I was recommended this book by a very
unlikely source: my peers in school. A number of them were almost ecstatic
about this book, and this put me instantly on my guard. I prepared myself for a
light-hearted chick-lit, to be forgotten as soon as it is read. But when I
finally laid my hands upon the book and read the back page summary, I was instantly
hooked. The Mahabharata, my father always says, is one book that no Indian
should die without reading. I have read the children’s version of the epic, so
I know the outline of the story. I do appreciate the unbiased compilation of
events listed in the original book, but reading the epic from the point of view
of a character as powerful as Draupadi is a vastly enriching experience by
itself.
The first thing that struck me even before
I began with the book was its title. “The Palace of Illusions” sounded like a
mystical title shrouded in fantasy. I wondered about the aptness of the name,
given that it is a story of bloodshed and gore and the lust for fame and power.
But with the progress of the book, I started realizing little by little why the
name was very appropriate after all: the book increasingly filled me with
wonder and made me question some of my basic thoughts and ideas about life and
death. Are our lives really anything more than dreams, and the deaths that
plague human life merely the passing of souls beyond the territory of the dream
that is life? Just like Draupadi’s prized palace of Indraprastha, her greatest treasure
and possession that begot such jealousy in the hearts of thousands, our lives
are illusory and transient too. The things we hold on to most desperately in
life are all temporary, and are washed away by the sands of time. In fact, non-scientific person though I am, I am reminded of the concept of
atoms and molecules. Aren’t they mostly empty space surrounding a minuscule
drop of tangible matter in their centres? Then, being made up of these same molecules,
are we anything more than space ourselves?
In this book, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
gives us her version of The Mahabharata through the eyes of the fiery daughter
of the king of Panchal. A woman in a man’s world, she is forever a misfit. She
aspires to achieve greatness, and bring the prophecy that had accompanied her birth,
about her changing the course of history, true through her own conscious
actions. Never really wanted right from birth, she is feared, envied and
shunned by women, and desired yet rebuked by men all her life. Her life follows
a path of bitterness, glory, pride, loss and remorse, until she finally attains
self-realization on her way along the maha-prasthan,
the last earthly route to heaven. The most powerful woman of the age dies a
lone figure on the icy crevices of the mountains, left behind by her five husbands,
and finally comes to term with the purpose of her life and death.
Reading the book, my ideas about right and
wrong were greatly shaken. I was forcefully reminded of a profound truth about
life: it is very difficult to distinguish between the good and the bad. Life is
not black and white; there are no
clear cut heroes and villains in life. Thinking back, I cannot recall even one completely good character. Think
about the atrocities wrought, the humiliations brought about by Drona, Drupad, Dhritarashtra, Kunti, you name it, to satisfy their own interests or
through silent sanction. Also, quite often it is one’s weaknesses that make one
great: Yudhisthir followed moral principles and tried to uplift his wife
spiritually, yet it was Bheem who truly loved her.
Talking about Yudhisthir, I have always
held a personal distaste for him. I think it has something to do with his unrelenting
adherence to what he understood as dharma. To him, what mattered were only his
principles, and not the emotions that his actions inspired in others. Even if
others were hurt, he would go ahead with his strict moral code. In her analysis
of her husbands’ characters, Panchali has repeatedly expressed her helpless
rage at the false sense of honour that all them carried. I agree with her wholeheartedly
when her heart raises questions about the necessity or glory of keeping one’s
word, even at the cost of another’s life or honour. What moral code was it that
allowed Yudhisthir to go ahead with the game of dice where he lost everything,
even his brothers and his wife? And what honour was it that stopped any of the
brothers and all the other courtiers from coming to Draupadi’s aid when she was
being humiliated by Dushshasan in full view of all present? Are codes and rules
and procedures really so much more important than human feelings? Are codes of
conduct made for the benefit of human beings, or is it really the other way
round?
The book is a superb study of human
relationships. Panchali’s feelings towards her five husbands are as diverse as
the people themselves. She is especially attracted to Arjun, the man who really
won her at her swayamvar, and she almost
challenges herself to win his special love and care. For Yudhisthir she holds a
reserved and respectful, and maybe a little distant, love. Bheem, who she senses
has fallen completely in love with her, she heartlessly utilizes and even
exploits. Bheem, always so eager to please, so fast with his anger as well as
his forgiveness, is almost a plaything to her. While reading the book, I had
this sudden thought, that I would consider myself lucky to get a husband like
him. Nakul and Sahadev are more like brothers to her, though she does share
their beds.
And then there is Karna. The man with the
ancient eyes: ignored and humiliated all his life. Abandoned by his own mother
at birth, he is brought up by a boatman. His father’s identity is unknown to
him, and this causes him terrible shame and suffering throughout his life. Even
Draupadi, the woman he adores in his heart, rejects him at her swayamvar. Finally, at the eve of the
great war, he is approached by Kunti, who at last acknowledges him to be her
eldest son. This causes him more pain, as he dies with the knowledge that he
had fought his own siblings. Throughout the entire book, he is the only
character for whom my heart really reaches out. His pain is incomparable,
except perhaps with Bhishma, the Grandfather.
Before I wrap up my essay, I want to add a
few lines about the blue God. Krishna, our very own household deity. He was
truly alive in flesh and blood. He led the war, but not without deceit. He
remained aloof and detached to a large extent when he could have prevented the
war. He could not justify the necessity of the war, the pain, the death, so
that even the victors wondered, long after everything was over, about whether they
had made the right choices. Divine thought he was, he died a rather pathetic
death and his entire clan was wiped out, all by the curse of a mere mortal woman.
And yet, in spite of all these uninspiring details about his life on earth, he
is the beginning and the end. He is the universe himself. And it is to him that
we will all go back when our time comes, just as Panchali did.
