I am obsessed with stories. I carry around the love, hatred, passion, sorrow and myriad of emotions from a story within me for days. Latest one that is weighing upon me is the story of Draupadi or Panchaali,as she would like us to call her, from 'The Palace Of Illusions' by Chitra Banarjee Divakaruni. I found the book at my local library in the lovely town of Gooding, Idaho.
I have been avoiding fiction books, reluctantly, as most of them fill me up with strong emotions that my heart and mind does not have time for. My side table has been covered with cozy mysteries and leadership fables instead. They are easy, like a riddle that my brain gets to exercise with and my heart does not have to bother. But, this book had me break that comfortable habit, with just the excerpt. I had to pick it up and let the smell of its pages fill my nostrils and travel through my body. I held it close to me as I set down to let it consume me. Consume me, it did, as I failed to even eat the food properly that my husband prepared with his usual affectionate roll of eyes and gentle teasing.
I finished it in the early house of this morning and here I am,still torn in pieces. My brother, with his practical wisdom, keeps asking why do I read such books, and my husband, with his eyes pained, looks around for something to distract me with. In this moment, I feel so much like Her, so sure of the love of those around me, yet insecure and fearful due to the awareness of my own flaws.
Anyway, back to the book. I applaud Ms. Divakaruni for having thought of the concept for this book. Reading the book, I wondered why it was not written sooner. Perhaps, it is because the story of Mahabharat is told with such conviction in the early days of our lives that we don't ask if there is an alternative way of narrating it.
I got the answers for so many questions that I must have wanted to ask over the years but never fully formed them. I found myself in the pages of this story as I am sure most of you would too. That is the power of a good story and of good writing. Well done to Chitra for doing a phenomenal job with this story of ages!
In the late hours of night, I wept with Panchaali. I waited with her to find the answers to the questions that would go on to define her life. I felt her impatience in my bones and in the tips of my fingers as I turned the pages roughly. I wondered with her what Krishna meant to her and if she meant just as much to him. I hoped Karna would be aware of his role in her life and he would be burning with the same fire. Most of all, I hoped she would find the strength to give her family what they truly deserved. I prayed with her, both of us not really knowing any prayers, that she would rise above her flaws. I stayed with her when she struggled to answer if she had any control over life or if her part was already planned out. I felt the heat rise in me when she bristled with anger, regret and curiosity. I believed in her strength and in her helplessness.
Only time when I failed to stand by her side is when she believed what Krishna told her in her last moments of life, that she was just an instrument and he was the doer. I stood skeptical. Perhaps she did too but chose to believe him. Perhaps, I would know the answers to what and why someday. Or, perhaps, like her, I will accept that truth is what I choose it to be and would learn to be happy with it.
