Reading Notes: The Missing Queen, Part B

I love this concept of a bridge stretching all the way across an ocean—it’s such a striking image, and it has a lot of interesting implications for the other world-building elements that would come along with it: A white bridge snaking over miles and miles of foam-crested waves, dwindling over the distance until it disappears into the horizon.... a bridge that spans the breadth of the ocean.
Again with the interesting world-building, but I especially love the blood-and-bone bridge tidbit: A bridge of war, death and defeat. A bridge of blood and bone.

I think part of why this is such an interesting question to me is that the way it’s posed is both very direct and carefully indirect. But beyond that, it’s a great hook, and all of the different directions you could take this dream thing are really compelling: ‘Do you believe in dreams?’

I also dig this dynamic between a jailer/guard and a criminal/prisoner: ‘Not many people knew, or were perceptive enough to notice. But I spent years with her as her jailer. I think I knew her better than anyone else.’

I’m a fan of the way this long-awaited moment ended up twisted into something so unexpectedly awful, too. Way to play with expectations: 'There was nothing beautiful. Even when Ram and Sita finally came together… that was a terrible moment. Full of hate and anger.’

And then, finally, there’s the way the author continues to play with the hero/villain duality of the way a leader of one side of a war is viewed and portrayed: ...realizing that the artfully depicted subject of the portrait is his brother, the infamous Ravana, an image so much at odds with the pictures one finds in Ayodhya. The movies, the photographs, the recreated, dramatized versions of the Lankan war portray a sinister and evil Ravana, shoulders hunched, an eerie light glinting in his eyes, mouth bared in a fiendish grin. Here, he is noble – a soldier and philosopher; an immaculately dressed gentlemen; thinker and a man of strength, who takes pleasure in beautiful things. A complex character.

Bibliography: The Missing Queen, by Samhita Arni.

Image Credit: Ocean, by Unsplash. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: The Missing Queen, Part A

I think the idea of an antihero (or even former villain) ally or contact like Kaikeyi could be a really compelling side character, or even a main character in the right kind of story with the right kind of trappings: ‘No one’s asked me that before. There’s been a deluge of reporters in this house since then, but they’ve never been interested. They’ve always only wanted the malicious, vindictive queen, Kaikeyi.’ She cackles, her brilliant, polished white teeth glimmering.

I also think this concept of a queen being the shadow ruler is really promising, pulling the strings on her puppet husband—and the charioteer queen thing is just plain rad: ‘He could barely make a decision – it was I who had to guide him! Me! And even in war, I had to be there. Strategizing, whispering orders to him, to relay to his troops. I was there – check your archives. They called me “the charioteer queen”, like the queens of old who drove their husbands into battle.’

I love the hard, clean motivation here, how it makes Kaikeyi feel like an Indian-epic Kingpin or something: She turns to face me, her gleaming eyes the only source of light in her shadowed face. ‘I wanted to create the Ayodhya that I dreamed about, a nation unlike any other that existed in India.’The idea of a person being a noble hero at the cost of being a decent person is a great hook, too: Her voice is weary. ‘As for Ram, he is a living god to the people of Ayodhya. He holds himself to an impossible standard. He is a visionary in that sense. But he can’t see beyond himself – he’s obsessed with his actions, with his nature… striving to be the ideal. That can be another form of cruelty. He was cruel to his father, mother, me, his brothers and his wife.’

My favorite thing about this book, easily, is the way it transports all the trappings of the Ramayana to the modern world, like Michael Almereyda’s 2000 film version of Hamlet. This reads like a fallen Kennedy/Camelot saga: Ram’s wife is an enigma. He fought a war to win her back from Ravana, the king of Lanka, and brought her home to Ayodhya. I had seen the old film strip so many times. The images of Ram and Sita entering the city in a Cadillac, waving to admiring crowds. I had been there myself – a child, twelve or thirteen years old, seeing the young, shining couple for the first time. I remember being disappointed by Sita. Her legendary, dangerous beauty had faded with years in captivity.... Months later, she left. Rumors abounded.... And Ram had never taken another wife, much to Ayodhya’s disappointment.
This is often used as a trope for epic fantasy stories about royalty, but if freshened up with different genre elements and a new angle, I think it could still end up being an interesting dynamic for someone other than the MC—whether a friend or relative or enemy: ‘Ram had a higher calling—to serve his nation. That took priority over all his personal interests. And he’s done a damn good job of it too.’

Initially, I was thinking figuring out the emotional core issue/crux of this decision to stay could make for an interesting short story. But really, I think it could make for a great inciting incident/kick-off point for the bigger plot of a novel, too: Hanuman parachuted into Lanka to rescue her. She refused to leave with him. Why?

This raises a really interesting point, curse aside, and I like the idea of humanizing the literally-demonized Big Bad: ‘If it is as she claimed, Ravana must have been a gentlemen and not the villain he’s been made out to be, if he never touched her against her will in ten years.’

This one has so much potential—plant it in a genre setting, and I’m already sold: ...all these people who have been through dreadful things in their childhood, and have suppressed their memory. Then go in for hypnosis, and it all comes out.

Again, the promise of this mystery is really compelling, and I think the fact that this one’s just old enough to have been partially forgotten makes it even stronger: ‘Something never seemed right to me about it all. It always felt like either Sita wasn’t telling the whole truth, or a piece of the puzzle was missing... But does it really matter now?’

The way this plays with normal concepts of royalty is very nice: Her father was a king, but king of a small, impoverished kingdom where kings are little more than farmers, ploughing their own fields.

This comes from the cover of the authorized biography of Rama, featuring a great, flattering picture of him and a background with Lakshmana. I find the brotherly dynamic here, that codependent package-deal thing, really interesting: In the distance, the blurred figure of Lakshman is visible, many metres away. But, I can’t help noticing, Sita is not there.

I’m also a fan of the way this modern society has built up and sort of already mythologized Ravana enough that even cartoon villains call back to him: ...an old classic is playing: The Demon King. A crumbling hoarding displays a fiendish villain, who bears a striking resemblance to the late Ravana, despite the addition of bulging muscles, curving horns and talons.

The Swan Princess-like magical aspect of spells wearing off only at night is one of those oldie-but-goodie classics: An evil demon king rules over the forest, and under his tyranny, the sentient animals and trees of the forest are silent and immobile by day, but enjoy freedom at night.

Here, it’s not so much Sita’s difference from the others that interests me, but those others themselves—the demon wives: He’s fascinated by the young bride: she’s very different from his demonic wives. Intrigued by her frail beauty, he begins to stalk her.

I’m also intrigued by the idea of some kind of curse that keeps a villain within certain lines—not the same kind as seen here, but just in general: The demon king scoffs at this, but doesn’t take advantage of her because he’s been cursed by a yogini that if he ever takes advantage of an unwilling woman, he will die.

I’m a big fan of this concept, too—how it plays with the power of stories, and how they can influence and even make up society: I’ve seen and read and heard this story a hundred – no, maybe even a thousand – times, in newspapers, in the cinema, in advertisements, in books. There’s only one story worth telling in Ayodhya – the story of Ram, Sita and Ravana. The populace has lost its taste for anything else, anything different. This is the only tale that holds their interest. It’s the greatest tale ever told, and better still, it’s true. Real. It has heroism, beauty, love, ugliness, war, blood and loss – everything we need. We cannot accept anything different. It has crossed over the boundaries of the merely real, and been spun into fantasy. It is a fairy tale now. It is the monolith on which our state and our beliefs are built.
    But is that what really happened?

I’m not a big fan of romance, but I do find couples doomed for unhappy endings interesting—not in a Romeo and Juliet way, but Daisy and Gatsby, Jake and Brett Ashley. This example especially reminds me of Joel and Clementine from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind: It had been so difficult. Those years were so difficult – exile, war, coming back. You know… sometimes, people change, places change. We changed… time does that. She wasn’t happy here, so she left. I don’t know why… but she left.’

I also love the idea of a character who fills the role of villain pretty nicely, but is also so honest that he can’t really be completely faulted, either: The powers-that-be are not pleased!’
    ‘Who are the powers-that-be? Ram?’ I pause and think. I don’t believe he would ask for my resignation. Ram is just too damned honest.
    ‘No. Not Ram.’

This setting, the milieu of it, are totally up my storytelling alley: He smiles wryly and leaves me alone with my drink.
    I look around the bar. The seamy, unacknowledged, underbelly of our vigorously glorious state. It’s typically dark, so as to be unnoticeable from outside. Packing crates and sackcloth lie in wait in one black corner, in case of a surprise moral police patrol. A mixture of needs – outlawed cravings, illicit thrills, depression and loneliness – brings the crowd in every night. Everyone is nervous and shifty, eyeing their neighbours warily. Most of us keep to ourselves, but I recognize some of the faces scattered around the room. Mobsters and criminals rub shoulders with bleary-eyed bureaucrats and famous television actors.

This sounds like the perfect motivation for a really fun antivillain/villain-as-hero story: ‘...all we’ll ever be are footnotes or villains in history textbooks.’

Same as above: 'Kaikeyi wasn’t half bad – she was a mean old thing, but she wasn’t the tyrant she’s been made out to be. So you know, I wonder… about Ravana too. You know, they say, the victors write history. But I wonder what it looks like to the losers?’

Again, I love this take on a more nuanced, complex Ravana, and I think it’s a great villain blueprint: ‘I was surprised by Ravana. He was… unexpectedly gentle. Courteous, even. He remembered my father fondly – the only chief who had, until then, ever defeated him. They had been so impressed with each other that they had sworn lifelong friendship… He told me that I was like my father. He… he…’ he hesitates, and then whispers across the table, ‘he told me that my duty was to avenge my father’s death, not to side with his killers.’

I’m also intrigued by this idea of a Boogeyman-like horror figure actually being a sort of hero who protects or defends or ruthlessly cleans up a town. Kind of like some versions of the Headless Horseman, I guess: The Washerman. The stuff of nightmares, a myth turned into flesh. He is the one who stalks the streets of Ayodhya at night, dealing with crime and vice, making our city pure, white and clean.




Bibliography: The Missing Queen, by Samhita Arni.

Image Credit: Dark Indoors, by Pexels. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: 7 Secrets from Hindu Calendar Art, Part C

The first thing that caught my interest about this video was its explanation of the Hindu concept of the embodiment of divinity: “For most Hindus, God is best embodied in the form of three human couples: Brahma and Saraswati, Vishnu and Lakshmi, Shiva and Shakti.” I think it’s interesting that their highest concept of divinity comes in the form of something as mortal as humans—and beyond that, something as human as couples. There are a lot of fascinating contradictions there that I think could lend themselves well to story world-building.

Then, of course, there’s the idea of the Big Three: Brahma the creator, Vishnu the sustainer, and Shiva the destroyer. Kind of like Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon being the big three, but despite the fact that that trio is composed of brothers, I actually find this one more compelling. I think it’s the way their three domains are so tightly linked and interconnected, yet how each one of those domains tells you something about the being in charge of it.

I also really dug this quote: “That is why this material word of changing forms is often referred to as maya, the embodiment of delusion. She is the world that we experience. As she keeps changing, we struggle to control her, hold her still and make her permanent, but we fail, for her essential nature is to transform.” It seems like one of those themes that would work well if you could find a way to translate it literally into a plot obstacle, rather than using it as the actual, obvious theme and run the risk of preaching it.

More than any of the others, I think Shiva could inspire the basis of a pretty compelling character. I think I might prefer it in the vague sense, which leaves more room open for interpretation—Shiva the destroyer, just in general—though the more detailed account of his purpose in destroying is interesting too: “Shiva destroys our desire for life; he destroys our fear of death; he destroys our need for the world around us.”

This point about ash symbolism is valuable for storytelling in general: “Ash is the symbol of destruction as well as permanence, for it is created by burning things but cannot be burnt itself. Thus it is also the symbol of the immortal soul, released when matter is destroyed.”

Which connects back to the Shiva thing through: “Shiva is smeared with three lines of ash oriented horizontally. These refer to the three destroyed worlds.”

And then, finally, there’s the dynamic between Shiva and Kali, which I find really interesting and worth exploring: “How does [Shiva] destroy? By shutting his eyes, refusing to be an observer, hence not creating an observation.... God needs goddess. The destroyer thus must be made to open his eyes. That is why the goddess transforms into her most primal form, Kali, and dances on Shiva.... Kali wants Shiva to value material reality and care for it. She wants him to open his eyes and become the observer.... Kali is movement, Shiva is stillness.... This form of the goddess... [is the one] who embodies the beauty of the three worlds, the very same worlds that Shiva destroyed, whose ash smears his forehead.... Shiva needs to be engaged with the world and marry the goddess. He is becoming Shankara, more aligned with the ways of the world.”

Bibliography: "7 Secrets from Hindu Calendar Art, Chapters 3 and 4," by Epified. Source: YouTube.

Image Credit: Cigarettes and Ash, by geralt. Source: Pixabay.

Review: Week 13

This week, I couldn't choose between my two favorite elements from the announcements, so I'm going with two.

The first, up above, comes from Saturday's announcements; it's such a clever way of playing on words and perspective, and an encouraging reminder besides that.

My second pick comes from Sunday's announcements:

It's crazy enough to look back at how things have changed in a relatively short amount of time, but it's even crazier to actually sit and watch them change. Kind of exciting, and kind of sad, too.




Image Credits:

"You Can Change the World." Source: Online Course Lady: Writing Laboratory.

"Evolution of the Desk." Source: Online Course Lady: Writing Laboratory.

Famous Last Words: The Palace of Illusions + Looking Ahead

Last week I outlined some changes for my course schedule, replacing the weekly writing assignments with extra credit options to help make room for homework in other classes. So far, a couple of weeks in, that's been a huge help. Juggling my other assignments and projects in other classes has been less stressful, especially with graduation looming, and since the extra-credit assignments take me so much less time than the writing assignments, I’ve been able to start working ahead in this class on the weekends, too.

In terms of reading, this week I finally finished up The Palace of Illusions by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni. It’s a retelling of the Mahabharata from Draupadi’s point of view, and the really cool thing about it is, that’s it’s entire hook: it follows all the usual events of the Mahabharata faithfully, but it manages to add fresh content and its own twists to the lore by examining all those same events through Draupadi’s perspective, with all her complicated and conflicting internal monologue and narration. That adds a lot of interesting new layers to the story, but what’s also striking is how perfect Draupadi is as the narrator—I didn’t realize it till reading Palace, but she really is the center of a web of a large and interconnected web of characters. More than anyone except maybe Krishna, she’s the one who interacts with all the different groups, and by nature of that and her role in bringing about the Pandava-Kaurava War, she truly is instrumental to the plot. Anyways, it’s a great read and adds a lot more depth to the same original stories, without straying too far from its source material.

Now I’m sitting back and trying to figure out what reading options I want to use for the rest of the semester. It’s bizarre to think that it’s already almost over, but I have plenty of good choices, so we’ll see what I end up with.

Image Credit: Book Pages, by Snufkin. Source: Pixabay.

Learning Challenge: The Incalculable Value of Finding a Job You Love

Since graduation is a few weeks away, and since that makes this a good time to think about what kind of career I want to work towards pursuing, this article caught my eye from the "Learning by H.E.A.R.T." archives: "The Incalculable Value of Finding a Job You Love."

Basically, the author of the article, professor of economics Robert H. Frank, argues that while financial gain does factor into future happiness, that doesn't mean the smartest decision is to go for the soul-sucking, highest-paying job. Instead, he makes the case that the most financially successful people are often the ones who are experts in their field, spending thousands of hours to gain skills and rise above the competition.

For that reason, Frank advises his students to find the jobs most closely related to any activity that has ever wholly engrossed them. That way, they'll enjoy what they do enough to log in the thousands of hours required to be an expert, and whether or not they end up being wildly successful at it, they'll at least be happy.

He elaborates on all of this with the following:

The happiness literature has identified one of the most deeply satisfying human psychological states to be one called “flow.” It occurs when you are so immersed in an activity that you lose track of the passage of time. If you can land a job that enables you to experience substantial periods of flow, you will be among the most fortunate people on the planet.

And while the whole "future career" discussion might require a little more contemplation than that, it's definitely worth keeping in mind during that contemplation.


Image Credit: Whiteboard, by jraffin. Source: Pixabay.

Wikipedia Trails: From Draupadi to Street Performance

This week, since I finished up the Draupadi-narrated novel The Palace of Illusions, I decided to start my Wikipedia Trails journey off by reading about Krishnaa herself; it seemed like it would be interesting to see how much of the story was embellished by the author and how much directly followed the original Mahabharata.


1. Draupadi

As it turns out, Palace just about follows the source to a T, which I was really impressed with; all of the new interpretation comes from exploring Draupadi's internal state and narration, rather than any external changes.

I also learned that there's a Draupadi cult today that celebrates her as a village goddess "with unique rituals and mythologies." One of the ways the cult worships her is through firewalking, which seemed like something I had to learn more about.


2. Fire-Walking

Fire-walking—when someone walks across hot coals, stones, embers, and so on as a rite of passage or test of courage or faith—has been practiced during lots of different time periods by lots of different cultures, and is still practiced by some groups today. The most interesting modern examples I stumbled across involved young girls in Bali, who participate in a ceremony and "are said to be possessed by beneficent spirits," Bushmen in the Kalahari desert who use it as part of their healing ceremonies, and Pakistani tribes who use it to determine whether a person is innocent or guilty of a crime (the idea being that if they're successfully able to walk across without getting burned, they're innocent).

It also works as a group-bonding exercise, even if people throughout history probably didn't realize that it had that specific effect; scientists have studied fire-walking rituals and found "synchronized heart rate rhythms between performers of the firewalk and non-performing spectators."


3. Fire Eating

Next, I wandered over to "fire eating," in which a person uses his or her mouth to extinguish some sort of flame. It's often used in street performances and circus acts, but there's also a spiritual history for it in India. However it's used, the skill is passed on from a master to an apprentice, with lessons including technique, fire safety, chemistry, and physics. Interestingly, performer Daniel Mannix claimed that "the real 'secret' to fire eating is enduring pain; he mentions that tolerating constant blisters on your tongue, lips and throat is also necessary." Fire eater's pneumonia, which is rare among the public but considered an occupational hazard for these people, is also a risk.

The last tidbit that caught my eye was about Robert Powell, a fire eater in the 1700s who "allegedly not only swallowed fire but also red-hot coals, melted sealing wax and even brimstone."


4. Street Performance

I ended up on the page for street performers, which worked out pretty well for me, since I'm currently working on a novel about a street-rat necromancer and his ghost-whisperer partner, and they happen to do street magic for extra cash.

There are tons of different types of buskers, but they've all got it down to a science: there's a specific art to "bottling," or taking up donations, and to picking out the right type of time and location for an act, both of which determine the success of the performance. One of the risks buskers have to look out for is thieves stealing the donations; late American entertainer George Burns noted, "Sometimes the customers threw something in the hats. Sometimes they took something out of the hats. Sometimes they took the hats."

Back in his youth, Benjamin Franklin was a busker himself, till his dad insisted that it wasn't worth the hit his good name would take for it. This ended influencing his beliefs in the freedom of speech.



Image Credit: "Malabarista de Rua (Street Performer Using a Fire Devilstick)" by Eduardo Casalini. Source: Wikimedia Commons.

Growth Mindset: Growing My Writing Process

Though I've been skipping the Wednesday retellings for this class, I've been doing a lot of other creative writing for other classes and outside projects, and I decided to use that opportunity to try a new growth mindset option: the "grow-your-writing-process" challenge.

This semester, I'm working on a YA novel for a final project in a course, and a YA novel that I started last November, which I'm hoping to finish up and submit to literary agents this summer. Usually, I work on my homework-novel during breaks between other classes and in the afternoons when I get home, and I try to squeeze in time to work on my personal project during free time in the evenings or right before I go to bed, even if it's just 100 words or so.

After reading about this particular growth mindset challenge, though—which suggests mixing up your normal writing process, like switching from typing to longhand or writing at night to writing in the mornings—I decided to go for it. Specifically, getting up early to write as opposed to staying up late for it. I've always been kind of a night owl, and I come from a long, proud line of them, so I wasn't sure how well it would work out for me.

As it turned out, though, I actually ended up with pretty positive results. I'd expected to be too tired early in the morning to muster up some decent focus or even really write coherently, but after trying it for a couple of mornings, it looks like that scatterbrained tiredness is more of a factor when I try to sneak in writing late at night, after a long day. Ten minutes or so after waking up, I tend to be warmed up too—and since I'm writing first thing in the morning, before other responsibilities or concerns crowd in and distract me, I'm actually able to focus better; the fact that everyone else in my house is still asleep probably helps. I'd also read online once that it's better to work on creative projects first thing in the day, before you give away your creativity and willpower in little slivers to other issues and projects that crop up, and it looks like there might be some truth to that. In any case, this is definitely something I'd like to keep trying—on good days, it would even allow me to write early in the morning and right before bed, which would make the juggling-projects thing easier too.



Image Credit: Pocket Watch, by mortiz320. Source: Pixabay.

Tech Tip: Canvas Mobile App

I actually ended up slinking back to Apple this week, and it's been pretty nice to be able to have apps again. So I figured it was the perfect chance to download the Canvas app.

So far, it's been working really well; the navigation is easy and pretty much mirrors the desktop version. I'm taking one online class other than this, and the professor of another class uses it pretty often to communicate, so I really appreciate being able to access the mobile version for all this. When I used to try to pull the site up on my phone's browser, the process was a little clunky. Overall, I'm definitely a fan.


Image Credit: iPhone by hellooly. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: The Palace of Illusions, Part H

After the war, when Yudhisthir falls into depression over both the war and the revelation that Karna had been his brother all along, Draupadi and his brothers take him to visit the grandfather to try to cheer him up. Based on what I remembered from the PDE Mahabharata, I wouldn't have figured Bheeshma would still be alive by this point, but I guess that's the nature of his curse, isn't it? I find that whole situation so fascinating—especially the way he technically received his death wound during the war, but because he can choose when he dies, he's still hanging around in great pain, technically dying the whole time.

In his discussion about "the art of kingship" to Yudhisthir, Bheeshma offers something that I find pretty interesting, and that I think could be a really fun plot point to work into a novel sometime: [A king] must cause dissections among the noblemen in his enemy's kingdom.

I also think a city with the vibe described here could be worth exploring in a fantasy world: The palace, which in Duryodhan's day had been filled with a frantic, garish energy...

The way so much characterization is accomplished just through some chairs is pretty impressive, too: Without them, we couldn't have borne the empty seats that stretched out on both sides of the throne, seats that—out of respect or guilt—Yudhisthir would leave unfilled. On the right, Bheeshma's; on the left, Drona's; in the raised alcove, the ornate throne specially carved for Duryodhan; next to his, severe in its simplicity, the chair Karna had once used.

I really love the dynamic between the Pandavas and Arjun's grandson, Pariksit, too. Because of the war, the Pandavas lost all their sons, and Pariksit lost his young dad. When Pariksit is born, though, Yudhisthir and his brothers take him one like a five-headed father figure: From the time Pariksit was in swaddling clothes, my husbands spent hours planning his education. They were determined to mold him into the perfect king, the one in whose hands they could leave Hastinapur without worry, the one who would redeem their sins with his goodness. As soon as he could stand, Bheem began to teach him the first moves of wrestling; Arjun had an infant-sized bow designed for him; Nakul sat him on his favorite horse and walked him around the courtyard; Sahadev taught him how to speak to animals; and Yudhisthir told him stories about the lives of saints. For his naming ceremony, they invited all the important sages and gave away more wealth than they could afford. They begged Vyasa to officiate at the ceremony and then pestered him to tell the child's future until he admitted to them that Pariksit would be a powerful and virtuous king.

Vyasa's sly, tricky delivery of his riddles is always interesting, but especially here, when it looks like the Pandava line really is cursed to repeat its own doom: But before he left, Vyasa drew me aside. "Watch the boy's temper," he said. "It'll get him into trouble if he's not careful."
    My mouth went dry. "What do you mean?"
    Vyasa shrugged. "Just what I said: the boy's temper might be his downfall."
    A pounding began in my head. Here was history, repeating itself once again. But this time I wouldn't let Vyasa's riddles ruin Pariksit's life. I grabbed his arm, though I knew it was most inappropriate for a woman to touch a sage. "Speak clearly for once."

And young Pariksit seems like a pretty promising character himself: He had the gift—like his granduncle Krishna—of giving his undivided and courteous attention to whomever he was with, making them feel he loved them especially.

And: Pariksit had one intriguing habit: if he came across someone new, he would approach him and gaze intently in his eyes. Once I asked him why,
   "I'm trying to find someone," he said shyly. "I don't know who he is. He was the most beautiful person I've ever seen—except he wasn't really a person. He as tiny, about as big as your thumb. His skin was a beautiful, shiny blue. He stood between me and a huge burst of fire and smiled—and the fire faded. Maybe it was just a dream."
    I stared at him in wonder, this child who'd been brushed by the elusive Mystery I'd been trying to grasp all my life.

Kunti, too, proved a compelling character right up till the end, and I like how she carefully manipulated things one last time to have her own way, leave behind not just a legacy but a living ghost: She smiled and shook her head and gave us her blessings. She allowed my husbands to escort her to the hermitage so that they wouldn't worry overmuch. But she didn't explain her decisions, choosing instead to remain an enigma that would haunt her sons. Is it ungracious of me to think that she knew, by doing so, that she would remain in their minds long after she was dead?

Everything about Chapter 41, "Reed," is perfect—the way Ghandari's curse on Krishna's clan finally played out, twenty-five years later, after it had been forgotten, and the ominous, eerie aftermath explained by a hollowed-out Arjun, were all really, really great storytelling. It's a great example of how to handle a slow-burn curse, and how to build up mood and foreboding in a short, simple way.

And then there's the final journey taken by the Pandavas and Draupadi: the path of the great departure. There are several things I love and find really inspiring about it:

The way Draupadi insisted on accompanying her husbands there, even though they asked her not to and it wasn't a wife's place: I would rather perish on the mountain. It would be sudden and clean, an end worthy of bard-song, my last victory over the other wives: She was the only consort that dared accompany the Pandavas on this final, fearsome adventure. When she fell, she did not weep, but only raised her hand in brave farewell.

The idea of the mountain's mortal veil: The sages had old us that the road ended upon a sacred peak, a place where earth met the abode of the gods. There a man who was pure enough could push past the veil that separated the worlds and enter heaven.

The way Draupadi recognizes that it's such a Yudhisthir thing to attempt: When he heard of the veil that could be crossed, Yudhisthir's eyes sparked with an interest I hadn't seen in them for a long time. I knew what he wanted: to enter heaven in human flesh! It was the latest of the impractical goals he'd run after all his life, with us in tow.

This interpretation of Yudhisthir, after Draupadi first fell behind and Bheem started to turn to help her, but Yudhisthir reminded him that they weren't allowed to turn back: Resentment flared through me. Rules were always more important to Yudhisthir than human pain—or human love. I knew then that he alone would reach the gate of heaven, for among us only he was capable of shedding his humanity.

The way this last memory makes it seem like maybe Draupadi and Bheem were the Pandava power couple after all: On the nearest mountain, the snow had turned the color of the lotus I'd once made Bheem pluck for me. I hoped he recognized it and rejoiced in what we'd been: the strongest man in the world, who for the sake of love rushed into danger; the woman born of fire whose glance had the power to make him smolder with imprudence. It was a good memory on which to end a life.

Or when Draupadi fell for good this time: When I stepped from the path into the air, I heard my husbands cry out. As I fell, behind me there was a confused commotion. Bheem, I guessed, was scuffling with Yudhisthir, trying to get past him to me. But Yudhisthir would win, as he always did, because Kunti, in her efforts to ensure their survival, had trained his younger brothers to obey him without question.

The mention of Karna: Perhaps that was why, when the thought can, I did not try to push it away: Karna would never had abandoned me thus. He would have stayed back and held my hand until we both perished. He would have happily given up heaven for my sake.

When Yudhisthir, in revealing Draupadi's fatal flaw that held her back on the mountain, also revealed that he'd known all along that she loved Karna more than any of her husbands—but lied to cover for her: Yudhisthir let his words out in a rush. "Arjun. It was Arjun. She cared most for him."
    He had spared me. He'd chosen kindness over truth and uttered, for the sake of my reputation, the second lie of his lifetime!
   Thus in my dying hour Yudhisthir proved that he had loved me all along. In doing so, he left me at once grateful and ashamed for the many bitter words I'd directed at him, and those I'd held festering inside.

And then, last of all, there's the final fate of the Pandavas: "What are the flaws that will cause the rest of us to fall?" Bheem asked.
    "Sahadev's is pride in his learning, Nakul's is vanity for his good looks, Arjun's is his warrior's ego, and yours is your inability to control yourself when you are angry." Yudhisthir spoke calmly as always, but this time I caught the sadness beneath. It was a lonely life he'd led all these years, set apart even from those he loved most by his passion for righteousness. I'd been foolish to let it infuriate me, to wish that he would give up his stiff, silly principles. Righteousness was his nature. He couldn't give it up any more than a tiger can give up its stripes. And because of it he would go on, abandoning his dearest ones in the moment of their death, to the ultimate loneliness: to be the only human in the court of the gods.




Bibliography: The Palace of Illusions, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.

Image Credit: Veiling Background, by Joggie. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: The Palace of Illusions, Part G

There are so many interesting things about Bheeshma, especially in this interpretation of him, but I find this one pretty high up there: "The grandfather is made of a different metal," he said.
    He was right. The promise Bheeshma had given in his youth—that he'd guard the throne of Hastinapur against all invaders—was carved into his heart at least as deep as any love that subsequently entered it. And when (following a slew of triumphs by Arjun) Duryodhan accused him of partiality to the Pandavas, he demonstrated this by fighting so fiercely that our soldiers whispered he was Yama the death-bringer come to earth.... Each night our camp was mired in despondence as my husbands faced a fact they hadn't considered: the legends had spoke true; Bheeshma was invincible. He wouldn't kill them, no. But he didn't have to. Once he destroyed enough of their army, their defeat was inevitable.

I also find the nature of his curse pretty fascinating—how by the end of it, when his beloved grandsons approached him and asked him how to kill him, he was glad to tell them. I think that in itself could be the core of something compelling, if I scooped out the innards and switched them around some: Late at night, at Krishna's urging, the Pandavas headed to Bheeshma's tent. They touched the grandfather's feet and asked him how he could be killed. And he—with compassion and some relief—told them what to do.

And then, of course, there's the beginning of the grandfather's death process, after both armies stopped their fighting to mourn him: Flocks of swans flew over him, crying in melodious voices. Men whispered that they were celestial beings in disguise, bringing messages from heaven. At night, too, Bheeshma received visitors. They came to him each alone, wrapped in cloaks of secrecy, to tell him things that could not be spoken in the company of others.

One of the things I found most compelling about Karna in even the PDE version was the complexity of character that could be seen even in that characterization-lite version, and I think this represents at least a kernel of that. I also think it could be the great core of a character: He ran agitated fingers through his hair. "I understand how she must have felt. I don't blame her—no, I do! How could she have thrown me away, her own child, her firstborn? But worse than that, when she saw me again at Hastinapur, how could she have let me suffer, over and over, the shame of illegitimacy?" His voice grew impassioned—it was a new Karna I was hearing, so anguished, so different from the man who prided himself on his self-control. In that moment I forgave him everything he'd done while in the grip of his sorrow. "She should have told me the truth in secret—I would have kept it all to myself, as I'm doing now. Just knowing would have made all the difference."

I'm also interested in working this one as a theme: "The fates are cruel," Bheeshma whispered, "and they've been crueler than usual to you. But the sins you committed in ignorance are not your fault."
    "I'll still have to pay for them," Karna said. "Isn't that how karma works? Look at what happened to Pandu, who killed a sage by accident, thinking him to be a wild deer. He had to bear the consequences of it for the rest of his life."

Also, I'm always a sucker for a good brother story, any more than Dussasan or any of the others, I feel like Karna was Duryodhan's brother—and even the bully Duryodhan was the only brother Karna ever really knew: Karna shook his head. "No. It was too lat the moment Kripa insulted me by declaring that I couldn't participate in the tournament, and Duryodhan rescued me by giving me a kingdom. He stood by me when everyone was against me. I've eaten his salt. I can't abandon him.... And thus, though I know he's doomed—no, because of it—I must stand by him against my brothers."

We finally also see the end of Dhri's long-building character arc, and I think it's more compelling here at the end even that it ever was in the beginning: Thus my brother fulfilled the fate he was born for, gaining revenge and losing himself, and spawning (for such is the nature of vengeance) a further drama of hate.

And even though I've never been a big fan of Arjun, I have to admit that I find his characterization here pretty interesting: 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.

I also find the magic system here really cool, as seen here: 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.

And here: 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.

As much as I love Karna, I was obviously bummed about his death, especially death by Arjun's hands—but the way he died because of his two curses finally coming for him, hounding him at the last moment, somehow felt kind of right. Complete, full-circle. Even kind of tragically beautiful, really—or maybe it's the other way around.

Draupadi's reaction to Karna's death pretty much sums up everything that made their complicated, unspoken bond here so compelling, and the sense tragedy here is nice, too: Part [of me] was thankful that this dreadful war would now end—for without Karna, what chance did Duryodhan have? Part sorrowed that a great warrior and a noble soul had died. But the part that was a young 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 had turned out if I'd allowed him to compete that day? If he'd won? The longing that I'd surpassed 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!

Then there's the aftermath, especially related to the sun god, who lost his secret son when Karna died: 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. 

And with this, Draupadi pretty much sums up everything that made Karna so compelling, and which could be great if reworked and repurposed into someone else: I realized now the 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.

In this moment, I actually find Duryodhan a pretty compelling character, too: 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-basle would have been an anticlimax to the Kaurava prince's furious life.

This is interesting character work in both directions: Today, he'd called upon all of that hate to fuel his strength. Our Bheem didn't have enough malice in him to confront that force.

The River Styx-like protection that Ghandari granted to her eldest son after calling him before her is great, too: She undid her blindfold and sent the power of her penances into his body, making invincible whichever part her eyes touched.

Krishna, mysterious and fascinating as always, shines here. I also really, really love the bond between him and Draupadi: "What did Krishna have to say to all this, you're asking?
    "When Duryodhan cursed him for teaching us the unfair tricks by which we won the war, he smiled and said, I take care of my own—in whichever way possible. The moment when Panchaali gave up struggling with Dussasan and called on me to save her, in that moment your death warrant was signed. If there's a sin in what I did, I'll gladly shoulder it for her sake."

Out of everything the author added in her interpretation, I think the cost of the Pandava victory paid for the rest of the Pandavas' lives is the one I love the most: I grew light-headed; it seemed that time rippled around me like wind on water. I saw that this was how we wold live out the next decades, dragging ourselves from one expected action to the next, hoping by meticulous duty to bring each other some small measure of happiness. But the comfort that duty proffers is lukewarm at best. Happiness, like a mischievous bird that hops from branch to branch, would continue to elude us. Duryodhan's words to Yudisthir echoed in my ears: I'm going to heaven to enjoy all its pleasures with my friends. You'll rule a kingdom peopled with widows and orphans and wake each morning to the grief of loss. Who's the real winner, then, and who's the loser?

And finally, I think something really interesting could be done by taking this concept and transforming it into something in a fantasy world: Where earlier soldiers had built their cook fires, now funeral pyres were being lighted—so many that the vista in front of us was covered in a haze of smoke. I blinked my stinging eyes. The chandaalis whose job it was to burn bodies rushed from fire to fire, shaking their cudgels and yelling at mourners to keep their distance. Dressed only in loincloths, their faces streaked with soot and sweat, they looked like the guards of hell.




Bibliography: The Palace of Illusions, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.

Image Credit: "Ubud Cremation," by Davenbelle~commonswiki. Source: Wikimedia Commons.

Week 12 Review: Lake Monsters

Even though I've been watching the announcements this week to plan for this post, I dropped my other choice of favorite announcement feature once I saw this chart today of Lake Monsters of America. If something involves monsters, legends, or unsolved mysteries in any way, there's a pretty good chance I'm going to love it: Supernatural and The X-Files are some of my favorite stories ever, and I also dig the heck out of the Buzzfeed Blue YouTube series "Unsolved Mysteries."

I've never been to Lake Thunderbird, but I love the idea of a "Giant Killer Octopus" chilling out at the lakebed there, and the other monsters on the chart look like a ton of fun, too.

Except for the Goat Man in Lake Worth, Texas. I might pass on that one.



Image Credit: "Mythical Lake Monsters" by Atlas Obscura. Source: Online Course Announcements.

Famous Last Words: It's All About Perspective

For my reading this week (after reading ahead for next week to clear the schedule some), I've just about finished The Palace of Illusions. It's been really interesting to see all the characters and events of the Mahabharata—which had very specific, distinctive characters and events, but was also somehow kind of vague about them, skimming over details without that much depth—laid out like this, with enough room to unfold naturally.

A huge factor in how it unfolded so naturally, though, is the narrator the author chose. Back when I read the PDE Mahabharata, I didn't pay that much attention to Draupadi: she seemed really promising at first, but quickly took a backseat to her husbands and their legacy.

One thing The Palace of Illusions does brilliantly, though, is show the huge extent to which that shouldn't be the case. As I read through the cousins' war, I was struck by the fact that this time around, each of the deaths of the various warriors meant something. And once I thought about it, I realized that that was because Draupadi was the perfect narrator: she had ties to every one of the other characters. Drona: father's nemesis, destined to be killed by her brother. Duryodhan: her enemy since he tried to have her humiliated after the gambling misadventure, and her husbands' rival. Karna: never-to-be love interest, secret brother-in-law. Dhri: commander of the Pandava army, her brother. And so on. Sometimes because of special connections the author added or embellished, like the one with Karna, but often just because of reading between the lines of the existing text, the author found Draupadi at the center of the huge, complicated web that is the Mahabharata; with her as a reference point, all of the other characters had a role and a place, instead of all running together. It's a fascinating study in point of view, and in reworking mythology in general.

I also shifted my course schedule around this week, (at least temporarily) substituting extra credit options to make up for a missed story each week and the resulting missed project addition. While I still miss writing a new story each week like I did last semester, it really has been a huge help so far; I'm not so stressed, and I've actually been able to work ahead a little on my reading, making room for next week so I can focus on deadlines coming up in other classes. For now, at least, it's a good system, and I'm sticking with it.

Image Credit: Staggered Windows, by PixelAnarchy. Source: Pixabay.