The first snippet I'm taking inspiration from comes from this exchange between Draupadi and Karna, after Y has gambled them away: He looked back at me, his eyes steady. There was a waiting look on his face. I knew what he wanted: for me to fall on my knees and beg him for mercy. He would have protected me then. He had the reputation of helping the destitute. But I wouldn't lower myself to that, not if I died. I think it could be interesting to do a story involving a secondary character who's known for his generosity and helpfulness, when really, he's a cold bargainer who trades in complicated, intangible things.
There's also this, which could be a compelling character core for any kind of story: Is the desire for vengeance stronger than the longing to be loved? What evil magic does it possess to draw the human heart powerfully to it?
I'm also really interested in Draupadi's (admittedly biased) perceptions of why her husbands didn't rush forward and save her (it also reminds me of some of the lyrics to "Lydia" by Highly Suspect): I'd believed that because they loved me they would do anything for me. But now I saw that though they did love me—as much perhaps as any man can love—there were other things they loved more. Their notions of honor, of loyalty toward each other, of reputation were more important to them than my suffering. They would avenge me, yes, but only when they felt the circumstances would bring them heroic fame. A woman doesn't think that way. I would have thrown myself forward to save them if it had been in my power that day.
I would also kind of love to write a story around this, from Draupadi talking about Karna spurring Dussasan on: He knew he would regret it—in his fierce smile there had already been a glint of pain.
It could also be a ton of fun to build a crime story around this character: I'd thought myself above the cravings [for vengeance] that drove [my father]. But I, too, was tainted with them, vengeance encoded into my blood.
Draupadi's confession here is pretty compelling, too: "I know you want me to drop my hatred, Krishna," I whispered. "It's the one thing you've asked me for. But I can't. Even if I wanted to, I don't know how anymore."
This new perspective on Bheem is fitting but still fresh, and could make for an interesting character dynamic as well: He wasn't deft with words like Yudhisthir, who could hold forth on philosophy for hours. He wasn't witty like the twins or declamatory like Arjun. But when we were alone, he told me things he'd never told anyone, acting out with gestures events for which he could not find expressions. His enemies, who knew him only as a whirlwind, single-minded and destructive, would have been astonished to see it.
Also, while Bheem's always been my favorite Pandava and I always thought his episode with the serpent king and the underworld was interesting, it's never had so many small, fascinating details ripe for spinning off: He fell for days through wetness into the underworld... [The snakes around him] bit him, as snakes are won't to do. Their poison canceled Duryodhan's. He sat up on a floor of green silt. Lazily, he took hold of a snake—two, three, twenty—and flung them to destruction. Someone informed the god of snakes. He rushed to kill the monster-child who was wreaking havoc among his subjects. What did he see that made him take the boy upon his lap instead and give him elixir to drink? And why did Bheem, the poisoned one, trust the king-god with his blue, striated face? He drank; the strength of a thousand elephants entered his body; the king released him into the currents that would lift him to the surface of the river so that he could go on to the heroism he was destined for.
"I didn't want to leave," Bheem told me. "When he held me in his arms, it was so much sweeter than my mother's hugs, or my brothers'. In fact, I'd forgotten them already. I clutched the king's hand and cried, Keep me with you. He closed his glowing eyes and shook his head. But before he pushed me upward, he gave me a kiss."
He held out his left hand and I saw what I'd never noticed before, a tiny red mark on the back of the hand, like a flower with two stamens, or a snake's forked tongue.
I also think this concept of dream seepage could be pretty special in its own way: 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.
Also, while I generally think Arjun is overrated, I find his sharp-jawed steeliness pretty compelling (and it reminds me here a little bit of Glen Murakami's Robin, if he'd been crossed with some of Jason Todd's destructiveness): 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?
Bibliography: The Palace of Illusions, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.
Image Credit: Dark River, by Pexels. Source: Pixabay.
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