The Palace of Illusions (37 page)

“Don't worry,” he said. “I go so that, when the time comes, I can restore your honor.” (His words, if not totally honest about his motives, were true enough.) “Wish me godspeed.”

Why did I hesitate?

My husbands thought I was too overcome with fear for Arjun to speak. They considered it sweet and womanly and assured me he would be in no danger. He was, after all, the world's greatest warrior. And his father Indra would surely be keeping an eye out for him.

Why was my heart so weak, so unreasonable? After all that had transpired, why should I care what happened to a man with ancient
eyes? Wasn't he my enemy, the deadly rival of this man who was willing to risk his life to avenge me? My folly angered me, but I couldn't shake it off. To stop the voices, both inner and outer, I said, “May you be successful. May you return safely with your heart's desire.”

But my voice faltered. Perhaps that is why Arjun would have so much trouble on his journey.

On Indrakila mountain, where the air is like crystal, Arjun meditated and prayed to Shiva. But Shiva did not answer. Instead, a wild boar charged at him from a copse. Arjun lifted the Gandiva bow, but as he shot, a different arrow flew through the air and struck the boar dead. Enraged by this encroachment, Arjun turned to find a man dressed in skins. He didn't seem intimidated by Arjun's threats. When Arjun in his anger shot at him, all his arrows—even his divine astras—fell useless at the hunter's feet, whereas each arrow of the hunter found its target.

“There I was, bleeding, while the hunter mocked me,” Arjun would tell us later, his voice conveying his astonished outrage. “I, who hadn't been touched by an arrow since I completed my studies with Drona! I prayed to Shiva for help, but nothing happened. My heart sank.”

Dispirited, he made a garland from wildflowers and offered it to an earthen image of the god in a final attempt to please him. But when he opened his eyes, the garland was gone. “I was sure the god had abandoned me,” he said. “Then I saw the garland—it was around the neck of the hunter, who glowed with a golden light!”

Understanding Shiva's play, he fell at his feet. The god embraced him and gave him the dreaded Pasupat, asking only that he use it in righteous war.

But would the war still be righteous when Arjun shot the astra at Karna? Or had it swerved darkly a long time before? The blood of Abhimanyu had soaked the earth of Kurukshetra by then, Bheeshma had been made to give away the secret of his death, and Drona had been overcome not by my brother's valor but by a lie.

Enveloped in triumph, giddy with the god's presence, Arjun did not suspect any of this. “Yes!” he cried, raising his chin in that way he had, full of self-belief. Did Chitragupta, keeper of the divine books, record his promise, smiling his secret, crooked smile at the vanity of humans? Is that why Arjun, too, would fall on the mountain when we went on our final journey?

There was more to Arjun's story: How Indra and the other gods appeared, promising him more astras, to be given when the war began. How they took him up to Indra's palace where he sat by the king-god on the same throne, enjoying celestial music and dance. (I wondered if his forefathers were there, but I knew better than to ask.) How the celestial dancer Urvasi fell in love with him and asked him to satisfy her desire. He refused. (He made sure to catch my eye while narrating this part.) She cursed him. As a result he would have to spend a year of his life as a eunuch. Fortunately his father interceded. He couldn't nullify the curse, but at least Arjun could choose the year when it would happen.

There were things Arjun kept to himself. (Isn't it thus with all stories, even this one I'm telling?) But when you share a man's pillow, his dreams seep into you. And so I knew.

The very first night he was there, Urvasi came to him dressed only in a mantle of clouds. She entered his bedroom and took him by the hand.

“I burn for you,” she said. “Put an end to my suffering.”

Arjun turned from her, covering his ears. “You are the beloved of Pururava, my ancestor,” he said, “and thus like a mother to me.”

Urvasi smiled at the folly of his words. “The rules that bind earthly women do not bind us,” she said. “While Pururava lived, I was faithful to him. But he has been dust for many ages, and I am free to choose the man I want. Come, let us not waste time!”

Her face shone like the moon; her breasts were pearly with the sweat of passion; the sight of her navel alone would have made kings forsake their kingdoms. What gave Arjun the power to resist her? Earlier I'd thought that it was for my sake. O vanity! Now in my dream I knew the truth. Arjun was determined to show the gods that he was stronger than their strongest enchantment, a worthy recipient of the astras they'd promised him. Against the sharp metallic seduction of instruments of death, what chance did Urvasi have?

When Krishna learned that his favorite friend would become a eunuch for a year, he laughed—the more so when Arjun glowered. “Don't you see?” he said. “It's the perfect concealment for your thirteenth year. Who'd ever suspect the manly Arjun in a skirt and veil, his mighty arms atinkle with bracelets? You should send a message of special thanks to Urvasi! Narad's always going up there— maybe he could act as your emissary—”

“No, thank you,” said my husband, his manly eyebrows drawing together.

Krishna turned to me. “Even a curse can be a blessing, Krishnaa. Don't you agree?”

I nodded, but warily. He was always trying to convince me that bad luck—particularly ours—was really something else, something better in disguise. Caught between him and Yudhisthir, a woman couldn't even enjoy being miserable.

That year, our last in the forest, was filled with divine visitations. Yudhisthir had his own encounter one blazing afternoon beside a lake with a yaksha, an invisible being of power who had already overpowered his brothers. It threatened him with death unless he could provide him with the correct responses to a hundred questions. Philosophical questions, however, were Yudhisthir's forte; he forgot the danger that faced him and dived into this game of wits—and won. As a reward the yaksha brought his brothers back to life and offered him a boon. I wasn't surprised when Yudhisthir told me what he'd asked for. Victory—not in the upcoming battle but against the six inner enemies that plague us all: lust, anger, greed, ignorance, arrogance, and envy.

But his real reward was that for weeks afterward he got to ask us the yaksha's questions (and to provide us, triumphantly, with the answers when we failed). Though I professed annoyance at this catechism, I secretly enjoyed it.

What is more numerous than the grass?

The thoughts that rise in the mind of man.

Who is truly wealthy?

That man to whom the agreeable and disagreeable, wealth and woe, past and future, are the same.

What is the most wondrous thing on earth?

Each day countless humans enter the Temple of Death, yet the ones left behind continue to live as though they were immortal.

In bed with Arjun, I searched for that part of his mind where he'd stored his memory of Shiva, but when I finally found it, there was only an ocean of light in which I longed to dissolve but could
not. I think I was most envious of him then. He had been in the presence of a great and blissful mystery. He had glimpsed the truth of existence that extended beyond this oscillating world of pleasure and sorrow. I lay awake all night, my soul hungering to know what he had known.

Once I complained to Krishna, “Why don't the gods appear to me? Is it because I'm a woman?”

“You have the drollest notions!” Krishna laughed. “Why do you think that should matter to the gods, who are beyond gender?”

I wanted to ask, if that were true, why our scriptures were filled with tales concerning the marriages of gods and goddesses. But I had a more urgent question. “Having embraced God, how could Arjun still care about gaining astras, no matter how powerful they were? If I'd been in his place, I wouldn't have wanted anything else.”

Krishna put his arm around my shoulders in that good-natured way he had. “Wouldn't you, sakhi?” (That was what he'd taken to calling me of late: sakhi, dearest companion. I liked the appellation, though sometimes I suspected he used it facetiously.) “Then you're a lot wiser than most of us!” For a time, a smile flitted over his lips as though he were privy to a joke no one else knew.

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