‘Love comes like lightning, and disappears the same way. If you are lucky, it strikes you right. If not, you’ll spend your life yearning for a man you can’t have.’
~ Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
It has been raining stories set in historical and mythological pasts, retold in startling perspectives and flavours. Novel methods and innovations have been pressed into service with wide-ranging outcomes. Mahabharata too, that colossal epic of ambition, heroics, intrigue, treachery and vengeance, goes through the customary tweaks and twists in ‘Palace of Illusions’ by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.
Believed to have taken place circa 3100 BC, the saga of Mahabharat is a veritable mine of complex characters terrestrial to celestial, part-men to part-gods, and tiers of deities, whose paths intersect and intertwine, catapulting the fortunes of the small and the great. There are few accounts as vivid and panoramic, of the petulance and starkness of human failings, and the elegance or perfidy of men. Divakaruni’s adventurous version of the age old tale undertakes to ‘uncover the story that lay invisible between the lines of men’s exploits’ through the eyes of Panchaali, the princess who pulverised her times.
Once upon a time under an ancient sun a king prayed the gods for thirty days to send him a scion who could avenge his dishonour by his onetime friend. A boy did walk out of the sacrificial fire but the very next instant a girl appeared too. Gods enjoin the king to take good care of her for she would change the course of history. She would grow into a vivacious princess, keen on politics and duelling rather than cooking and music. In time, a grand archery contest is held whose winner is allowed to take her as a bride. A Pandava prince disguised as a beggar wins the test in a trifle and whisks her away. His mother, not knowing what prize the son has won asks him to share it equally among the five brothers who all then become her husbands.
Pandavas are forever dodging assassination bids by their scheming uncle and his brood of one hundred sons called Kauravas. Although the blind uncle is the reigning emperor, the crown is due to the eldest of Pandavas. The patriarch of the clan brokers temporary peace between them by dividing the kingdom into two but the Kauravas not only win the other half back in a wicked game of dice, they win the five brothers and the princess too as slaves. Worse would follow. The princess is dragged by her hair into the middle of a jeering assembly of Kauravas. One of them pulls away the clothes from her trembling body and orders her to sit on the thigh of the gang leader Duryodhan; the five husbands sit with bowed heads through the heinous spectacle. The princess would remain stung for life by the half-rape. She would take a vow not to tie her hair till the delinquent is beheaded and his blood applied to her tresses. The incident would lead to a cataclysmic war that would see all the kings and rulers of the continent taking sides. Most of them would perish in the horrific bloodletting lasting eighteen days, ushering in the end of an age of humanity.
Divakaruni seems unawed by the grandeur of the epic, or the majestic sweep of its verses and its religious overtones —a portion of it is still used by the judiciary to impart oaths in India. Well, at least not initially. She sets the ball rolling at a comfortable pace in an intimate, conversational tone. When the courtesans and the king are dumbfounded by the appearance of a girl out of the sacrificial fire, ‘It was so quiet, you could have heard a housefly fart.’ The irreverence of that one sentence at the outset is a signal of the colloquial style held through most of the book.
The depiction of the grudging welcome of the princess is a brilliant touch, symbolic of the reception she would receive for the rest of her life. The momentary hitch before she is picked up by her putative father would leave a lifelong scar —a craving to be loved unconditionally that would never be quenched. We share her feelings as she grows in the damp, stony corridors of the bleak palace and her dark chamber with a window set high in the wall; even the bars of the window are rusted. As against her cloistered life, her twin brother is free as a bird, absorbing exotic arts and knowledge. The bond she shares with her brother Dhri throbs noticeably through the pages.
The picture begins to get crowded as characters pour in. The eunuch sibling, the sorceress, a boatload of husbands and their stony, shrewd mother; the blind king and his sulking wife and the maddening Kauravas; the larger than life grandfather Bheeshma, each with a vendetta and a vengeance of one’s own. The creation of the ‘palace of illusions’ strikes the right chord as a fulfilment of the protagonist’s craving for fine living. The dialect for a change, rises a few notches:
“Above us our palace waits, the only one I’ve ever needed. Its walls are space, its floor is sky, its center everywhere. We rise; the shapes cluster around us in welcome, dissolving and forming again like fireflies in a summer evening.”
But the proceedings flounder with the Pandavas’ crusade to secure heaven for their departed ancestors. Kauravas’ overstay at the palace drags it down further. By the time the Pandavas lose everything to mind-numbing wagering, the sense of proportions has slipped well past the fingers of the narrator. The story has moved erratically across swaths of time, cruising past where it should have pondered, and lingering at inconsequential shrubbery. Panchaali does fetch snippets from her yet untold future now and then but they stand out like unsightly patches on the fabric, enriching neither the present nor the bygone. The largely linear structure of the story is choking for movement ahead. Then Pandavas hit the forest for twelve years of exile and a year of hiding. It is a testing time for the reader as Panchaali goes about heaving and hoeing, stinging each brother like a clockwork lest they forget the unforgivable that happened to her. More than vengeance, there is exasperation in the air, thick and palpable. The book is dead by the thirteenth year and the war has not even begun.
But the greatest failing of the story is the choice of first person voice. The clear vision of the princess as a girl moves away steadily from the personal to universal till it is just a third person narrator describing what is happening to her own character. “A woman doesn’t think that way.” “But was a woman’s heart any purer in the end?” “But a strange implacability had taken over me…. I stitched discontent onto my features and let my hair fall.”
Perhaps it is easy to be swept by the expanse of the canvas when your source is an epic like Mahabharata. A seer penning a momentous saga has the luxury to splurge in characters, bump them in and out at will, each with a potful of life of their own. It is a pitfall, one that is perilous to someone writing a stock potboiler, to peer at infinity. It is best for both author and audience that the focus be selective, characters few and the emotions consistent. It pays even if your premise is contentious, like the love between Panchaali and Karna we have in the book, carried to a credible conclusion.
Then there is the question of language. The decision to defang a mammoth, half-sacred epic is already taken and the style matches the severity of the dilution for most parts. Yet, there are sparks of lyricism at points that rise to the sublimity of the task at hand. However, the effects get rubbed away quickly by a lingo of Facebook chat. Here is how a regal prince narrates a crucial moment in the epoch churning battle: Nakul said: “You know how Eldest Brother is, very noble and admirable, only sometimes he doesn’t think things through. So he tells Duryodhan, You’re alone here and tired out, and there’s five of us against you, which isn’t fair…”
The sense of disproportion plagues the book till it’s excruciatingly delayed end. This is what the dying arch-villain slaps on Panchaali in the closing moment of the holocaust, “You will rule a kingdom peopled with widows and orphans and wake each morning to the grief of loss. Who is the real winner, then, and who the loser?” Gosh! That’s enough to turn the victory into ash in the mouths of an entire race. The panting book has ended with a beautiful sting and for a moment one is reminded of that age old adage, all’s well that ends well! But Divakaruni would rather not stop there. She would meander aimlessly for fifty more pages, copying and pasting sorrow widow after widow, mourning the headless dead and the listless living, brooding over the detritus of kingdoms. Eventually, she would fall on her way trying to follow the Pandavas into the clouds of heaven. Yudhishthir’s fading voice would be replaced by Krishna’s philosophical crooning, till there is nothing but death whistling in her ears.
Whence did she speak to us in the book?
Palace of Illusions
Author: Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
Publisher: Picador India
An honest review…I must say… 🙂
Thank you, honestly.
I am certainly not picking up this book! Thanks for the honest review. The slew of mythology books I see seem to be almost factory produced these days with different angles, and each narrative that sounds more of a pot-boiler than a sacred piece of literature.
That’s so right, Richa. There’s been a deluge of classics being rewritten as pulp. Mahabharat alone has over 25 wannabe clones. I have always been fascinated by Panchali, one of the reasons I picked up this book. I was left with a deep sense of loss of what could have been.
A pleasure to read an intelligent review that does not let bad writing off the hook! Thanks for this, Uma.
When the balance of bad tips the good in a book, someone has got to blow the whistle. Thanks for the endorsement, Molly.
uma, too bad the story didn’t live up to expectations. It was a daring experiment, seeing things through the Princess’ eyes. I’ve read portions of the Mahabharata-the Bhagavad-Gita of course-but never this particular tale.
Marty, if not talent, a great work hungers for blood and sweat of the author, even if one’s hands are full with ripe material such as these.
Despite its many shortcomings, I’ll still rank Palace of Illusions as one of her better books. An epic told from a woman’s point of view was an interesting experiment.
Purba, it must be true what you say, and The Palace of Illusions is a poor touchstone in itself.
Weaving a book around the Mahabharata is no easy task. The weak will fall in front of its sheer brilliance. Rather like those remakes which are made of very famous works and rarely fail to pass the test, because somewhere they set out to accomplish the impossible. Very fine review Uma.
The truth be told, Ash, there’s been a deluge of cookie cutters plundered from mythologies. A great work requires grinding work over years, unless you are a genius. Many thanks for the encouragement.
Mahabharata is one such epic that can have numerous perspectives, sad it didn’t make a good read for you will add it to my list to read too.
Shweta, when a classic tale of yore has been molested into tasteless pulp, someone has to blow the whistle.
An honest review i think will give it a miss.
Datta, that was my two pennies worth! Thanks a ton.
Oh God it’s not Bollywood.The remix didn’t work well for the author I guess. Such epics should not be experimented with. Your review as always is very intelligent.
Oh, yes, Samir! Now that you use the term, it does have the ingredients of a Bollywood masala.
When it comes to mythology, I am a purist who is unable to appreciate modern interpretations. The book does not interest me, though the review was comprehensive.
Mythologies are like orchards laden with ripe fruits. No wonder contemporary writers are swarming like bees.
Now that was a good read. The review, I mean.
It seems like a long time ago, that I read this book. I personally liked the ‘idea’ — of seeing the epic from Draupadi’s perspective. That was what made me pick up the book. However it didn’t leave a strong impression, as I thought it would. Some parts of it didn’t fit in with the original.
I didn’t notice the ‘there’s five of us’ :D. I guess that had begun to sound ‘normal’ to me; you know, I’d been hearing that kind of language quite a bit. 🙂
I agree — it is not tasteful when you treat an ancient story with colloquialism.
Divya, as I have said, it is an adventurous book, both in style and content. I have not read other books by the author; perhaps it’s her natural style. But the flippancy doesn’t sit well on the subject in question. What disappointed me more was the feeling that she has remorselessly cut corners.
Fantastic post. Though I am new at WordPress it’s posts like these that inspire me to write more. I hope you can take some time and go through my blog. It’s new but your critique can help me hone my art too. 🙂
Thank you for the gorgeous compliment, Sushil. Welcome to WordPress and One Grain Amongst the Storm! I will surely find my way to your blog.
This was on my to read list mainly because it was a story though the eyes of Draupadi. I’ve read her books with mixed success maybe I’ll wait for the movie then.
Wish you luck with the movie, Subroto —I can already smell an ‘item song’, maybe two!
I like reading historical fiction but it has to have a certain taste in it. What i am interested in exploring in this book is the point of view of a woman towards this magnanimous tale of Mahabharata.
Indeed, that is what goaded me to the book. I wish you luck in the enterprise.
This is the first time I am seeing a negative review on your blog – that too of a book over which people have been singing paeans. Somehow I had a gut feel that this book will be the way you have described it – one of the reasons I never felt like picking it up.
Well, your gut feeling is bang on. Perhaps more than the the merits of the book, it is the fascination with the legend of Panchali that feeds the interest of the readers.
Liked the review, USP! I was disappointed too. An epic like Mahabharata shouldn’t be dealt with callously, and that was precisely what the author did. This book could have been so much, and ended up being nothing and less.
I am in reassuring company, Radha! Exactly what I feel too: not only she has been callous, she seems to have resolutely refused to sweat over her opus. Thank you so much.
Great review Umashankar. That snippet of conversation in prosaic ‘Facebook’ lingo is enough to put me off. And I detest prolonged Bollywood style endings too 🙂
Aren’t they Madhu? Thank you for concurring with my effort.
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