After the war, when Yudhisthir falls into depression over both the war and the revelation that Karna had been his brother all along, Draupadi and his brothers take him to visit the grandfather to try to cheer him up. Based on what I remembered from the PDE Mahabharata, I wouldn't have figured Bheeshma would still be alive by this point, but I guess that's the nature of his curse, isn't it? I find that whole situation so fascinating—especially the way he technically received his death wound during the war, but because he can choose when he dies, he's still hanging around in great pain, technically dying the whole time.
In his discussion about "the art of kingship" to Yudhisthir, Bheeshma offers something that I find pretty interesting, and that I think could be a really fun plot point to work into a novel sometime: [A king] must cause dissections among the noblemen in his enemy's kingdom.
I also think a city with the vibe described here could be worth exploring in a fantasy world: The palace, which in Duryodhan's day had been filled with a frantic, garish energy...
The way so much characterization is accomplished just through some chairs is pretty impressive, too: Without them, we couldn't have borne the empty seats that stretched out on both sides of the throne, seats that—out of respect or guilt—Yudhisthir would leave unfilled. On the right, Bheeshma's; on the left, Drona's; in the raised alcove, the ornate throne specially carved for Duryodhan; next to his, severe in its simplicity, the chair Karna had once used.
I really love the dynamic between the Pandavas and Arjun's grandson, Pariksit, too. Because of the war, the Pandavas lost all their sons, and Pariksit lost his young dad. When Pariksit is born, though, Yudhisthir and his brothers take him one like a five-headed father figure: From the time Pariksit was in swaddling clothes, my husbands spent hours planning his education. They were determined to mold him into the perfect king, the one in whose hands they could leave Hastinapur without worry, the one who would redeem their sins with his goodness. As soon as he could stand, Bheem began to teach him the first moves of wrestling; Arjun had an infant-sized bow designed for him; Nakul sat him on his favorite horse and walked him around the courtyard; Sahadev taught him how to speak to animals; and Yudhisthir told him stories about the lives of saints. For his naming ceremony, they invited all the important sages and gave away more wealth than they could afford. They begged Vyasa to officiate at the ceremony and then pestered him to tell the child's future until he admitted to them that Pariksit would be a powerful and virtuous king.
Vyasa's sly, tricky delivery of his riddles is always interesting, but especially here, when it looks like the Pandava line really is cursed to repeat its own doom: But before he left, Vyasa drew me aside. "Watch the boy's temper," he said. "It'll get him into trouble if he's not careful."
My mouth went dry. "What do you mean?"
Vyasa shrugged. "Just what I said: the boy's temper might be his downfall."
A pounding began in my head. Here was history, repeating itself once again. But this time I wouldn't let Vyasa's riddles ruin Pariksit's life. I grabbed his arm, though I knew it was most inappropriate for a woman to touch a sage. "Speak clearly for once."
And young Pariksit seems like a pretty promising character himself: He had the gift—like his granduncle Krishna—of giving his undivided and courteous attention to whomever he was with, making them feel he loved them especially.
And: Pariksit had one intriguing habit: if he came across someone new, he would approach him and gaze intently in his eyes. Once I asked him why,
"I'm trying to find someone," he said shyly. "I don't know who he is. He was the most beautiful person I've ever seen—except he wasn't really a person. He as tiny, about as big as your thumb. His skin was a beautiful, shiny blue. He stood between me and a huge burst of fire and smiled—and the fire faded. Maybe it was just a dream."
I stared at him in wonder, this child who'd been brushed by the elusive Mystery I'd been trying to grasp all my life.
Kunti, too, proved a compelling character right up till the end, and I like how she carefully manipulated things one last time to have her own way, leave behind not just a legacy but a living ghost: She smiled and shook her head and gave us her blessings. She allowed my husbands to escort her to the hermitage so that they wouldn't worry overmuch. But she didn't explain her decisions, choosing instead to remain an enigma that would haunt her sons. Is it ungracious of me to think that she knew, by doing so, that she would remain in their minds long after she was dead?
Everything about Chapter 41, "Reed," is perfect—the way Ghandari's curse on Krishna's clan finally played out, twenty-five years later, after it had been forgotten, and the ominous, eerie aftermath explained by a hollowed-out Arjun, were all really, really great storytelling. It's a great example of how to handle a slow-burn curse, and how to build up mood and foreboding in a short, simple way.
And then there's the final journey taken by the Pandavas and Draupadi: the path of the great departure. There are several things I love and find really inspiring about it:
The way Draupadi insisted on accompanying her husbands there, even though they asked her not to and it wasn't a wife's place: I would rather perish on the mountain. It would be sudden and clean, an end worthy of bard-song, my last victory over the other wives: She was the only consort that dared accompany the Pandavas on this final, fearsome adventure. When she fell, she did not weep, but only raised her hand in brave farewell.
The idea of the mountain's mortal veil: The sages had old us that the road ended upon a sacred peak, a place where earth met the abode of the gods. There a man who was pure enough could push past the veil that separated the worlds and enter heaven.
The way Draupadi recognizes that it's such a Yudhisthir thing to attempt: When he heard of the veil that could be crossed, Yudhisthir's eyes sparked with an interest I hadn't seen in them for a long time. I knew what he wanted: to enter heaven in human flesh! It was the latest of the impractical goals he'd run after all his life, with us in tow.
This interpretation of Yudhisthir, after Draupadi first fell behind and Bheem started to turn to help her, but Yudhisthir reminded him that they weren't allowed to turn back: Resentment flared through me. Rules were always more important to Yudhisthir than human pain—or human love. I knew then that he alone would reach the gate of heaven, for among us only he was capable of shedding his humanity.
The way this last memory makes it seem like maybe Draupadi and Bheem were the Pandava power couple after all: On the nearest mountain, the snow had turned the color of the lotus I'd once made Bheem pluck for me. I hoped he recognized it and rejoiced in what we'd been: the strongest man in the world, who for the sake of love rushed into danger; the woman born of fire whose glance had the power to make him smolder with imprudence. It was a good memory on which to end a life.
Or when Draupadi fell for good this time: When I stepped from the path into the air, I heard my husbands cry out. As I fell, behind me there was a confused commotion. Bheem, I guessed, was scuffling with Yudhisthir, trying to get past him to me. But Yudhisthir would win, as he always did, because Kunti, in her efforts to ensure their survival, had trained his younger brothers to obey him without question.
The mention of Karna: Perhaps that was why, when the thought can, I did not try to push it away: Karna would never had abandoned me thus. He would have stayed back and held my hand until we both perished. He would have happily given up heaven for my sake.
When Yudhisthir, in revealing Draupadi's fatal flaw that held her back on the mountain, also revealed that he'd known all along that she loved Karna more than any of her husbands—but lied to cover for her: Yudhisthir let his words out in a rush. "Arjun. It was Arjun. She cared most for him."
He had spared me. He'd chosen kindness over truth and uttered, for the sake of my reputation, the second lie of his lifetime!
Thus in my dying hour Yudhisthir proved that he had loved me all along. In doing so, he left me at once grateful and ashamed for the many bitter words I'd directed at him, and those I'd held festering inside.
And then, last of all, there's the final fate of the Pandavas: "What are the flaws that will cause the rest of us to fall?" Bheem asked.
"Sahadev's is pride in his learning, Nakul's is vanity for his good looks, Arjun's is his warrior's ego, and yours is your inability to control yourself when you are angry." Yudhisthir spoke calmly as always, but this time I caught the sadness beneath. It was a lonely life he'd led all these years, set apart even from those he loved most by his passion for righteousness. I'd been foolish to let it infuriate me, to wish that he would give up his stiff, silly principles. Righteousness was his nature. He couldn't give it up any more than a tiger can give up its stripes. And because of it he would go on, abandoning his dearest ones in the moment of their death, to the ultimate loneliness: to be the only human in the court of the gods.
Bibliography: The Palace of Illusions, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.
Image Credit: Veiling Background, by Joggie. Source: Pixabay.
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