The first bit that struck me came from the section of the Mahabharata when Draupadi and the Pandavas have to disguise themselves and work in the palace of another king, and Draupadi claims she's married to some gandharvas that watch over her. I think it could be an interesting, darker twist on the guardian angel trope, if I removed the love-interest aspect and narrowed it down to one of them: "What's that about your husbands? They're gandharvas, half-men, half-gods? You say they're watching you at all times, even though you've been cursed and must be separated from each other? They're powerful and extremely hot-tempered?"
When I read through the PDE version of the Mahabharata, which focused more on the actions of the characters than their feelings and perspectives, I always thought Bheem was Draupadi's favorite of her husbands. Though that's kind of undermined in The Palace of Illusions (in more ways than one), I still feel like their connection is strongest and most interesting when she goes to him for help against Keechak: Together we created the plan the would destroy Keechak without betraying my husbands. Really, with her brains and his brawn and dedication, they made a great team.
Of course, this would also make for the core of an interesting story, and it spins off into its own thing pretty easily: When they found his smashed body the next morning, word spread like fire. It was gandharva magic! What else could destroy one of the foremost warriors of Bharat? A weeping Sudeshna would have had me burned as a witch, but she was too afraid of my spirit-husbands.
I'm also a huge fan of the dynamic between Krishna and Draupadi—Krishna and Krishnaa—and you really see that he's just as fond of her once they're reunited after the year in disguise: Earlier today, meeting him after so long, I'd wept, and he'd dried my tears—and then his. Now he sat behind me, so close that I could feel his breath on my neck. From time to time, as we listened to the priests' drone, he whispered an irreverent comment, forcing me into laughter. I love how close they are, and how their friendship continues on without a hitch even after they're both married multiple times and have families and kingdoms of their own to rule.
This isn't exactly news, but I'm always a sucker for a good brother story, and Duryodhan's discussion of Balaram and his brother Krishna (and even D&D) really appealed to me: "I'm sure you're right: he thinks too highly of his brother's prowess. Can't blame him—they've been inseparable all through their lives, like Dussasan and myself. In any case, we've made our choice, and I never was one for doubting my decisions."
I think this idea of a character atoning for sins he hasn't yet committed is really compelling, too, almost in a Matt Murdock sort of way: But I knew Karna wasn't showing off—he had never cared to do so. Instead, by giving to the poor, he was atoning for his misdeeds and securing a place in heaven. No matter what he said to bolster Duryodhan's confidence, I could see that he didn't expect to live past the war. Nor—my heart constricted when I realized this—did he seem to want to do so.
Draupadi's tough-love, suck-it-up speech to the Pandavas when they had nightmares about the upcoming war with the Kauravas makes for a really interesting character sketch, too: "Of course there will be blood. Of course there will be death. As [warriors], isn't that what you've trained for all your lives? Are you afraid now?"
I think it could also be fun to do something with a character that's all made up of contradictions and internal conflicts, like this: Karna said nothing. Perhaps he wondered if Surya truly knew what his heart's desire was. So many yearnings clashed against each other inside him, he himself was no longer sure.
Also, because I'm a literal creature (I mean, figuratively), I found it really interesting when Draupaid mentioned that her daughter-in-law couldn't articulate her fears about the ear "because it might bring bad luck." The idea that fear can literally writhe around in the darkness and manifest itself as bad luck sounds like an entertaining concept to play around with.
The sense of foreboding here is perfect: I'd barely finished when a star detached itself from the black fabric of night and fell. My heart expanded at this good luck sign. The gods had answered me!
I should have remembered how tricky the gods are. How they give you what you want with one hand while taking away, with the other, something much more valuable. Yes, fame would come to both the young men, and bards would sing of their exploits oftener than they sang of their fathers'. But when they did so, listeners would turn away to hide their tears.
Bibliography: The Palace of Illusions, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.
Image Credit: Night Sky, by Mhy. Source: Pixabay.
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