While I never really cared much about the Pandavas in previous versions of the Mahabharata (except for Bhima), and I'm still not that interested in any one of them in this novel adaptation, one thing it does really well is make them a fascinating united front. As individuals, they're still kind of meh for me, but as a secretive, ambitious, tightly-knit band of brothers, they're really interesting: Though they must have disagreed with each other from time to time, my husbands never revealed their dissension to outsiders. (And in this matter, I was still an outsider.) Kunti had trained them well.
You see more of that in this later section, too: I took my place beside each of my husbands at the proper moment, and saw our pairings as movements in an elaborate dance. I saw my husbands, too, differently. They were a unit together, five fingers that complemented each other to make up a powerful hand—a hand that would protect me if the need arose.
But I think this section, from a different chapter, puts it best of all (it also presents Draupadi's role in the Pandava family more interestingly than I've ever seen it): If they were the pearls, I was the gold wire on which they were strung. Alone, they would have scattered, each to his dusty corner. They would have pursued different interests, deposited their loyalties with different women. But together, we formed something precious and unique. Together, we were capable of what none of us could do alone. I finally began to see what the wily Kunti had in mind when she'd insisted that I was to be married to all of them, and though they never made my heart beat wildly, the way I'd hoped as a girl, I committed myself totally to the welfare of the Pandavas.
Up till this point, I'd been curious about the meaning behind the title. But in this week's reading, I finally got to the eponymous palace, and it's one of those impossible, tricksy places that can only be portrayed in books—and also very much a character in its own right: Maya outdid himself as he built. He magnified everything my husbands wanted a hundredfold, and over it all he laid a patina of magic so things shifted strangely, making the palace new each day even for us who lived there. There were corridors lighted only by the glow of gems, and assembly halls so filled with flowering trees that even after hours at council one felt as though one had been relaxing in a garden. Almost every room had a pool with scented water. Not all his magic was benign, though. Early in our stay, we bumped into walls built of crystal so clear that they were transparent, or tried vainly to open windows that were painted on. Several times we stepped into pools that were disguised as stretches of marble flooring and ruined our elaborate court attire. At those times I thought I heard Maya's disembodied, mocking laughter. But it all added to the allure of this place that was truly like no other.
I think this is a really interesting setup for a stepchild/stepmother dynamic: Once or twice I heard her laugh in delight as Sahadev or Nakul—strangely, they who were not born of her were her favorites—explained one of Maya's illusions to her.
This could be a really great trait for either a cool-headed, steady-handed protagonist, or a great villain: Or was she a better actress than I gave her credit for, biding her time, waiting for the mistakes she knew I'd make?
This passage is probably my favorite one I've stumbled across so far, and part of why I love it so much is that it can be spun off in so many different directions, so many different types of genres and interesting stories. Deconstructing "chosen one" tropes, a new take on the superhero genre in a Justice Lords kind of way—you name it: My husbands and I grew older, richer, more comfortable with our good fortune. And with each other, so that when at the end of a year I went from one bed to the next, it no longer caused us awkwardness. Trade and industry and art prospered in our city. Our reputation spread across kingdoms. Our subjects, flourishing, blessed us in their prayers. We held in our palms all the things we'd once longed for. But deep down, though no one would admit it, we were a little restless, a little bored. The current of destiny seemed to have flung us ashore and receded. Not knowing that it was gathering in a tidal wave, we chafed in our calmness, wondering if it would ever claim us again.
Narad is quite the character, too, and I think someone with his traits and hobbies could do well in either a fantasy or sci-fi adaptation (lately I've really been interested in transplanting high-fantasy tropes to a shiny, slick sci-fi setting): His favorite activity was to travel from court to court and world to world, collecting gossip and spreading mayhem. He had already contributed to the demise of several regimes, and was justly known as Narad Troublemaker. I wondered what he was planning.
While Krishna's burn here is kind of the stuff of legend, what I'm really interested in in this snippet is the way Krishna is so quick to defend Bheeshma, who he (and everyone else, even those not related to him) calls "the grandfather." I love the fact that while he never had any kids himself because of his vow, he's impacted enough people so strongly that he's commonly referred to as the grandfather, and that everyone (except for his many war enemies, anyway) is so quick to defend him: "I promised to forgive you a hundred insults," Krishna said to Sisupal, his voice conversational. "You crossed that number long ago, but I was patient, knowing that you weren't too skilled at counting." He waited until Sisupal's roar of rage died away. "This time you've gone too far, insulting the grandfather."
And while Krishna is a fascinating, complicated character in general, it's also interesting how the author occasionally slips in a line of dialogue or piece of characterization that's perfectly in keeping with his being a god/technically immortal, even though Draupadi doesn't pick up on it: Then his voice intruded into my reverie, laughter stitched into its edges, just as I'd feared. "You'd better not let my dead friends the Pandavas hear that! It could get me into a lot of trouble!"
"Can't you ever be serious?" I said, mortified.
"It's difficult," he said. "There's so little in life that's worth it."
I also love the idea that, piece by piece, we'll eventually see hidden depths to all the Pandava boys. We've seen it so far with Bheem and his cooking/his soft side in general, but this is the first time Yudhisthir has shown anything other than his reasonable, lead-brother persona. I think part of what makes it so interesting is that we always see him in the big-brother role, so seeing him want to bond with and impress Duryodhan makes him seem more childlike somehow, like a little brother trying to impress an older one: Perhaps also, stung by the distrust of our other guests and disappointed at the unpleasant end to the yagna he'd so looked forward to, he was gratified that Duryodhan courted his company. It pleased him to possess something his cousin admired, and he gave Duryodhan leave to wander where he wished.
As usual, Kunti proves why she's the defending champion as number-one queen in the land. Also, the idea of the MC's assistants/spies to be paid off to secretly be assisting/spying for someone else in the process is just too good: Not even an hour had passed after Duryodhan's mishap when Kunti summoned me to her quarters. (It made me wonder how many of my women she had bribed to be her informants.
And once again—last, but apparently never least—we have Karna and Duryodhan, partners in crime. I'm also always interested in inter-generational conflict that crops up when a darker new generation rises, and you see a little bit of a glimpse of that here: Dhritarashtra couldn't bear to oppose his favorite son, who would fly into a rage if contradicted and think nothing of insulting the old warriors who had kept the kingdom safe for him all these years. At such times, only Karna was able to calm him, but often he, too, was impatient with the cautious advice of the elders. Seeing this, the elders protected their own dignity and withdrew into silence. Each day they were more like ornate figureheads on a ship that had changed its course without their consent and was sailing into dangerous waters.
Bibliography: The Palace of Illusions, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.
Image Credit: Elderly Hand, by Witizia. Source: Pixabay.
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