PALACE OF ILLUSIONS PDF
Palace of cittadelmonte.info - Download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online . paper critically analyses Palace of Illusions by Chitra. Banerjee Divakaruni from feminist perspective. Keywords— Mahabharata, suppression, feminist, equality. Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. Recasting the Indian epic Mahabharata from the The Palace of Illusions: A Novel - Kindle edition by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni. Religion & Spirituality Kindle eBooks @ Amazon. com.
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This book has been optimized for viewing at a monitor setting of x pixels. T h e Pa l a c e of Illusions. The Palace of Illusions. Identifierthe-palace-of-illusions-com-v Identifier-ark ark://t5r84qh OcrABBYY FineReader (Extended. Taking us back to a time that is half history, half myth and wholly magical, bestselling author Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni gives voice to Panchaali, the fire-born heroine of the Mahabharata, as she weaves a vibrant retelling of an ancient epic saga. Which is the best book to read.
Skip to main content. Log In Sign Up. The Palace of Illusions: Deconstructing Draupadi's Identity. Anjali Singla. Soon enough, she bucks tradition by simultaneously wedding all five famous Pandava brothers, who have been denied their rightful kingdom, and finds herself the happy mistress of the much-envied palace of illusions.
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A visiting bard stared at me admiringly. Later, he would make up a song about my unique comeliness. Overnight, I who had been shunned for my strangeness became a celebrated beauty! Krishna was much amused by the turn of events. There were other stories about Krishna.
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.
People loved to exaggerate, and there was nothing like a dose of the supernatural to spice up the drudgery of facts. But I admitted this much: He had his own kingdom in distant Dwarka to rule, and his many wives to placate. Additionally, he was involved in the affairs of several monarchies. He was known for his pragmatic intelligence, and kings liked to call on him for counsel.
And that too is a puzzle: I fancied myself an astute observer of people and had already analyzed the other important people in my life. My father was obsessed by pride and the dream of getting even. He had absolute notions of right and wrong and adhered to them rigidly. This made him a fair ruler, but not a beloved one. His weakness was that he cared too much about what people might say about the royal house of Panchaal.
Dhai Ma loved gossip, laughter, comfort, good food and drink, and, in her own way, power. She routinely terrorized the lower servants—and, I suspect, Kallu—with her razor tongue. Her weakness was her inability to say no to me. Dhri was the noblest of all the people I knew. He had a sincere love of virtue but, sadly, almost no sense of humor.
He was overly protective of me but I forgave him that. But Krishna was a chameleon. With our father, he was all astute politics, advising him on ways to strengthen his kingdom.
He commended Dhri on his skill with the sword but encouraged him to spend more time on the arts. He delighted Dhai Ma with his outrageous compliments and earthy jests. And me? Some days he teased me until he reduced me to tears. On other days he gave me lessons 12 on the precarious political situation of the continent of Bharat, and chastised me if my attention wandered.
He asked me what I thought of my place in the world as a woman and a princess—and then challenged my rather traditional beliefs. He brought me news of the world that no one else cared to give me, the world that I was starving for—even news that I suspected would be considered improper for the ears of a young woman. And all the while he watched me carefully, as though for a sign. But this I would recognize later.
At that time, I only knew that I adored the way he laughed for no reason, quirking up an eyebrow. I often forgot that he was much older than me. Sometimes he dispensed with his kingly jewels and wore only a peacock feather in his hair.
He was fond of yellow silk, which he claimed went well with his complexion. He listened with attention to my opinions even though he usually ended up disagreeing.
He called me by a special name, the female form of his own: It had two meanings: And so I began. But was began the right word? Once a boy came running in from play and asked, Mother, what is milk? My friends say it is creamy and white and has the sweetest taste, second only to the nectar of the gods. Please, mother, I want milk to drink.
The Palace of Illusions: A Novel
The boy drank it and danced in joy, saying, Now I, too, know what milk tastes like! And the mother, who through all the years of her hardship had never shed a tear, wept at his trust and her deception. I sighed, knowing it would smell of mold 14 for weeks. For though our days were overcrowded with lessons, our evenings stretched before us bare as a desert.
The only one who ever shattered their monotony by his visits was Krishna. But he came and went without warning, taking mischievous pleasure in his unpredictability. What were they doing? Was our father in their lighted, laughing chambers? Dhri shook his head. The story must start earlier. It was as though the story made him regress into a younger, more anxious self. Start with the two boys, the other ones. Once in an innocent time, the son of a brahmin and the son of a king were sent to the ashram of a great sage to study.
Here they spent many years together, growing into the best of friends, and when it was time for each to return to his home, they wept. The prince said to his schoolmate, Drona, I will never forget you. The brahmin embraced the prince and said, Dear Drupad, your friendship means more to me than all the riches in the treasury of the gods. I will hold your words in my heart forever.
Each went his way, the prince to learn the ways of the court, the brahmin to study further with Parasuram, the renowned scholar-warrior. He mastered the arts of war, married a virtuous woman, and had a beautiful son. Though poor, he was proud of his learning and dreamed often of the day when he would teach his son all he knew.
The Palace of Illusions
Until one day the boy came home from play asking for milk, and his wife wept. Were the stories we told each other true? Who knows? At the best of times, a story is a slippery thing. Certainly no one had told us this particular one, though it was the tale we most needed to know.
It was, after all, the reason for our existence. Perhaps that was why it changed with each telling. Or is that the nature of all stories, the reason for their power? He ruled well but watchfully, making closer friends with justice than with mercy. And always he listened for whispers and mocking laughter, which to him were the forerunners of insurgence.
He deserves some partiality! One day, while the king held court, a brahmin came into the hall and stood in front of him. The king was surprised to see that though his clothes were threadbare, the man did not look like a supplicant. Around him he could hear murmurs, courtiers wondering who the stranger was. Drupad, he said, his voice reverberating through the hall, I am no beggar! I come to hold you to your promise of friendship. Once you asked that I should come and live with you, that all you had would be mine also.
You will gain much from this, for I will share with you the secret science of warfare that my guru taught me. No enemy would dare to approach Panchaal with me at your side.
I paused, knowing Dhri wanted the next part. That old, dear name was on his tongue, Drona. But behind him, people were laughing, pointing at the mad brahmin—for surely he was mad to speak with such presumption to the king! If Drupad acknowledged him, if he stepped down from the royal dais and took him by the hand, would they laugh at him, too?
He could not risk it. Brahmin, he said sternly, how can a learned man such as you claim to bespeak such folly? Do you not know that friendship is possible only between equals? Go to the treasury door, and the gatekeeper will see to it that you get enough alms to live a comfortable life. Drona stared at him for a moment. Drupad thought he could see his body shaking with rage and disbelief. He braced himself, thinking he would shout—lay a curse upon him, maybe, like brahmins were known to do.
But Drona merely turned on his heel and left. None of the courtiers, when questioned later, knew where he went. For days, weeks, perhaps months, Drupad could not taste anything he ate. Regret layered his mouth like mud. At night, lying sleepless, he considered sending messengers across the country, secretly, in search of his friend.
In the morning it always seemed a foolish notion.
Dhri stopped. Time is the great eraser, both of sorrow and of joy. In time, he married and fathered children, though none turned out to be as gifted a warrior as he had hoped.
The new ones respected or feared him, so that he believed himself to be safe. For him this was the same as happiness. Until one dawn, before the sun was up, he was awakened by the sentries on the palace walls blowing their horns.
The Kaurava army was at the gates of Kampilya. Why would they attack him without provocation? What folly had possessed them? It was easy enough to rout their army. But as he turned his chariot back in victory, a new chariot approached him, moving so fast that he could not tell from where it came.
Before his charioteer could calm them, a young man had leaped from the other chariot onto his.
We do not wish to harm you, the young man said. But you must come with my brothers and myself as our prisoner. For some paradoxical reason, he wanted to narrate the moment that pained him most, that laid bare his longing.
Even in mortal danger, Drupad could not but admire the young man—his poise, his courtesy, his skill at arms. Who are you? Drupad asked. And why have you attacked me when I have no enmity with you? I am Arjun, son of the late King Pandu, the young man said.
Palace of cittadelmonte.info | Hindu Mythology | Mahabharata
Who is your guru? He is the greatest teacher of warcraft, he said. He taught us princes for many years. Now our studies are complete, and for his dakshina he has asked that we capture you. You must know of him. His name is Drona.
I paused here to picture the moment. How would Arjun have looked? How would he move? Was he good-looking as well as brave?
Krishna, to whom he was related through some convoluted family tie, had mentioned his many accomplishments from time to time, piquing my interest. Though I would never confess this to Dhri I sensed his unspoken jealousy , for me Arjun was the most exciting part of the story.
Dhri nudged me with a scowl. He was good at guessing my thoughts. A king was made to kneel at the feet of a brahmin. A brahmin said to a king, Your land and life belong to me. Who is the beggar now? A king said, Kill me, but do not mock me. I wish to be your friend. And since you said that friendship was possible only between equals, I needed a kingdom. Now I will give you back half your land. South of the river Ganga, you will rule.
The north will belong to me. Are we not truly equal, then? 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. It deepened his belief in the inevitability of a destiny he might have otherwise sidestepped: 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.
But I had no idea. Years later, after my marriage, I met Drona in the Kaurava court. He knew of the prophecies by then. Everyone did. Still, with great courtesy, he said, Welcome, son. Welcome, daughter. I was breathless, unable to reply. Behind me, Dhri made a small sound in his throat.
And I knew that he saw what I saw: Drona looked exactly like our father. There, in the center of the seven worlds peopled by celestial beings, lies the milky ocean on which Vishnu sleeps, waking only when the earth grows overburdened with unrighteousness. Below it stretches our earth, which would tumble into the great void if it were not supported upon the hoods of Sesha, the thousandheaded serpent.
Further below is the underworld, where the demons, who hate the light of the sun, have their kingdom. He must protect anyone who seeks refuge with him, be generous to the needy, and keep his given word though it lead to his destruction. The holy thread that hung across his bony chest quivered with agitation. She is not helping you to learn. Will she be sitting behind you in your chariot in battle when you need to remember these important precepts?
Perhaps it is best if she no longer joins us during your studies. A girl being taught what a boy was supposed to learn? Such a thing had never been heard of in the royal family of Panchaal!
Even Dhai Ma, my accomplice in so many other areas of my life, regarded the lessons with misgiving. She complained that they were making me too hardheaded and argumentative, too manlike in my speech. But I hungered to know about the amazing, mysterious world that extended past what I could imagine, the world of the 24 senses and of that which lay beyond them.
And so I refused to give up the lessons, no matter who disapproved. Now, not wanting to antagonize the tutor further, I made my voice contrite. I promise not to interrupt again. As you know, being a girl, she is cursed with a short memory. Additionally, she is of an impulsive nature, a failing in many females.
Perhaps you could instruct her as to the conduct expected of a kshatriya woman? It would be better if the princess learns such things—and others as well—from the large and daunting lady who is her nurse and who can, one hopes, discipline her better than I.
I will recommend this excellent course of action to your royal father. Or worse: Perhaps that was why, when he gathered up his palm leaf manuscripts and rose to leave, I pushed the curtain aside and gave him a brilliant smile as I bowed. The effect was better than I had hoped. He jumped as though stung; 25 manuscripts fell, helter-skelter, from his hands. I had to pull the end of my sari over my face to hide my laughter, although I knew there would be trouble later. Dhri shot me a remonstrative look as he helped the tutor pick everything up.
With a shock I realized that he was changing. Dhri never commented on my looks; nor did he encourage me to comment on his. Such useless talk, he believed, made people vain.
Was this another sign of change? In revenge, the tutor shot a last comment at me from behind the safety of the door that led to the passage. Myself, I plan on doing other things with my life. Not if but when. With what chill acceptance my brother spoke it. He left the room before I could contradict him. I thought of the husband and sons that everyone assumed I would have someday.
And why was a battle necessary at all? Surely there were other ways to glory, even for men? I wished I could teach this to Dhri as well, but I feared it was too late. Already he had started thinking like the men around him, embracing the world of the court with open arms. And I? Each day I thought less and less like the women around me.
Each day I moved further from them into a dusky solitude. Late mornings, he fought with sword and spear and mace with the commander of the Panchaal army. He learned to wrestle, to ride 27 horses and elephants, to manage a chariot in case his charioteer was killed in battle. In the afternoons, he sat in court and observed my father dispensing justice. He visited the homes of courtesans, where he partook of drink, music, dance, and other pleasures.
We never discussed these visits, though sometimes I spied on him when he returned late at night, his lips reddened from alaktaka, a garland around his neck. I spent hours imagining the woman who had placed it there. I would hear him chanting prayers to the sun. O great son of Kashyap, colored like the hibiscus, O light of lights, destroyer of disease and sin, I bow to you. And then, from the Manu Samhita, He who has not conquered himself, how will that king conquer enemies?
Instead, closeted in with one minister or another, he learned statecraft: He learned also the differences between righteous and unrighteous war, and when to use each.
These were the lessons I most envied him, the lessons that conferred power. They were the ones I needed to know if I were to change history. And so I cajoled Dhri shamelessly, forcing him to share reluctant bits with me. You use your celestial astras only on warriors who themselves have such weapons. Why do you want all this information, anyway? They come from the gods and return to them after being used. Can I see it? And then you must use them right away; otherwise their power might turn against you.
They say that some, like the Brahmastra, wrongly used, can destroy all of creation. They sounded too much like tales old soldiers would make up to impress novices. But very few teachers know the art of summoning them. Surely he was joking! But my brother never joked. You must refuse. He must have been tired, for he sounded bitter, which was rare for him. I was given lessons in singing, dancing, and playing music.
The lessons were painful, both for my teachers and me, for I was not musically inclined, nor deft on my feet. I was taught to draw, paint, sew, and decorate the ground with age-old auspicious designs, each meant for a special festival. My paintings were blotchy, and my designs full of improvisations that my teachers frowned at.
I was better at composing and solving riddles, responding to witty remarks, and writing poetry, but my heart was not in such frivolities. With each lesson I felt the world of women tightening its noose around me. Why was no one concerned about preparing me for it? When I mentioned this to Dhai Ma, she clicked her tongue with impatience. Kings always take other wives.
And men always break the promises they make before marriage. She gave me a challenging grin. She relished our arguments, most of which she won. Was it a memory of Krishna, the cool silence with which he countered disagreement, that stopped me?
I would use my strength instead to nurture my belief that my life would unfurl uniquely. But then a different kind of grin appeared on her face.
Perhaps, now that I was grown, we could be friends. I drew on all my speaking skills, but the conversations I began soon disintegrated into silence.
Even Sulochana, whose blithe grace I had so admired during the festival of Shiva, seemed a different person. She responded to my greetings in monosyllables and kept her two daughters close to her. I lifted her onto my lap and unclasped the chain so she could play with the pendant.
She burst into bewildered tears, not knowing why she was punished. Soon afterward, Sulochana retired to her chambers with excuses of ill health that were clearly false. Ignorant cows! I began to notice things, though. My maidservants—even those who had been with me for years—kept their distance until summoned.
If I asked them anything of a personal nature—how their families were, for instance, or when they were getting married— they grew tongue-tied and escaped from my presence as soon as they could. The best merchants in the city, who routinely visited the apartments of the queens, would send their wares to me through Dhai Ma.
Even my father was uneasy when he visited me and rarely looked directly into my eyes. Did they fear contagion? Already the world I knew was splitting in two. They suspected anything that fell outside the boundaries of custom. But women? Especially women who might bring change, the way a storm brings the destruction of lightning? All my life, they would shun me. But the next time, I promised myself as I wiped my angry tears, I would be prepared. The other group consisted of those rare persons who were themselves harbingers of change and death.
Or those who could laugh at such things. So far, I knew only three such people: Dhri and Krishna—and Dhai Ma, transformed by her 33 affection for me.
But surely there were others. I wondered how long I would have to wait before destiny brought them into my life, and I hoped that when it did so, one of them would become my husband.
I was driven to this ignoble practice because people seldom told me anything worth knowing. King Drupad only met with me in settings designed to discourage uncomfortable questions. Dhri never lied, but he often kept things from me, believing it his brotherly duty to shield me from unpleasant facts.
Though Dhai Ma had no such qualms, she had the unfortunate habit of mixing up what actually happened with things that, in her opinion, should have occurred. Krishna was the only one who told me the truth.
So I took to eavesdropping and found it a most useful practice. It worked best when I appeared engrossed in some mindless activity, such as embroidery, or pretended to sleep.
I was amazed at all the things I learned in this manner. It was how I discovered the sage. And as you know, Nandaram, who works in the stables, has been courting me! Now set out that blue silk sari carefully! The year my mother died and what her last words were. Ask him if that good-for-nothing Kallu will ever change his ways, and if not, what I must do to be rid of him.
Truth to tell, he scared me, with a beard that covered his whole face and glittery red eyes. He looked like he could put a curse on you if you made him angry. Does it please you? I could smell the fragrance of the amaranths woven into it. What use was all this dressing-up when there was no one to admire me? I felt as though I were drowning in a backwater pond while everything important in the world was happening elsewhere. What if the prophecy at my birth was wrong?
Do you want your poor old nurse to starve by the roadside in her old age? That no-good drunkard? Walk on the common road where every man can look into your face!
My entire body ached. It taught me a new respect for the hardiness of commoners. I was startled by a rumble like a thundercloud. The sage was laughing. In his lined, cracked face, his eyes shone mischievously. But enough of that. Eager to learn your future, are you?
Did you ever think how monotonous your life would be if you could see all that was coming to you? Believe me, I know! Inside the circle, the earth felt hot against my blistered soles. It keeps the mosquitoes away. You may ask them your questions. Coldness passed over my skin like ghost breath. Why, then, did a strange reluctance silence me now? Later I would wonder, was it because of this lack of faith that the spirits answered me so obliquely, in riddles that were more hindrance than help?
I want to leave a mark on history, as was promised to me at my birth. But there are other things—perhaps unknown to you—that you crave more. No matter. The spirits will see into your heart and answer accordingly. Yellow whispers came to me through the smoke. You will be queen of queens, envied even by goddesses.
You will be a servant maid. You will be mistress of the most magical of palaces and then lose it. You will be remembered for causing the greatest war of your time. A million women will become widows because of you. Yes, indeed, you will leave a mark on history. You will be loved, though you will not always recognize who loves you.
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