Reading Notes: The Missing Queen, Part B

I love this concept of a bridge stretching all the way across an ocean—it’s such a striking image, and it has a lot of interesting implications for the other world-building elements that would come along with it: A white bridge snaking over miles and miles of foam-crested waves, dwindling over the distance until it disappears into the horizon.... a bridge that spans the breadth of the ocean.
Again with the interesting world-building, but I especially love the blood-and-bone bridge tidbit: A bridge of war, death and defeat. A bridge of blood and bone.

I think part of why this is such an interesting question to me is that the way it’s posed is both very direct and carefully indirect. But beyond that, it’s a great hook, and all of the different directions you could take this dream thing are really compelling: ‘Do you believe in dreams?’

I also dig this dynamic between a jailer/guard and a criminal/prisoner: ‘Not many people knew, or were perceptive enough to notice. But I spent years with her as her jailer. I think I knew her better than anyone else.’

I’m a fan of the way this long-awaited moment ended up twisted into something so unexpectedly awful, too. Way to play with expectations: 'There was nothing beautiful. Even when Ram and Sita finally came together… that was a terrible moment. Full of hate and anger.’

And then, finally, there’s the way the author continues to play with the hero/villain duality of the way a leader of one side of a war is viewed and portrayed: ...realizing that the artfully depicted subject of the portrait is his brother, the infamous Ravana, an image so much at odds with the pictures one finds in Ayodhya. The movies, the photographs, the recreated, dramatized versions of the Lankan war portray a sinister and evil Ravana, shoulders hunched, an eerie light glinting in his eyes, mouth bared in a fiendish grin. Here, he is noble – a soldier and philosopher; an immaculately dressed gentlemen; thinker and a man of strength, who takes pleasure in beautiful things. A complex character.

Bibliography: The Missing Queen, by Samhita Arni.

Image Credit: Ocean, by Unsplash. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: The Missing Queen, Part A

I think the idea of an antihero (or even former villain) ally or contact like Kaikeyi could be a really compelling side character, or even a main character in the right kind of story with the right kind of trappings: ‘No one’s asked me that before. There’s been a deluge of reporters in this house since then, but they’ve never been interested. They’ve always only wanted the malicious, vindictive queen, Kaikeyi.’ She cackles, her brilliant, polished white teeth glimmering.

I also think this concept of a queen being the shadow ruler is really promising, pulling the strings on her puppet husband—and the charioteer queen thing is just plain rad: ‘He could barely make a decision – it was I who had to guide him! Me! And even in war, I had to be there. Strategizing, whispering orders to him, to relay to his troops. I was there – check your archives. They called me “the charioteer queen”, like the queens of old who drove their husbands into battle.’

I love the hard, clean motivation here, how it makes Kaikeyi feel like an Indian-epic Kingpin or something: She turns to face me, her gleaming eyes the only source of light in her shadowed face. ‘I wanted to create the Ayodhya that I dreamed about, a nation unlike any other that existed in India.’The idea of a person being a noble hero at the cost of being a decent person is a great hook, too: Her voice is weary. ‘As for Ram, he is a living god to the people of Ayodhya. He holds himself to an impossible standard. He is a visionary in that sense. But he can’t see beyond himself – he’s obsessed with his actions, with his nature… striving to be the ideal. That can be another form of cruelty. He was cruel to his father, mother, me, his brothers and his wife.’

My favorite thing about this book, easily, is the way it transports all the trappings of the Ramayana to the modern world, like Michael Almereyda’s 2000 film version of Hamlet. This reads like a fallen Kennedy/Camelot saga: Ram’s wife is an enigma. He fought a war to win her back from Ravana, the king of Lanka, and brought her home to Ayodhya. I had seen the old film strip so many times. The images of Ram and Sita entering the city in a Cadillac, waving to admiring crowds. I had been there myself – a child, twelve or thirteen years old, seeing the young, shining couple for the first time. I remember being disappointed by Sita. Her legendary, dangerous beauty had faded with years in captivity.... Months later, she left. Rumors abounded.... And Ram had never taken another wife, much to Ayodhya’s disappointment.
This is often used as a trope for epic fantasy stories about royalty, but if freshened up with different genre elements and a new angle, I think it could still end up being an interesting dynamic for someone other than the MC—whether a friend or relative or enemy: ‘Ram had a higher calling—to serve his nation. That took priority over all his personal interests. And he’s done a damn good job of it too.’

Initially, I was thinking figuring out the emotional core issue/crux of this decision to stay could make for an interesting short story. But really, I think it could make for a great inciting incident/kick-off point for the bigger plot of a novel, too: Hanuman parachuted into Lanka to rescue her. She refused to leave with him. Why?

This raises a really interesting point, curse aside, and I like the idea of humanizing the literally-demonized Big Bad: ‘If it is as she claimed, Ravana must have been a gentlemen and not the villain he’s been made out to be, if he never touched her against her will in ten years.’

This one has so much potential—plant it in a genre setting, and I’m already sold: ...all these people who have been through dreadful things in their childhood, and have suppressed their memory. Then go in for hypnosis, and it all comes out.

Again, the promise of this mystery is really compelling, and I think the fact that this one’s just old enough to have been partially forgotten makes it even stronger: ‘Something never seemed right to me about it all. It always felt like either Sita wasn’t telling the whole truth, or a piece of the puzzle was missing... But does it really matter now?’

The way this plays with normal concepts of royalty is very nice: Her father was a king, but king of a small, impoverished kingdom where kings are little more than farmers, ploughing their own fields.

This comes from the cover of the authorized biography of Rama, featuring a great, flattering picture of him and a background with Lakshmana. I find the brotherly dynamic here, that codependent package-deal thing, really interesting: In the distance, the blurred figure of Lakshman is visible, many metres away. But, I can’t help noticing, Sita is not there.

I’m also a fan of the way this modern society has built up and sort of already mythologized Ravana enough that even cartoon villains call back to him: ...an old classic is playing: The Demon King. A crumbling hoarding displays a fiendish villain, who bears a striking resemblance to the late Ravana, despite the addition of bulging muscles, curving horns and talons.

The Swan Princess-like magical aspect of spells wearing off only at night is one of those oldie-but-goodie classics: An evil demon king rules over the forest, and under his tyranny, the sentient animals and trees of the forest are silent and immobile by day, but enjoy freedom at night.

Here, it’s not so much Sita’s difference from the others that interests me, but those others themselves—the demon wives: He’s fascinated by the young bride: she’s very different from his demonic wives. Intrigued by her frail beauty, he begins to stalk her.

I’m also intrigued by the idea of some kind of curse that keeps a villain within certain lines—not the same kind as seen here, but just in general: The demon king scoffs at this, but doesn’t take advantage of her because he’s been cursed by a yogini that if he ever takes advantage of an unwilling woman, he will die.

I’m a big fan of this concept, too—how it plays with the power of stories, and how they can influence and even make up society: I’ve seen and read and heard this story a hundred – no, maybe even a thousand – times, in newspapers, in the cinema, in advertisements, in books. There’s only one story worth telling in Ayodhya – the story of Ram, Sita and Ravana. The populace has lost its taste for anything else, anything different. This is the only tale that holds their interest. It’s the greatest tale ever told, and better still, it’s true. Real. It has heroism, beauty, love, ugliness, war, blood and loss – everything we need. We cannot accept anything different. It has crossed over the boundaries of the merely real, and been spun into fantasy. It is a fairy tale now. It is the monolith on which our state and our beliefs are built.
    But is that what really happened?

I’m not a big fan of romance, but I do find couples doomed for unhappy endings interesting—not in a Romeo and Juliet way, but Daisy and Gatsby, Jake and Brett Ashley. This example especially reminds me of Joel and Clementine from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind: It had been so difficult. Those years were so difficult – exile, war, coming back. You know… sometimes, people change, places change. We changed… time does that. She wasn’t happy here, so she left. I don’t know why… but she left.’

I also love the idea of a character who fills the role of villain pretty nicely, but is also so honest that he can’t really be completely faulted, either: The powers-that-be are not pleased!’
    ‘Who are the powers-that-be? Ram?’ I pause and think. I don’t believe he would ask for my resignation. Ram is just too damned honest.
    ‘No. Not Ram.’

This setting, the milieu of it, are totally up my storytelling alley: He smiles wryly and leaves me alone with my drink.
    I look around the bar. The seamy, unacknowledged, underbelly of our vigorously glorious state. It’s typically dark, so as to be unnoticeable from outside. Packing crates and sackcloth lie in wait in one black corner, in case of a surprise moral police patrol. A mixture of needs – outlawed cravings, illicit thrills, depression and loneliness – brings the crowd in every night. Everyone is nervous and shifty, eyeing their neighbours warily. Most of us keep to ourselves, but I recognize some of the faces scattered around the room. Mobsters and criminals rub shoulders with bleary-eyed bureaucrats and famous television actors.

This sounds like the perfect motivation for a really fun antivillain/villain-as-hero story: ‘...all we’ll ever be are footnotes or villains in history textbooks.’

Same as above: 'Kaikeyi wasn’t half bad – she was a mean old thing, but she wasn’t the tyrant she’s been made out to be. So you know, I wonder… about Ravana too. You know, they say, the victors write history. But I wonder what it looks like to the losers?’

Again, I love this take on a more nuanced, complex Ravana, and I think it’s a great villain blueprint: ‘I was surprised by Ravana. He was… unexpectedly gentle. Courteous, even. He remembered my father fondly – the only chief who had, until then, ever defeated him. They had been so impressed with each other that they had sworn lifelong friendship… He told me that I was like my father. He… he…’ he hesitates, and then whispers across the table, ‘he told me that my duty was to avenge my father’s death, not to side with his killers.’

I’m also intrigued by this idea of a Boogeyman-like horror figure actually being a sort of hero who protects or defends or ruthlessly cleans up a town. Kind of like some versions of the Headless Horseman, I guess: The Washerman. The stuff of nightmares, a myth turned into flesh. He is the one who stalks the streets of Ayodhya at night, dealing with crime and vice, making our city pure, white and clean.




Bibliography: The Missing Queen, by Samhita Arni.

Image Credit: Dark Indoors, by Pexels. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: 7 Secrets from Hindu Calendar Art, Part C

The first thing that caught my interest about this video was its explanation of the Hindu concept of the embodiment of divinity: “For most Hindus, God is best embodied in the form of three human couples: Brahma and Saraswati, Vishnu and Lakshmi, Shiva and Shakti.” I think it’s interesting that their highest concept of divinity comes in the form of something as mortal as humans—and beyond that, something as human as couples. There are a lot of fascinating contradictions there that I think could lend themselves well to story world-building.

Then, of course, there’s the idea of the Big Three: Brahma the creator, Vishnu the sustainer, and Shiva the destroyer. Kind of like Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon being the big three, but despite the fact that that trio is composed of brothers, I actually find this one more compelling. I think it’s the way their three domains are so tightly linked and interconnected, yet how each one of those domains tells you something about the being in charge of it.

I also really dug this quote: “That is why this material word of changing forms is often referred to as maya, the embodiment of delusion. She is the world that we experience. As she keeps changing, we struggle to control her, hold her still and make her permanent, but we fail, for her essential nature is to transform.” It seems like one of those themes that would work well if you could find a way to translate it literally into a plot obstacle, rather than using it as the actual, obvious theme and run the risk of preaching it.

More than any of the others, I think Shiva could inspire the basis of a pretty compelling character. I think I might prefer it in the vague sense, which leaves more room open for interpretation—Shiva the destroyer, just in general—though the more detailed account of his purpose in destroying is interesting too: “Shiva destroys our desire for life; he destroys our fear of death; he destroys our need for the world around us.”

This point about ash symbolism is valuable for storytelling in general: “Ash is the symbol of destruction as well as permanence, for it is created by burning things but cannot be burnt itself. Thus it is also the symbol of the immortal soul, released when matter is destroyed.”

Which connects back to the Shiva thing through: “Shiva is smeared with three lines of ash oriented horizontally. These refer to the three destroyed worlds.”

And then, finally, there’s the dynamic between Shiva and Kali, which I find really interesting and worth exploring: “How does [Shiva] destroy? By shutting his eyes, refusing to be an observer, hence not creating an observation.... God needs goddess. The destroyer thus must be made to open his eyes. That is why the goddess transforms into her most primal form, Kali, and dances on Shiva.... Kali wants Shiva to value material reality and care for it. She wants him to open his eyes and become the observer.... Kali is movement, Shiva is stillness.... This form of the goddess... [is the one] who embodies the beauty of the three worlds, the very same worlds that Shiva destroyed, whose ash smears his forehead.... Shiva needs to be engaged with the world and marry the goddess. He is becoming Shankara, more aligned with the ways of the world.”

Bibliography: "7 Secrets from Hindu Calendar Art, Chapters 3 and 4," by Epified. Source: YouTube.

Image Credit: Cigarettes and Ash, by geralt. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: The Palace of Illusions, Part H

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.

Reading Notes: The Palace of Illusions, Part G

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.

Reading Notes: 7 Secrets from Hindu Calendar Art, Part A

For the extra reading this week, I decided to start the "Secrets from Hindu Calendar Art" series on Epified. First up, it's all about Ganesha's secret.

One thing that struck me as interesting—and potentially useful for world-building—is the idea in Hindu religion that divinity "is not restricted to a singular idea—there are gods and goddesses, who are individually pieces of a jigsaw puzzle called God." I think part of why I think this has so much story potential is that it allows for both petty power struggles and in-fighting among those gods and goddesses, but also a bottom line: if they all want to survive, they're going to have to pull through and do it as a unit. Neil Gaiman's American Gods is on my TBR list, and I haven't started it yet, but this kind of reminds me of my preconceived notions of that somehow.

I'm also pretty intrigued by Shiva's non-elephant son, Kartikeya. His godly role is to "[lead] other gods in battles against demons," which sounds promising. I also think it could be interesting just to set up a royal family hierarchy that way: maybe the parent, once he's semi-retired, sits back and rules the kingdom he's got, while it's up to the kid(s) to go out and conquer more land for him to rule, or to protect what the family's already claimed. Paying your dues, in a way—all guts, no glory.

I'd also be completely down for a character redemption arc or even backstory inspired by this: "Some demons, like Mani, who ask for repentance, become deities in their own right..."

The video also raises the idea that local heroes became "village-gods" to their own people, deified by legend of their deeds. I think it's interesting how that speaks to legends of superhuman kings like Arthur, Glendower, and Beowulf, and there's some story potential with that, I think.

It also presents an interesting view of Greek mythology's pantheon: "The gods of Greek Mythology became masters of the universe by overthrowing the Titans, an earlier race of powerful beings, who in turn had become powerful by overthrowing the Giants."




Bibliography: "7 Secrets from Hindu Calendar Art - Chapter 1: Ganesha's Secret," by Epified TV. Source: YouTube.

Image Credit: Book Printing, by wilhei. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: The Palace of Illusions, Part F

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.

Reading Notes: The Palace of Illusions, Part E

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.

Reading Notes: The Palace of Illusions, Part D

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.

Reading Notes: The Palace of Illusions, Part C

The first excerpt that caught my eye from this week's reading revolved around an exchange between Draupadi and Kunti, right after the two first met. I recognized, too, the thinly veiled insult in Kunti's words. This woman, as though I were a nameless servant. It angered me, but it also hurt. From the stories I'd heard about Kunti, I'd admired her. I'd imagined that if she did indeed become my mother-in-law, she would love me as a daughter. Now I saw how naive I'd been. A woman like her would never tolerate anyone who might lure her sons away. With every new thing I learn about Kunti, the more I love the idea of recasting her as the steely, calculating matriarch of a crime family.

My second note also involves the mother and daughter-in-law, when Draupadi has first come to live in the Pandavas' brahmin hut and is struggling to pass the cooking test that Kunti has set her up to fail. Kunti sweetly notes that Draupadi's a complete failure at cooking, which makes sense, considering that she's a pampered princess. Instead of lashing out like Kunti wants her to, Draupadi recognizes that Kunti's baiting her, and instead replies sweetly, "Respected mother, being so much younger, I know my culinary skills can't equal yours. But it's my duty to relieve you of your burdens whenever possible." All throughout their early days together, the two are constantly engaged in a series of mind games, passive-aggressively trying to push each other to the brink. I think it could be fun to do a story involving a couple of similarly passive-aggressive enemies, forced to team up and being oh-so-courteous even while they're trying to find loopholes to work against each other. Kind of like Ilya and Solo in U.N.C.L.E., actually.

Also, this is a pretty fascinating character hook/setup, from the end of a dream scene Draupadi has involving an insect in the lac house: (And I? I died. No need to mourn me. My work was done.)

It could also be interesting to play with this idea, keep it in mind while building a landscape/setting around a character. I'd have to find a meaningful way to work it into the story, like the Palace of Depression junkyard in Eddie and the Cruisers, but if I could, it might be worthwhile: For isn't that what our homes are ultimately, our secret selves exposed? The converse is also true: we grow to become that which we live within. That was one of the reasons why I longed to escape my father's walls. (But—unknown to me—by the time I left, it was too late. The creed he lived by was already stamped onto my soul.)

Once again, Kunti is a really compelling character, both as a mother figure and just as herself: He said: "When she realized that Duryodhan had offered us this holiday at Varanavat in order to kill us, our mother went into her chambers and wept for a day and a night.
    "We paced outside her room, not knowing what to do. She'd always been so strong, our foundation stone. When she came out, we rushed to comfort her. But her eyes were dry. She said to us, I've used up all the tears of my life so that they will not distract me again." Something tells me Dean Winchester would love to sign the heck up for this aggressive new form of repression.

You see more of that signature steel here, as well as an unflinching ruthlessness that's all the more interesting because she shows it's not that she doesn't care about guilt and selling her soul to do it—just that she's squared her shoulders and accepted that fate: "When they were asleep, she asked us to set the house on fire. We saw the perfection in her plan: the nishads' charred skeletons would be taken for ours; Duryodhan would believe he had succeeded in ridding himself of us. But we were distraught, too. They were our guests. They'd eaten our food; they'd gone to sleep trusting us. To kill them would be a great sin.
    "Our mother looked us in the eye. I drugged the wine, she said. They'll feel no pain. As for the sin of killing them, I swear it will not touch you. I take it all on myself. For the safety of my children, I'll gladly forgo heaven."

I also love the almost Machiavellian edge to both female Pandavas' motivations, as seen here. And I also love that because of that edge, they'll never quite be able to trust each other, either, even as similar as they are: For by this time Kunti and I (yoked together uneasily by our desire for Pandava glory) had frozen into our stance of mutual distrust.

At one point, the threat of a blood threat between families also crops up, and I think that could be interesting to work with. In a way that's more me than, say, Romeo and Juliet, obviously.

There's also this line, which appeals really strongly to my personal storytelling id list: Family loyalty was what had saved the Pandavas all these precarious years.

I loved how meta this line was, and how it can be interpreted and relaunched in so many different directions, all of them with a ton of potential: "Let them go... Besides, how long can you keep them cloistered? They're heroes, after all."

This section caught my interest because it helped me consider palace life in general in a different way than I ever have: sort of one sprawling, messy, never-ending extended family reunion. No wonder there's always so much royal drama: There were endless banquets among the extended family (the Kauravas loved to carouse) that I was expected to attend (appropriately veiled and chaperoned), though I had to leave these gatherings, along with the other wives, before the drinking and gaming started and matters grew interesting. Afternoons, Kunti would drag me with her to visit the other women in the palace. At these gatherings, the women spent much time in casual display of jewelry and clothing, or in making discreet references to their husbands' feats.

Also, I love how Gandhari is essentially an Indian-epic Scott Summers crossed with Josh Foley: She went on to tell me how some god, pleased by Gandhi's devotion to her husband, had granted her a boon. If she ever took off her blindfold and looked at someone, she could heal him—or burn him to cinders.

As ever, I still love the friendship between Karna and Duryodhan, and I think it could be really great if applied to a different story about a couple of princes going around and shirking their responsibilities as long as they can—sort of a princely/fantasy Ferris Bueller's Day Off, if you can dig that: The one man I hadn't seen since I came to Hastinapur was Karna. I knew that at the request of Duryodhan, who considered him his closest friend, Karna spent much of the year in Hastinapur, leaving Anga in the care of his ministers.

Again, at the risk of broken-record syndrome, I think Kunti is such a cool, cool character study: From the way his voice dipped low I knew what he'd never admit: throughout their childhood my husbands were famished for affection. Kunti had given them her entire steely devotion, but no tenderness. Perhaps she'd cut it out of her nature when she was left in the forest widowed and alone. Perhaps that was the only way she knew how to survive.

I've also been wanting to do a strong protagonist-grandparent dynamic for a while now, and something inspired by Bheeshma might be the perfect opportunity: Then Bheeshma entered their lives with his large lion's laugh. He carried them on his shoulders and hid sweetmeats in his room for them to find. He told them wondrous, terrifying stories late into the night. He praised their small achievements, which Kunti failed to notice, and bought them toys as good as the ones Duryodhan wouldn't share. When Kunti caned them for waywardness, he secretly rubbed salve on their cuts.


Bibliography: The Palace of Illusions, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.

Image Credit: Blindfold, by BarnImages. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: The Palace of Illusions, Part B

When Draupadi meets her long-lost sibling Sikhandi (the reincarnated Amba), he tells her his history and about how he came to be a man: No, I didn't pray to the gods to be changed. I lost faith in them a lifetime ago. This time I invoked a yaksha. He appeared in the sky with his burning demon sword. When he heard what I wanted, he laughed and plunged it into me. The pain was unbearable. I fainted. And when she woke up, she'd gotten her wish. There are plenty of interesting details here, like the demon's response to the wish or the way he used his sword to grant it, but I think the most striking detail is in Sikhandi's personality—in the fact that she didn't even bother going to the gods with her wish, but instead went straight to the demons. Because she knew she knew not to like them or trust them, but it's like that in itself made them more trustworthy—she knew what she was getting with them, and she knew exactly how much it would ruin her. Like I said: interesting.

I was also really intrigued by Sikhandi's relationship with the rest of his family. He's the long-estranged son returning home, black sheep of the family, but Drupad has to at least go through the motions of welcoming him back to save face. There's a lot of tension there, and a lot of history to go with it: King Drupad had invited Sikhandi to stay with him, but Sikhandi politely excused himself. (Drupad tried, unsuccessfully, to disguise his relief at this.) However, when Sikhandi said that he would like to stay with my brother and me instead, I sensed our father's uneasiness. Perhaps he was worried that Sikhandi would be a corrupting influence! But I was delighted. Something about Sikhandi drew me to him... He bore his destiny so casually, it made me worry less about Dhri's and mine. I love this idea of the black-sheep, no-good, supposedly bad-seed older brother coming home despite his dad's wishes, and shaking up the whole family order, changing how the younger sibling sees the world and his dad and himself.

That said, because I'm a sucker for sibling dynamics in general, I really loved the one between Sikhandi, Dhri, and Draupadi—Divakaruni develops it so efficiently and seemingly effortlessly, till it feels like Sikhandi has always been part of the group: We whiled away his short visit in eating and storytelling and playing at dice (for Dhri had taught me this most unladylike pastime). We laughed a great deal, often at the littlest things. I composed poems and riddles to entertain my brothers and watch as they practiced with swords.

Then there's this little gem, in an exchange between Dhri and Sakhandi: Dhri bested Sakhandi easily, then asked with concern, "How are you going to defeat Bheesma?"
    "I don't have to defeat him," Sakhandi said. "I just have to kill him." Let's just make it clear once and for all: besides being a compelling character study, Sakhandi is just plain awesome.

Finally, as my last Sakhandi note, there's the fact that he refuses his siblings' nice parting gifts, because he explains that he's got to take up his penance. They protest, saying that if anybody owes penance, it's all the people who've wronged him. But no. Sakhandi says that he's going to kill Bheesma, the greatest warrior of their time, and that that's a big sin: "It's worse when it's done through trickery—and that's what I'll have to resort to, because I certainly don't have the skill to achieve it otherwise. I'm atoning for it in advance, as it's very likely that I, too, will die in the process." There are a lot of things I love about this—the flat-out acknowledgement (and acceptance) that he won't be able to fight fair and still achieve his goals, the plans for trickery—but more than anything else, I love the fact that he's starting his penance now, atoning for the kill in advance. A downpayment on his sins. There's something slightly Matt Murdock about it, if Matt had become a rough-and-tumble hitman instead of a masked do-gooder, and I'm a fan of everything about it. That's a fascinating character, and one I'd like to get to know. So that's probably one of the strongest story seeds I've been drawn to all semester.

Moving on to other characters now, I was also really interested in Draupadi's reflection on her dad's outlook, and on what a good king but terrible dad that would make Drupad: "Power—that's all he cares about, not his children.... Why won't you ever admit the truth?" I spoke bitterly. "We're nothing but pawns for King Drupad to sacrifice when it's most to his advantage." I think, if spun off in a slightly different direction, with a different perspective and different trappings, that could be a pretty interesting story in its own right. The kids of a chessmaster king, cold and calculating, raising himself an army of kids and doomed heirs to wield like weapons. Collect 'em all, then divide and conquer.

I'm also a fan of this thought Draupadi has about her brother's eventual fate, and think it could make for the great core of a character: I wondered if it would break him or harden him, and which would be worse.

Already, this book has already made me view Kunti differently, and definitely with more respect: Kunti, devastated though she must have been by both her husband's death and his last act, gathered all her willpower. She brought the five princes back to Hastinapur, making no distinction between her own children and those of her rival. She was determined that no one would cheat them out of her inheritance. For years she struggled, a widow alone and in disfavor, to keep them safe in Dhritarashtra's court until finally, now, they were grown. A matriarch like that—all jagged edges and flint soul—would raise such a strong, interesting family, and probably wouldn't have many qualms about doing whatever she has to to claw her clan's way to the top. It makes me think of the mom from Sons of Anarchy or even Animal Kingdom, and I think the whole thing's worth considering through a genre bent.

This makes me think of Ozymandias from Watchmen, and in my book, interpreting it as a very intentional act makes the whole thing that much more worth investigating: "Too few [good kings]," she said, "and they're tired with fighting. In this Third Age of Man, the good are mostly weak. That is why the earth needs the Great War, so she can start over."

Also, I think this could be really promising interpreted in a witchy/supernatural way: Still others whispered their discontent into their sleeping husbands' ears all night, so that the men, waking in the morning, acted out the anger that festered within their wives.

I taked in my previous post about the tight bond between the fire-twins, but it's worth noting again how well Divakaruni makes that clear not only through Draupadi's explanations, but by Dhri's actions, too: "He's old!" I whispered to Dhri in distaste....
    My even-tempered brother shrugged.... "But he's no danger to us. He's not going to win."
    I appreciated Dhri's choice of a pronoun that coupled our fates, but I found slim comfort in his confidence.

Also, a king like this is just dying to get the spotlight in a spec-fic story: Jarasandha, king of Magadhi, with his live-coal eyes. (I'd heard Dhri's tutor say he kept a hundred defeated kings in a labyrinth under his palace.)

This one's short and random, but the phrasing of it caught my imagination: when the portrait artist is unveiling all the suitors' portraits to Draupadi, he describes Duryodhan's as including the crown prince, plus "the scions of his court."

Since Karna's my favorite character from any of the epics, it's probably unsurprising that this snippet caught my eye. But really, it interests me more for the potential of becoming something else: For the first time, I was unconvinced by [Krishna's] words. A man who sat with such unconcern among princes, a man who had the power to perturb Krishna, had to be more than merely a chariot-driver's son. Because I love the idea of some kid from a petty-crime scumbag family raised cocky enough to think he can steal himself the world, and strolling right into a room full of princes despite (and because of) that upbringing.

Then there's also this line, which made me imagine a king sending out all his lower-ranking sons out to test rumors and traps, enemies and potential allies for him: "Princes must not panic until they've tested the truth of a rumor for themselves."

I'm also digging the idea of this road-not-taken option for Gandhari, the blindfolded queen: I wondered if there were days when she regretted her decision to opt for wifely virtue instead of the power she could have had as the blind king's guide and adviser. I get serious Victoria Vinciguerra vibes off this, and they're perfect.

I also loved this exchange, because of the image of the world it paints: "The palace was in an uproar," Dhai Ma said, "people running around wringing their hands, crying thatches was the work of demons... And that's how Duryodhan and his brothers—and their sister Duhsala—were born. Maybe that's why he's such great friends with Karna, who also came into the world in a strange way."
    ...I quipped, "Doesn't anyone have normal births anymore?"
    Dhai Ma gave me a sharp glance... "You're one to talk!"
    As always, I still find the story behind Duryodhan and his brothers' birth really compelling—because if people were sure from your birth that you were the product of demons and devil-work, what chance did you ever really have of being anything else? Born under a bad sign, almost literally. Duryodhan was never going to be the good guy, even if he'd tried.

Speaking of, I find it really interesting that despite all his flaws, Duryodhan has some really positive, admirable qualities, too. It's probably highlighted most clearly at the events of the tournament between the cousins. First, there's: Some cry out Duryodhan's name, for he is dashing, brave, and generous to a fault. Even today, riding to the tournament, he threw handfuls of gold coins into the crowd until his purse was empty.

The generosity mentioned above also makes it easier to believe that he genuinely did want to help Karna, even beyond his ulterior motives/personal benefit. When Drona and his pals try to come up with reasons Karna can't fight Arjun, just to save face, they insist that only a prince can fight another prince, and silkily ask which princely house Karna comes from.
    The stranger's face flushes. My name is Karna, he says. Then, so softly that all in the assembly must strain to hear, But I do not come from a princely house.
    And so Drona and Co. insist that he can't take on Arjun, then, but—
    Wait! cries Duryodhan, springing up in outrage. Clearly this man is a great warrior. I will not let you insult him like this, using an outdated law as your excuse! A hero is a hero, no matter what his caste. Ability is more important than the accident of birth.
    The citizens approve of these sentiments. They cheer lustily.
    Duryodhan continues, If you insist that it is necessary for Karna to be a king in order to battle Arjun, then I'll share my own inheritance with him! He calls for holy water and pours it over the stranger's head. To the cheers of the crowd, he says, King Karna, I now pronounce you ruler of Anga, and my friend.

Also, as compelling as I find a good case of fictional daddy issues, this also really makes me want to focus on a positive father-son relationship in a story: ...[T]he people's attention is caught by an old man who limps into the arena. From his clothing it's clear that he belongs to a lower caste. Is he a blacksmith? No, say those who know such things. He's a chariot driver.
    He heads for Karna and—wonder of wonders—Karna sets aside his bow to touch the old man's feet.
    Son! cries the newcomer. Is it really you, back after so many years? But what are you doing here, among these noble princes? Why is there a crown on your head? 
    With infinite gentleness, Karna takes the old man's hand and guides him into a corner, explaining as he goes.
    Karna's essentially the ultimate underdog here, plus really skilled and worthy at what he does, and those are both proven character traits to win a reader's loyalty and sympathy. But what really kills me is that this top-fighter, battered-knuckled fighting machine is so gentle about taking his dad aside and claiming him and explaining to him, even though it gets him all kind of mockery and jeering.

I'd also be 100% down to frame a story around a character with a similar curse (and reaction) to this one, because it's got all the right elements to induce doomed attachment and long-simmering dread and a sense of painful inevitability: I shut my eyes. I didn't wish to hear any more of this story. I willed Karna to walk away from the fallen animal before he was discovered as its killer. I knew he wouldn't.
    In the morning he finds the owner of the cow, confesses his deed, and offers compensation. But the enraged brahmin says, You killed my cow when she was defenseless. You, too, will die when you have no means of protection. Karna pleads with him to change his curse. I'm not afraid of dying, he says. But let me die like a warrior. The brahmin refuses.
    Also, is it just me, or are all brahmins judgmental, self-righteous jerks? Totally not impressed by the representation we've seen so far.

I love the contrast between the twins, too—especially how straight-laced Dhri is compared to his sister and her nurse. Like in this scene, on Draupadi's ceremony morning: Dhri was waiting outside my rooms to walk me to the wedding hall, where the kings had already gathered. He looked severe in his ceremonial silks. I noticed the scabbard on his hip, carved with flying beasts.
   "Why the sword?" I asked.
    Dhai Ma said, "What a question! Don't you know it's the brother's sacred duty to protect his sister's virtue? He'll have his hands full today, with all those dirty old men drooling over you."
    "Your vulgarity never ceases to amaze me," Dhri told her. She laughed ad gave him a cuff on the ears, then hurried off to bully her way into the best seat in the royal attendants' area.
    But I knew the real reason for the sword. He expected trouble.

Also, I just really love Karna and Duryodhan's friendship, okay? Duryodhan made a comment—probably about me—and his companions slapped their knees and guffawed. Karna alone (I noted with gratitude) sat still as a flame. Only the slightest thinning of his lips indicated his disapproval, but it was enough to silence Duryodhan.

Anyways, all in all, it's probably fitting that my last note is about the King of Anga himself: Dhri unsheathed his sword and braced his shoulders. Karna leveled his arrow—the one he'd chosen to pierce the target—at my brother's chest. His eyes were beautiful and sad and unfaltering, the eyes of a man who always hits what he aims at. Interestingly enough, that last line reminded me so much of S.E. Hinton's Dallas Winston, another of my favorite characters: "I knew he would be dead, because he wanted to be dead and Dallas Winston always got what he wanted." Kind of a bummer, I know, by which I mean mildly soul-shattering, but hey—a lot of the time, the saddest stuff is also the strongest stuff.




Bibliography: The Palace of Illusions, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.

Image Credit: Watching Audience, by Unsplash. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: The Palace of Illusions, Part A

One thing that Divakaruni does amazingly well with this novel is taking the events of the Mahabharata and reinterpreting them through a very human lens. So some of the inspirational lines I've snagged below are bits that've piqued my interest before, and some have caught my eye for the first time.

First, there's the perspective Draupadi's nurse brings to the palace preparations followed leading up to the birth of Draupadi and her brother: "We'd been praying for thirty days, from sun-up to sundown. All of us: your father, the hundred priests he'd invited to Kampilya to perform the fire ceremony, headed by that shifty-eyed pair, Yaja and Upayaja, the queens, the ministers, and of course the servants. We'd been fasting, too—not that we were given a choice—just one meal, each evening, of flattened rice soaked in milk... But I was scared, too, and stealing a glance here and there, I saw I wasn't the only one. What if the fire ceremony didn't work the way the scriptures had claimed it would? Would King Drupad put us all to death, claiming we hadn't prayed hard enough?"

And then there's the relationship between Draupadi and her brother Dhri, the twins born from flames. Their bond is established from the beginning: When their father the king came for them, he held out his arms—but for my brother alone. It was only my brother he meant to raise up to show to his people. Only my brother he wanted. Dhri wouldn't let go of me, however, nor I of him. We clung together so stubbornly that my father was forced to pick us both up together.

A little later, even after they've grown almost to adulthood, we see that that hasn't changed: My years in my father's house would have been unbearable had I not had my brother. I never forgot the feel of his hand clutching mine, his refusal to abandon me. Perhaps he and I would have been close otherwise, segregated as we were in the palace wing our father had set aside for us—whether for caring or for I was never sure. But that first loyalty made us inseparable. We shared our fears of the future for each other, shielded each other with fierce protectiveness from a world that regarded us as not quite normal, and comforted each other in our loneliness. We never spoke of what each one meant to each other—Dhri was uncomfortable with effusiveness. But sometimes I wrote him letters in my head, looping the words into extravagant metaphors.

Since I've also been really intrigued all semester about the way divinity and mortality coexist in these stories, I also thought Draupadi's opinion on the rumors about her family friend Krishna was pretty interesting: There were other stories about Krishna. How he'd been born in a dungeon where his uncle Kamsa had imprisoned his parents with the intention of killing him at birth. How, in spite of the many prison guards, he'd been miraculously spirited away to safety in Gokul. How, in infancy, he killed a demoness who tried to poison him with her breast milk. How he lifted up Mount Govardhan to shelter his people from a deluge that would have drowned them. I didn't pay too much attention to the stories, some of which claimed that he was a god, descended from celestial realms to save the faithful. People loved to exaggerate, and there was nothing like a dose of the supernatural to spice up the drudgery of facts.

There's also this line, from a story Draupadi tells about a poor boy who asks his mother if he can try some milk, because the other boys have been talking about how great it tastes. But their family is too poor to afford milk, so instead, the mother feeds him water mixed with flour and jaggery. After, the boy is thrilled that he knows what milk tastes like too, just like the other kids. And we get this gem of a line: And the mother, who through all the years of her hardship had never shed a tear, wept at his trust and her deception. I think that's the really interesting core of a character: someone who lies to other people constantly because the ends justify the means, and hates herself for doing it and the other person for believing it—while also loving them for believing it. It's a really interesting dynamic.

I also find Draupadi and Dhri's relationship with the rest of their family (stepmothers and half-siblings) really interesting: The stories kept us from wondering too much about the rest of Drupad's family—his queens, and the other children whom we saw only on state occasions. What were they doing? Was our father in their lighted, laughing chambers? Why didn't he invite us to join him? The way their dad treats them is especially interesting in light of the fact that he was so desperate to have them, and to have them be different from other children—but that this is how he reacts when he actually gets all that.

Then, talking about when Drona kidnapped his old friend Drupad so he could make them equals (and therefore friends) again: A brahmin embraced a king, a king embraced a brahmin. And the anger that the brahmin had carried smoldering within him all these years left his body with his out-breath in the form of dark vapor, and he was at peace. But the king saw the vapor and knew it for what it was. Eagerly, he opened his mouth and swallowed it. It would fuel him for the rest of his life.

There's also Dhri's relationship with his own prophesied destiny, and the way he lets the perceived inevitability of that shape and change him: I was hoping Dhri would let it be, but he was like a hunting dog at a boar's throat: "And then?"
    Suddenly I was tired and heartsick. I thought, I shouldn't have chosen this story. Every time I spoke it, it embedded itself deeper into my brother's flesh, for a story gains power with retelling. It deepened his belief in the inevitability of a destiny he might have otherwise sidestepped: to kill Drona. Yet like a scab that children pick at until it falls to bleeding, neither of us could leave it alone.
    And then you were called into the world, Dhri. So that what started with milk could end one day in blood.
    There was more to the story. Whose blood, and when, and how many times. All that, however, I would learn much later.
    "What do you think Drona looks like?" Dhri asked.

And then, last, not quite least, there's the palace full of queens, but no mother figures: I'd long been curious about the queens—especially Sulochana—who flitted elegant and bejeweled along the periphery of my life. In the past I'd resented them for ignoring me, but I was willing to let go of that. Perhaps, now that I was grown, we could be friends.
    Surprisingly, though the queens knew I was coming, I had to wait a long time in the visitor's hall before they appeared. When they did arrive, they spoke to me stiffly, in brief inanities, and wouldn't meet my eyes.




Bibliography: The Palace of Illusions, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.

Image Credit: Fiery Orange Gem, by Hans. Source: Pixabay.