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.
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