Free The Palace of Illusions by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Page A

love, princess. Pleasure is simpler, and duty more important. Learn to be satisfied with them.”
    I should have believed her and modified my expectations. But I didn't. Deep in my stubborn heart I was convinced I deserved more.

    There were two final gifts the sorceress gave me: a story and a parchment. The story was the tale of Kunti, mother of Arjun. The parchment was a map of Bharat's many kingdoms.
    In her youth, the sorceress told me, Kunti was given a boon by the irascible sage Durvasa, whom she'd managed somehow to please. Whenever she wanted, she could call upon a god, and he would gift her with a son. It was a strange boon, not without its drawbacks, but it came in handy when her husband Pandu couldn't provide her with children. Thus her eldest, Yudhisthir, was the son of the god of righteousness, her second, Bheem, the son of the god of wind, and Arjun, the son of Indra the king-god. Once, King Pandu's other wife, Madri, begged and begged Kunti to loan her this boon, and Kunti did. Thus, Nakul and Sahadev, sons of the twin healer-gods, were born.
    “Do you believe that men can be born from gods?” I asked.
    She gave me a look. “As much as they can be born from fire! But my believing is not important, nor yours. That's not why stories are given to you.”
    The sorceress was a good storyteller. She brought Kunti's lonely existence alive so I could look into its lightless crevices. Adopted by her uncle, the childless king Kuntibhoj, she had no brothers to cherish her, no sisters to confide in, no mother to turn to for consolation. Her marriage to Pandu—one of political convenience—wasn't happy. Almost immediately he took the beautiful Madri as his second wife and lavished his affection on her. Soon afterward, Pandu was cursed by a brahmin. He left his kingdom in the hands of his blind brother, Dhritarashtra, and went into the forest to do penance. As faithful wives, Kunti and Madri, too, left the comforts of the court and accompanied him (though perhaps they shouldn't have bothered—the curse stipulated that if Pandu touched a woman in desire, he would perish). Years passed. The children appeared. But one day Pandu, no longer able to resist, embraced Madri. He died. The guilt-ridden Madri chose not to live on. Kunti, devastated though she must have been both by 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 their 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.
    I wanted to tell the sorceress how moved I was by Kunti's sufferings and her courage, but she forestalled me. “Don't let the waves of your emotion drown you,” she said, fixing me with eyes that were cold as agates. “Understand! Understand what drove a woman like her. What allowed her to survive when she was surrounded by enemies. Understand what makes a queen—and beware!”
    I didn't pay the sorceress much attention. With the arrogance of youth I thought that the motives that drove Kunti were too simple to require careful study.
    Only when we met would I realize how different she was from my imaginings. And how much more dangerous.

    The map was a thick crinkled sheet the color of skin. Before this (though the tutor had spoken of it) I'd never seen the shape of the country I lived in, a triangle that narrowed downward in a wedge that drove itself into the ocean. It was made up of so many kingdoms that I thought I'd never learn them all. The rivers and mountains were easier: I enunciated their names as I traced them with my finger. When I touched the peaks of the Himalayas, my hand tingled, and I knew that those icy ranges would be significant in my life. I looked wonderingly at the kingdom of Panchaal and the dot that was Kampilya. It was a strange