“The kings are always fighting,” she said. “All they want is more land, more power. They tax the common people to starvation and force them to fight in their armies.”
“Surely there must be some good kings,” I argued, “who care for their subjects.” I was thinking of Krishna, though I knew little of how he governed his lands.
“Too few,” 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.”
There it was again: the Great War, the words like nails scraping my lungs. Hesitantly I said, “I was told I'd be the cause of the war.”
She looked at me. I thought I saw pity in her eyes. But she merely said, “There are many causes for such a gigantic event.”
I persisted. “I was told that a million women would be widowed because of me. It wrings my heart to think that I'll cause so much suffering to those who are innocent.”
“It's always been that way. When did the innocent not suffer? In any case, you're wrong in thinking of woman as an innocent species.” She waved her hand again and the map flickered. It seemed to me that I was looking into a hundred homes, humble and kingly both. I heard the voices and thoughts of women, bitter and bickering. Some wished death and disease on their rivals, others wanted control of their household. Some berated children with words that left scars on their hearts. Some beat servant girls or forced them out, penniless, into the jaws of a ravenous world. 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.
“As you see,” the sorceress said, “women contribute to the world's problems in a hundred insidious ways. And you, who will be more powerful than most, could wreak greater havoc if you aren't careful. I've taught you some better alternatives—if only you can keep them in mind and not get swept away by passion!”
“I can!” I said, with the confidence of the untested. I knew I was intelligent—wasn't Dhai Ma always complaining about how overly smart I was? I knew enough to control passion. I visualized myself as a great queen, dispensing wisdom and love. Panchaali the Peacemaker, people would call me.
The sorceress laughed. That's the last memory I have of her, bent over and clutching her sides until tears ran from her eyes.
9
The artist had set up the paintings, each covered by a silk veil, by the time I entered the hall. Dhri was already seated, his brow crumpled in a frown, and though he nodded at me, he didn't smile. He hadn't touched the mango juice that Dhai Ma had set beside him. Palpable as heat, his anxiety made me anxious, too. But I'd have to wait until we were alone to find out the problem.
The artist had visited Kampilya before. When it was time for Drupad's other daughters to be married, he came to paint their likenesses so that they could be sent to kings with whom my father wished to form alliances. But today he'd brought with him the portraits of the leading kings of the land for me to examine. This way, when I faced my suitors in the wedding hall, I would know who each one was.
I'd hoped to find Krishna here. I was depending on him to tell me the secrets a potential wife needs to know, information the artist was sure to skip over, either from ignorance or fear. Which king had a hidden disease, who was haunted by a family curse, who was a miser, who had retreated from battle, and who was too stubborn to do so. It was mystifying how Krishna knew such things. But he was nowhere around. Probably, I thought with some annoyance, he was in his palace by the sea, enjoying the company of his wives.
The artist uncovered the first portrait. “This is the noble Salya, ruler of the southern kingdom of Madradesh,” he intoned, “and uncle to the Pandava princes.”
I stared at the king, whose elaborately fashioned crown didn't quite hide the whiteness of his hair. His face was good-humored, but his girth betrayed his fondness for the easy life. Under his eyes, the skin sagged.
“He's old!” I whispered to Dhri in distaste. “He probably has daughters my age. Why would he want to come to the swayamvar?”
My even-tempered brother shrugged. “It's a challenge, as you yourself said, and men find it hard to turn down challenges. 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. If Salya won, I thought with a shudder, he would claim me, and I'd have to go with him, as mute and compliant as the purse of gold a winner carries away at the end of a wrestling match.
The artist uncovered other portraits. Jarasandha, king of Ma-gadha, with his live-coal eyes. (I'd heard Dhri's tutor say he kept a hundred defeated kings chained in a labyrinth under his palace.) Sisupal, his friend—his hooked chin topped by a sneering mouth— who ruled over Chedi and had a long history of disputes with Krishna. Jayadrath, lord of the Sindhus, with his sinister, sensuous lips. I saw king after king until their faces blurred. Many, I knew, were decent men. But I hated them all for coveting me, and I prayed that each would fail.
The long afternoon teetered between boredom and dread. I was waiting for one face alone. I wanted to see if I'd visualized it accurately. Probably not. Doesn't the imagination always exaggerate— or diminish—truth?
When the artist uncovered the last and largest painting, I sat up, certain that it was Arjun's.
But he said, “Here is the mighty Duryodhan, crown prince of Hastinapur, with the scions of his court.”
So this was the notorious Kaurava prince, Arjun's cousin! The tutor had whispered to Dhri that he'd hated the Pandava brothers, his dead uncle's sons, from the day they'd arrived at the court, his competitors for the throne he'd believed from birth to be his. There was some talk that he'd tried to drown one of them when they were still children.
Duryodhan was handsome in a muscle-bound way, though I didn't care for the willful set of his mouth. Encrusted with jewels, he occupied a throne decorated with gold lotuses. Something about the way he leaned forward, his right hand fisted, exuded discontent. To his left sat a man who was a pale, petulant copy of him.
“His younger brother, Dussasan,” the artist explained.
The brothers made me uncomfortable, though I couldn't have explained why.
“Remove the picture,” I commanded, and then, as my eyes were caught by the figure on Duryodhan's right, “No, wait!”
Older than the prince and austere-faced, the man sat upright, his lean body wary, as though he knew the world to be a dangerous place. Though in the midst of a court, he seemed utterly alone. His only ornaments were a pair of gold earrings and a curiously patterned gold armor unlike anything I'd seen. His eyes were filled with an ancient sadness. They pulled me into them. My impatience evaporated. I no longer cared to see Arjun's portrait. Instead, I wanted to know how those eyes would look if the man smiled. Absurdly, I wanted to be the reason for his smile.
“Ah, you are looking at Karna,” the artist said, his voice reverent, “ruler of Anga, and best friend of Duryodhan. It is said that he is the greatest—”
“Stop!”
The single, sibilant word startled us all. Krishna was standing in the shadow of the doorway. I'd never seen him look so angry.
“Why are you showing the princess that man's picture? He's no prince.”
Flustered, the artist covered up the painting with shaking hands, begging Krishna's pardon.
I was bewildered. Why was Krishna so vehement? What was it about this man that made him react in this uncharacteristic manner? Something in me was drawn to defend the sad-eyed Karna. “Why do you say he's that? Isn't he king of Anga?”
“It was a kingdom gifted to him by Duryodhan,” Krishna said, his voice like metal, “as an insult to the Pandavas. He's just the son of a chariot driver.”
For the first time, I was unconvinced by his 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. I turne
d to Dhri to check. His eyes flickered and fell. Ah, there was a secret, something Krishna wasn't telling me! I'd have to extract it from my brother later.
Krishna said, brusquely, “Don't you have any other portraits?”
“I have your majesty's likeness,” the artist stammered, backing from the room, “and that of your illustrious brother, Balaram. A million pardons! I will bring them at once!”
Heat rose to my face. Did Krishna want to be one of my suitors? I'd never thought of that possibility. All these years he'd been to me as the air I breathed—indispensable and unconsidered. But today I sensed that there was more to him than the jesting self he'd chosen, until now, to reveal to me. This new Krishna, his eyes stern with anger, his voice like an arrow—I was certain he could pass the swayamvar test if he wished it.
How would it be to have him as my husband? An uneasiness rose in me as I turned the thought around in my mind. I loved him— but not in that way.
Krishna smiled his old, mocking smile. “Don't worry, Krishnaa,” he said. “I'm not going to compete against my friend Arjun. Nor will Balaram. We know your destiny leads you elsewhere.”
It was embarrassing to be so transparent. I looked down at the patterned marble of the floor, determined to give away nothing else.
“But I'll be there,” he said. “On that crucial day, I'll be there— to keep you from choosing wrongly.”
My eyes flew to his face. What did he mean? Bound as I was by the contest, what was left for me to choose?
His eyes were cool and inscrutable. Behind him, Dhri gazed out at the burnished afternoon and stifled a yawn. Had I imagined Krishna's words? Or had he spoken them inside my head, only for me to hear?
The artist reentered, bent under the weight of two silver-framed portraits that Krishna waved impatiently away. “Why haven't you shown the princess the pictures of the Pandavas?” he demanded.
The artist hesitated, clearly afraid of Krishna's wrath, but finally he whispered, “Your Highness, they're dead.”
My heart thudded loudly, out of rhythm. What was he saying? And why didn't Krishna or Dhri contradict him? Could it be true? Was this why Dhri had looked so anxious?
“What have you heard?” Krishna asked, far too calmly.
“There was a fire,” the artist said. “All the tradesmen on the road were talking about it. In Varanavat, where the five princes had gone for a holiday with their mother, the poor widowed Kunti. The guesthouse they were staying in burnt to the ground. People found nothing but ashes—and six skeletons! Folks are thinking it was murder. Some say the house was built of lac, designed for easy burning. But of course no one dares to accuse Duryodhan!”
“That's what I heard, too,” Dhri cried. “What a loss for all Bharat!”
My head whirled. Part of me was aghast at the terrible thing that had happened to the Pandavas and their mother, but a larger part could think only of myself. Fear makes us selfish. If Arjun was dead, what would happen to me? If no king was able to pass the test, the swayamvar would be a failure. My father would be denounced for setting his guests an impossible task. I'd be forced to live out the rest of my life as a spinster. But worse things could happen. The insulted kings could decide to band together in a war against my father and divide the spoils of the fallen kingdom—including me—among them.
“Krishna,” Dhri's voice held a tremor. “What are we to do? Is it too late to call off the swayamvar?”
“Dear boy!” Krishna answered, with inexplicable good humor, “hasn't that earnest brahmin who labors over your studies taught you anything? Princes must not panic until they've tested the truth of a rumor for themselves.”
“But the skeletons—”
Krishna shrugged. “Bones may belong to anyone.” He signaled to the artist to bring the portraits of the Pandavas.
“How can you be certain?” Dhri asked. Then his eyes widened. “Have they sent you word?”
“No,” said Krishna. “But in my heart I'd know it if Arjun were dead.”
I wanted to believe him, but I was racked by doubt. Can hearts know these things? I was sure that mine was incapable of such subtle perceptions.
“Here are the five Pandava brothers,” the artist announced, uncovering the portrait with a flourish, revealing the man we were all hoping would be my husband.
Later Dhai Ma said, “He's too dark, and his eyes have a stubborn look. The oldest brother, what's his name, Yudhisthir—now he looked much calmer. Did you see how he sat in the painting, plump and regal, smiling with those even white teeth? Maybe you'd better marry him. He's going to be the king, after all—that's if their old uncle ever hands over the throne.”
“Arjun is taller!” I spoke with pert brightness, trying to dispel another face with its ancient, sad eyes that kept coming to my mind. “And didn't you see his battle scars? That proves how brave he is.”
Dhai Ma wrinkled up her nose. “How could I miss them? They were like earthworms all over his shoulders. If tall is what you want, I say you go for the second brother, that Bheem. Those muscles were quite a sight! I've heard he's easy to please, too. Just give him a large and tasty meal, and he's yours for life!”
“Didn't you say that was how Duryodhan tricked him as a child? Gave him poisoned rice pudding and then, when he became unconscious, threw him into the river? Arjun would have been too intelligent for that. I can tell by the sharpness of his nose, his chiseled chin.”
“Chiseled!” Dhai Ma made a rude sound. “It's cleft in two, and you know what that means: a roving eye. Such men are trouble from start to finish, and don't I know it! If it's good looks you're after, why not choose one of the two youngest, the twins. Eyes like lotus petals, skin like gold, bodies like young shal trees.” She smacked her lips in approval.
“For heaven's sake, Dhai Ma, they're far too young for me! I prefer the mature, masterful kind.”
She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Then I guess you're stuck with your Arjun. At least try not to be fool enough to give him mastery over you. But your brain is probably too addled with romance to retain anything I'm saying.”
“I suspect I'll have to take you along when I'm married, so you can remind me,” I said, and we laughed together. But the laughter faded quickly. The jokes fell from us; only the uncertainties we'd tried to hide beneath them remained. Dhai Ma put an arm around me. Did she guess how my heart balked inside me like a horse that refuses to follow its rider's commands? How I longed to speak to her of that other, forbidden name: Karna. Outside, night birds called to each other as they looped through the inky night, their pensive cries close, then far, then unexpectedly close again.
10
I wanted to know what Kunti looked like. I thought it would be wise preparation, in case she turned out to be my mother-in-law. Perhaps her face would give me a clue as to what lay inside. (I hadn't forgotten the sorceress's warning.) But the artist didn't have a picture of her. He sent me, with apologies, a different portrait: that of Gandhari, Duryodhan's mother and Arjun's aunt.
The portrait was small, about a handspan square, and ill-executed, as though painted by an apprentice. Perhaps there wasn't much demand for the pictures of women, once they were married off, even if they were queens. Dhai Ma and I pored over it, trying to make out her features, but they were mostly obscured by a thick white blindfold.
“You know the story,” Dhai Ma said. “When she heard that she was to marry the blind Dhritarashtra, she tied it over her eyes, declaring she didn't want to enjoy the pleasures her husband had been deprived of. They say she's never removed it since.”
I'd heard the story—or, more accurately, the song that had been composed in honor of her devotion to her husband. (From time to time, my father sent bards to my apartments, hoping that their songs would instill appropriate attitudes in me and warn me off dangerous ones. Thus far, I'd also been subjected to the lives of Savitri, who heroically saved her husband from the clutches of Lord Death; Sita, who was eternally faithful to her husband, even when abducted by a demon king; a
nd Devyani, who, in spite of her father's warnings, insisted on falling in love with the wrong man and was left brokenhearted.) Between ourselves, though, Dhai Ma and I agreed that Gandhari's sacrifice wasn't particularly intelligent.
“If my husband couldn't see, I'd make doubly sure to keep my own eyes open,” I said, “so that I could report everything that was going on to him.”
Dhai Ma was of a different opinion. “Maybe the thought of marrying a blind man disgusted her—but being a princess she couldn't get out of the match. Maybe she did this so she wouldn't have to look at him every single day of her life.”
The portrait must have been an old one. In it, Gandhari looked pretty in a lost, girlish way. Tendrils of hair fell over her forehead, and she had a listening air, as though she was trying to compensate for her lost sight. 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. But she'd made a vow and was trapped in the net of her own words. Her mouth was strong, though, and her pale, beautiful lips balanced disappointment with resolution.
Gandhari's marriage, although she'd given up so much for its sake, was—like Kunti's—not a happy one. (Later I would wonder if that was what gave them strength, both these queens. But perhaps I'd got the cause and effect mixed up? Perhaps strong women tended to have unhappy marriages? The idea troubled me.) Dhritarashtra was a bitter man. He never got over the fact that he'd been passed over by the elders—just because he was blind—when they decided which of the brothers should be king. Though he claimed to love his younger brother—and possibly did, for he was a strange and contradictory man—he must have been delighted when the curse-blighted Pandu withdrew into the forest. The goal of Dhri-tarashtra's life was to have a son who could inherit the throne after him. But here a problem arose, for in spite of his assiduous attempts, Gandhari didn't conceive for many years. When she finally did, it was too late. Kunti was already pregnant with Yudhisthir.