic name.Nights, after Dhai Ma hadretired to her quarters, I lay on my high, hard bed with its massive posts andwatched the oil lamp fling flickery shadows against the pocked stone of thewalls.

I thought of the prophecy then, with yearning and fear. I wanted it tobe true. But did I have the makings of a heroine—courage, perseverance, anunbending will?

And shut up as I was inside this mausoleum of a palace, howwould history even find me?But most of all Ithought of something that Dhai Ma didn’t know, something that ate at me likethe rust corroding the bars on my window: what really happened when I steppedfrom the fire.If there werevoices, as Dhai Ma claimed, prophesying my life in a garbled roar, they hadn’tcome yet. The orange lick of flames fell away; the air was suddenly cold. Theancient hall smelled of incense, and under it, an older smell: war-sweat andhatred.

A gaunt, glittering man walked towards my brother and me as we stoodhand in hand. He held out his arms—but for my brother alone. It was only mybrother he meant to raise up to show to his people. Only my brother that hewanted. Dhri wouldn’t let go of me, however, nor I of him. We clung together sostubbornly that my father was forced to pick us both up together.I didn’t forgetthat hesitation, even though in the years that followed King Drupad was carefulto fulfill his fatherly duty and provide me with everything he believed aprincess should have.

Sometimes, when I pressed him, he even allowed meprivileges he kept from his other daughters. In his own harsh and obsessiveway, he was generous, maybe even indulgent.

But I couldn’t forgive him thatinitial rejection. Perhaps that was why, as I grew from a girl into a youngwoman, I didn’t trust him completely.I turned theresentment I couldn’t express towards my father onto his palace. I hated thethick gray slabs of the walls—more suited to a fortress than a king’sresidence-that surrounded our quarters, their tops bristling with sentries.

Ihated the narrow windows, the mean, dimly-lit corridors, the uneven floors thatwere always damp, the massive, severe furniture from generations ago that wassized more for giants than men. I hated most of all that the grounds hadneither trees nor flowers. King Drupad believed the former to be a hazard tosecurity, obscuring the vision of the sentries. The latter he saw no usefor—and what my father did not find useful, he removed from his life.Staring down frommy rooms at the bare compound stretching below, I’d feel dejection settle on myshoulders like a shawl of iron.

When I had my own palace, I promised myself, itwould be totally different. I closed my eyes and imagined a riot of color andsound, birds singing in mango and custard apple orchards, butterflies flittingamong jasmines, and in the midst of it—but I could not imagine yet the shapethat my future home would take. Would it be elegant as crystal? Solidlyprecious, like a jewel-studded goblet? Delicate and intricate, like goldfiligree? I only knew that it would mirror my deepest being. There I wouldfinally be at home.My years in myfather’s house would have been unbearable had I not had my brother.

I neverforgot the feel of his hand clutching mine, his refusal to abandon me. Perhapshe and I would have been close even otherwise, segregated as we were in thepalace wing our father had set aside for us- whether from caring or fear I wasnever sure. But that first loyalty made us inseparable. We shared our fears of the future with eachother, shielded each other with fierce protectiveness from a world thatregarded us as not quite normal, and comforted each other in our loneliness.

Wenever spoke of what each one meant to the other-Dhri was uncomfortable witheffusiveness. But sometimes I wrote him letters in my head, looping the wordsinto extravagant metaphors. I’ll love you, Dhri, until the great Brahmandraws the universe back into Himself as a spider does its web.I didn’t know thenhow sorely that love would be tested, or how much it would cost both of us.2bluePerhaps the reason Krishnaand I got along so well was that we were both severely dark-skinned. In a society that looked down its patriciannose on anything except milk-and-almond hues, this was considered mostunfortunate, especially for a girl. I paid for it by spending hour uponexcruciating hour being slathered in skin-whitening unguents and scrubbed withnumerous exfoliates by my industrious nurse. But finally she’d given up indespair. I, too, might have despaired if it hadn’t been for Krishna.It was clear that Krishna,whose complexion was even darker than mine, didn’t consider his color adrawback.

I’d heard the stories abouthow he’d charmed his way into the hearts of the women of his hometown ofVrindavan—all 16,000 of them! And then there was the affair of PrincessRukmini, one of the great beauties of our time.

She’d sent him a mostindecorous love letter asking him to marry her (to which he’d promptly andchivalrously responded by carrying her off in his chariot). He had other wives,too—over a hundred, at last count. Could the nobility of Kampilya be wrong?Could darkness have its own magnetism?When I was fourteen, I gathered up enoughcourage to ask Krishna if he thought that aprincess afflicted with a skin so dark that people termed it blue was capable of changing history.

That was how he oftenanswered my questions, with an enigmatic smile that forced me to do my ownthinking. But this time he must havesensed my confused distress, for he added a few words.“A problem becomes a problem only if youbelieve it to be so. And often otherssee you as you see yourself.”I regarded this oblique advice with somesuspicion.

It sounded too easy to be true. But when the festival of Lord Shivaapproached, I decided to give it a try.Onthis particular night each year, the royal family would go in a procession—themen in front, the women behind- to a Shiva temple and offer their prayers. Wedidn’t go far—the temple was situated within the palace grounds.

Still, it wasa grand spectacle, with the entire court and many of the prominent citizens ofKampilya accompanying us, dressed in their glittery best—exactly the kind ofevent that brought out my worst anxieties. I’d make excuses of ill health so Icould stay in my room, but Dhai Ma saw through them and forced me toparticipate. Miserable among a crush of women who chattered among themselvesand ignored me, I’d try to make myself invisible.

The other princesses withtheir bright faces and cheerful banter made me feel doubly awkward as Islouched behind them, wishing Dhri were with me. If someone addressed me—aguest or a newcomer, usually, who didn’t know who I was-I tended to blush andstammer and (yes, even at this age) trip over the edge of my sari.But this year I allowed a delighted Dhai Mato dress me in a sea-blue silk light as foam, to weave flowers into my braid,to place diamonds in my ears. I examined Queen Sulochana, the youngest andprettiest of my father’s wives, as she walked ahead of me, carrying a platterfilled with garlands for the god. I observed the confident sway of her hips,the elegant grace with which she inclined her head in response to a greeting.

I, too, am beautiful, I told myself, holding Krishna’swords in my mind. I tried the same gestures and found them surprisingly easy.When noblewomen came up and complimented me on my looks, I thanked them asthough I was used to such praise. People stood back, deferential, as I passed.I raised my chin proudly and showed off the line of my neck as young courtierswhispered among themselves, asking each other who I was, and where I’d beensecreted all these years. A visiting bard stared at me admiringly. Later, hewould make up a song about my unique comeliness.

The song caught public fancy;other songs followed; word traveled to many kingdoms about the amazing princessof Panchaal, as mesmerizing as the ceremonial flames she was born from.Overnight, I who had been shunned for my strangeness became a celebratedbeauty!Krishna was much amused by theturn of events. When he came to visit, he teased me by playing the tunes of themost extravagant songs on his flute. But when I tried to thank him, he acted asthough he didn’t know what I was talking about.There were other stories about Krishna. How he’d been born in a dungeon where his uncleKamsa had imprisoned his parents with the intention of killing him at birth.How, in spite of the many prison guards, he’d been miraculously spirited awayto safety in Gokul. How, in infancy, he killed a demoness who tried to poisonhim with her breast-milk.

How he lifted up Mount Govardhanto shelter his people from a deluge that would have drowned them. I didn’t paytoo much attention to the stories, some of which claimed that he was a god,descended from celestial realms to save the faithful. People loved toexaggerate, and there was nothing like a dose of the supernatural to spice upthe drudgery of facts. But I admitted this much: there was something unusualabout him.Krishna couldn’t have visited usoften. He had his own kingdom in distant Dwarka to rule, and his many wives toplacate.

Additionally, he was involved in the affairs of several monarchies. Hewas known for his pragmatic intelligence, and kings liked to call on him forcounsel. Yet whenever I had a seriousquestion, something I couldn’t ask Dhri, who was too straightforward for theknotted ways of the world, it seemed that Krishnawas always there to provide an answer. And that too is a puzzle: why did myfather allow him to visit me freely when he had kept me segregated from othermen and women?I was fascinated by Krishnabecause I couldn’t decipher him. Ifancied myself an astute observer of people and had already analyzed the otherimportant people in my life. My father was obsessed by pride and the dream ofgetting even.

He had absolute notions of right and wrong and adhered to themrigidly. (This made him a fair ruler, but not a beloved one.) His weakness wasthat he cared too much about what people might say about the royal house ofPanchaal. Dhai Ma loved gossip, laughter, comfort, good food and drink and, inher own way, power.

(She routinely terrorized the lower servants—and, Isuspect, Kallu-with her razor tongue). Her weakness was her inability to sayno to me. Dhri was the noblest of all the people I knew. He had a sincere loveof virtue but sadly, almost no sense of humor. He was overly protective of me(but I forgave him that). His weakness was that he believed completely in hisdestiny and had resigned himself to fulfilling it.But Krishnawas a chameleon.

With our father, he was all astute politics, advising him onways to strengthen his kingdom. He commended Dhri on his skill with the swordbut encouraged him to spend more time on the arts. He delighted Dhai Ma withhis outrageous compliments and earthy jests. Some days he teased meuntil he reduced me to tears. On other days he gave me lessons on theprecarious political situation of the continent of Bharat, and chastised me ifmy attention wandered. He asked me what I thought of my place in the world as awoman and a princess-and then challenged my rather traditional beliefs.

Hebrought me news of the world that no one else cared to give me, the world thatI was starving for-even news that I suspected would be considered improper forthe ears of young women. And all the while he watched me carefully, as thoughfor a sign.But this I would recognize later. At thattime, I only knew that I adored the way he laughed for no reason, quirking upan eyebrow.

I often forgot that he was much older than me. Sometimes hedispensed with his kingly jewels and wore only a peacock feather in his hair.He was fond of yellow silk, which he claimed went well with his complexion. Helistened with attention to my opinions even though he usually ended updisagreeing.

He had been a friend of my father’s for many years; he wasgenuinely fond of my brother; but I had the impression that it was I whom hereally came to see. He called me by a special name, the female form of his own:Krishnaa. It had two meanings: The dark one, or The one whoseattraction can’t be resisted. Even after he returned to Dwarka, the notes of his flute lingered inthe walls of our cheerless quarters-my only comfort as Dhri was called awaymore and more to his princely duties, and I was left behind.