The Palace of Illusions (4 page)

Krishna was much amused by the turn of events. When he came to visit, he teased me by playing the tunes of the most extravagant songs on his flute. But when I tried to thank him, he acted as though 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 uncle Kamsa 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 away to safety in Gokul. How, in infancy, he killed a demoness who tried to poison him with her breast milk. How he lifted up Mount Govardhan to shelter his people from a deluge that would have drowned them. I didn't pay too much attention to the stories, some of which claimed that he was a god, descended from celestial realms to save the faithful. People loved to exaggerate, and there was nothing like a dose of the supernatural to spice up the drudgery of facts. But I admitted this much: there was something unusual about him.

Krishna couldn't have visited us often. He had his own kingdom in distant Dwarka to rule, and his many wives to placate. Additionally, he was involved in the affairs of several monarchies. He was known for his pragmatic intelligence, and kings liked to call on him for counsel. Yet whenever I had a serious question, something I couldn't ask Dhri, who was too straightforward for the knotted ways of the world, it seemed that Krishna was always there to provide an answer. And that too is a puzzle: why did my father allow him to visit me freely when he had kept me segregated from other men and women?

I was fascinated by Krishna because I couldn't decipher him. I fancied myself an astute observer of people and had already analyzed the other important people in my life. My father was obsessed by pride and the dream of getting even. He had absolute notions of right and wrong and adhered to them rigidly. (This made him a fair ruler, but not a beloved one.) His weakness was that he cared too much about what people might say about the royal house of Panchaal. Dhai Ma loved gossip, laughter, comfort, good food and drink, and, in her own way, power. (She routinely terrorized the lower servants—and, I suspect, Kallu—with her razor tongue.) Her weakness was her inability to say no to me. Dhri was the noblest of all the people I knew. He had a sincere love of 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 his destiny and had resigned himself to fulfilling it.

But Krishna was a chameleon. With our father, he was all astute politics, advising him on ways to strengthen his kingdom. He commended Dhri on his skill with the sword but encouraged him to spend more time on the arts. He delighted Dhai Ma with his outrageous compliments and earthy jests. And me? Some days he teased me until he reduced me to tears. On other days he gave me lessons
on the precarious political situation of the continent of Bharat, and chastised me if my attention wandered. He asked me what I thought of my place in the world as a woman and a princess—and then challenged my rather traditional beliefs. He brought me news of the world that no one else cared to give me, the world that I was starving for—even news that I suspected would be considered improper for the ears of a young woman. And all the while he watched me carefully, as though for a sign.

But this I would recognize later. At that time, I only knew that I adored the way he laughed for no reason, quirking up an eyebrow. I often forgot that he was much older than me. Sometimes he dispensed 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. He listened with attention to my opinions even though he usually ended up disagreeing. He had been a friend of my father's for many years; he was genuinely fond of my brother; but I had the impression that it was I whom he really 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 whose attraction can't be resisted
. Even after he returned to Dwarka, the notes of his flute lingered in the walls of our cheerless quarters—my only comfort as Dhri was called away more and more to his princely duties, and I was left behind.

3

It was my turn to play storyteller. And so I began. But was
began
the right word? Hadn't Dhri and I been telling each other this story ever since we were old enough to realize the menace at its heart?

Once a boy came running in from play and asked, Mother, what is milk? My friends say it is creamy and white and has the sweetest taste, second only to the nectar of the gods. Please, mother, I want milk to drink.

The mother, who was too poor to buy milk, mixed some flour in water, added jaggery, and gave it to the boy.

The boy drank it and danced in joy, saying, Now I, too, know what milk tastes like!

And the mother, who through all the years of her hardship had never shed a tear, wept at his trust and her deception.

For hours the storm had flung itself at our walls. The ill-fitting shutters that covered the windows hadn't managed to keep out the gusts of freezing rain. The floor was slippery with wetness and the carpet at our feet sodden. I sighed, knowing it would smell of mold
for weeks. The lamps flickered, threatening to abandon us to darkness. From time to time, a moth dived into a flame with a sizzling sound, a brief burning smell. On such nights, when the sudden crack of thunder flung our hearts up and down in startled exhilaration, Dhri and I told each other stories to keep our minds occupied. For though our days were overcrowded with lessons, our evenings stretched before us bare as a desert. The only one who ever shattered their monotony by his visits was Krishna. But he came and went without warning, taking mischievous pleasure in his unpredictability. The stories kept us from wondering too much about the rest of Drupad's family—his queens, and the other children whom we saw only on state occasions. What were they doing? Was our father in their lighted, laughing chambers? Why didn't he invite us to join them?

Dhri shook his head. “No! No! The story must start earlier.” “Very well,” I said, hiding a smile. “When King Sagar discovered that his ancestors had been burnt to ashes by the anger of the great mendicant Kapil…”

At other times my brother took my teasing equably, but now it irritated him. It was as though the story made him regress into a younger, more anxious self. “You're wasting time,” he scowled. “You know that's too early. Start with the two boys, the other ones.”

Once in an innocent time, the son of a brahmin and the son of a king were sent to the ashram of a great sage to study. Here they spent many years together, growing into the best of friends, and when it was time for each to return to his home, they wept.

The prince said to his schoolmate, Drona, I will never forget you.
Come to me when I become king of Panchaal, and all I have will be yours as well.

The brahmin embraced the prince and said, Dear Drupad, your friendship means more to me than all the riches in the treasury of the gods. I will hold your words in my heart forever.

Each went his way, the prince to learn the ways of the court, the brahmin to study further with Parasuram, the renowned scholar-warrior. He mastered the arts of war, married a virtuous woman, and had a beautiful son. Though poor, he was proud of his learning and dreamed often of the day when he would teach his son all he knew.

Until one day the boy came home from play asking for milk, and his wife wept.

Were the stories we told each other true? Who knows? At the best of times, a story is a slippery thing. Certainly no one had told us this particular one, though it was the tale we most needed to know. It was, after all, the reason for our existence. We'd had to cobble it together from rumors and lies, dark hints Dhai Ma let fall, and our own agitated imaginings. Perhaps that was why it changed with each telling. Or is that the nature of all stories, the reason for their power?

Dhri was still dissatisfied. “You're looking at the story through the wrong window,” he said. “You've got to close it and open a different one. Here, I'll do it.”