One thing that Divakaruni does amazingly well with this novel is taking the events of the Mahabharata and reinterpreting them through a very human lens. So some of the inspirational lines I've snagged below are bits that've piqued my interest before, and some have caught my eye for the first time.
First, there's the perspective Draupadi's nurse brings to the palace preparations followed leading up to the birth of Draupadi and her brother: "We'd been praying for thirty days, from sun-up to sundown. All of us: your father, the hundred priests he'd invited to Kampilya to perform the fire ceremony, headed by that shifty-eyed pair, Yaja and Upayaja, the queens, the ministers, and of course the servants. We'd been fasting, too—not that we were given a choice—just one meal, each evening, of flattened rice soaked in milk... But I was scared, too, and stealing a glance here and there, I saw I wasn't the only one. What if the 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?"
And then there's the relationship between Draupadi and her brother Dhri, the twins born from flames. Their bond is established from the beginning: When their father the king came for them, he held out his arms—but for my brother alone. It was only my brother he meant to raise up to show to his people. Only my brother he wanted. Dhri wouldn't let go of me, however, nor I of him. We clung together so stubbornly that my father was forced to pick us both up together.
A little later, even after they've grown almost to adulthood, we see that that hasn't changed: My years in my father's house would have been unbearable had I not had my brother. I never forgot the feel of his hand clutching mine, his refusal to abandon me. Perhaps he and I would have been close otherwise, segregated as we were in the palace wing our father had set aside for us—whether for caring or for I was never sure. But that first loyalty made us inseparable. We shared our fears of the future for each other, shielded each other with fierce protectiveness from a world that regarded us as not quite normal, and comforted each other in our loneliness. We never spoke of what each one meant to each other—Dhri was uncomfortable with effusiveness. But sometimes I wrote him letters in my head, looping the words into extravagant metaphors.
Since I've also been really intrigued all semester about the way divinity and mortality coexist in these stories, I also thought Draupadi's opinion on the rumors about her family friend Krishna was pretty interesting: 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.
There's also this line, from a story Draupadi tells about a poor boy who asks his mother if he can try some milk, because the other boys have been talking about how great it tastes. But their family is too poor to afford milk, so instead, the mother feeds him water mixed with flour and jaggery. After, the boy is thrilled that he knows what milk tastes like too, just like the other kids. And we get this gem of a line: And the mother, who through all the years of her hardship had never shed a tear, wept at his trust and her deception. I think that's the really interesting core of a character: someone who lies to other people constantly because the ends justify the means, and hates herself for doing it and the other person for believing it—while also loving them for believing it. It's a really interesting dynamic.
I also find Draupadi and Dhri's relationship with the rest of their family (stepmothers and half-siblings) really interesting: 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 him? The way their dad treats them is especially interesting in light of the fact that he was so desperate to have them, and to have them be different from other children—but that this is how he reacts when he actually gets all that.
Then, talking about when Drona kidnapped his old friend Drupad so he could make them equals (and therefore friends) again: A brahmin embraced a king, a king embraced a brahmin. And the anger that the brahmin had carried smoldering within him all these years left his body with his out-breath in the form of dark vapor, and he was at peace. But the king saw the vapor and knew it for what it was. Eagerly, he opened his mouth and swallowed it. It would fuel him for the rest of his life.
There's also Dhri's relationship with his own prophesied destiny, and the way he lets the perceived inevitability of that shape and change him: I was hoping Dhri would let it be, but he was like a hunting dog at a boar's throat: "And then?"
Suddenly I was tired and heartsick. I thought, I shouldn't have chosen this story. Every time I spoke it, it embedded itself deeper into my brother's flesh, for a story gains power with retelling. It deepened his belief in the inevitability of a destiny he might have otherwise sidestepped: to kill Drona. Yet like a scab that children pick at until it falls to bleeding, neither of us could leave it alone.
And then you were called into the world, Dhri. So that what started with milk could end one day in blood.
There was more to the story. Whose blood, and when, and how many times. All that, however, I would learn much later.
"What do you think Drona looks like?" Dhri asked.
And then, last, not quite least, there's the palace full of queens, but no mother figures: I'd long been curious about the queens—especially Sulochana—who flitted elegant and bejeweled along the periphery of my life. In the past I'd resented them for ignoring me, but I was willing to let go of that. Perhaps, now that I was grown, we could be friends.
Surprisingly, though the queens knew I was coming, I had to wait a long time in the visitor's hall before they appeared. When they did arrive, they spoke to me stiffly, in brief inanities, and wouldn't meet my eyes.
Bibliography: The Palace of Illusions, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.
Image Credit: Fiery Orange Gem, by Hans. Source: Pixabay.
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