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Authors: Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
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Sikhandi's words.
But I had something else to ask before he left. I grasped his hands one last time, feeling those calluses. I'd tried to soften them with a paste, but he'd stopped me. “What's the use?” he'd said. “I'll just have to grow myself some more.”
“When we first met,” I asked, “why did you thank me?”
“I thanked you because you'll help me fulfill my destiny.”
“How?”
“You'll bring about the Great War where I'll meet Bheeshma and kill him.” His face darkened. “But I should have begged your pardon instead for all the humiliation you'll suffer before the war, and all the sorrow afterward. And much of this you'll endure, sister, because your destiny is linked with mine.”
7
I sat stubbornly under a jamun tree in my garden, trying to concentrate on a volume of nyaya shastra. It was a large and laborious book that set out the laws of the land, which my brother was currently studying. (Soon after Sikhandi's visit, Father had terminated my lessons with his tutor, declaring that I needed to focus on more feminine interests.) Around me summer unfurled its drowsy petals in a conspiracy to distract me. Insects sang. Luscious purple jamuns dropped lazily onto thick grass. The paired cry of bright birds pulled at my chest, releasing a strange restlessness. (Was this a feminine interest?) My companions, daughters of courtiers, clustered themselves under canopies hoisted to protect our complexions. (They'd been inflicted on me after Sikhandi's visit by my father. He hoped they would be a good influence, but they merely annoyed me.) They murmured gossip, chewed betel leaf to redden their lips, exchanged recipes for love potions, pouted, giggled without reason, and emitted suitably feminine shrieks if a bee orbited too close. From time to time they sent me beseeching glances. If only I'd decide to go back inside the palace! This pitiless sun—even with a canopy, it was so bad for the skin! They'd have to spend hours soaked in yogurt and turmeric paste to counter its ravages!
I ignored them sternly and continued to read. The book, which described in diligent, morose detail complicated laws concerning household property—including servants and wives—caused my eyelids to droop. But I was determined to learn what a king was supposed to know. (How else could I aspire to be different from these giddy girls, or from my father's wives, who spent their days vying for his favors? How else could I be powerful in myself?) So I ignored summer's blandishments and battled with the book.
But I was fated never to finish learning nyaya shastra. For even as I turned the page Dhai Ma came from the palace, waddling as fast as her bulk would allow. Out of breath and wheezing, her face an alarming red, she shooed my companions away. Then she whispered the news in my ear (but in her excitement she was so loud that everyone heard): my father had decided—Sikhandi's visit must have stirred up a veritable storm of anxiety in him—that I was to be married next month.
Ever since the prophecy, I'd thought intermittently of marriage—at times with excitement or resignation, at times with dread. I sensed, vaguely, that it was a great opportunity—but for what I wasn't sure. I'd imagined that it would be similar to the weddings of my father's other daughters: arranged by elders. But Dhai Ma informed me I was to have a swayamvar. Eligible rulers from every kingdom in Bharat would be invited to Panchaal. From among them, my father had announced, I would choose the man I was to marry.
After the initial shock, I was filled with exhilaration. I ran to find Dhri. “I can't believe I'm going to pick my own husband!” I cried. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“Don't get so excited,” he replied glumly. “Something always goes wrong in a swayamvar—either while it's happening, or later.”
I felt a twinge of foreboding, but I refused to let Dhri's words ruin my mood. He was too cautious. Sometimes I told him that the gods
But I had something else to ask before he left. I grasped his hands one last time, feeling those calluses. I'd tried to soften them with a paste, but he'd stopped me. “What's the use?” he'd said. “I'll just have to grow myself some more.”
“When we first met,” I asked, “why did you thank me?”
“I thanked you because you'll help me fulfill my destiny.”
“How?”
“You'll bring about the Great War where I'll meet Bheeshma and kill him.” His face darkened. “But I should have begged your pardon instead for all the humiliation you'll suffer before the war, and all the sorrow afterward. And much of this you'll endure, sister, because your destiny is linked with mine.”
7
I sat stubbornly under a jamun tree in my garden, trying to concentrate on a volume of nyaya shastra. It was a large and laborious book that set out the laws of the land, which my brother was currently studying. (Soon after Sikhandi's visit, Father had terminated my lessons with his tutor, declaring that I needed to focus on more feminine interests.) Around me summer unfurled its drowsy petals in a conspiracy to distract me. Insects sang. Luscious purple jamuns dropped lazily onto thick grass. The paired cry of bright birds pulled at my chest, releasing a strange restlessness. (Was this a feminine interest?) My companions, daughters of courtiers, clustered themselves under canopies hoisted to protect our complexions. (They'd been inflicted on me after Sikhandi's visit by my father. He hoped they would be a good influence, but they merely annoyed me.) They murmured gossip, chewed betel leaf to redden their lips, exchanged recipes for love potions, pouted, giggled without reason, and emitted suitably feminine shrieks if a bee orbited too close. From time to time they sent me beseeching glances. If only I'd decide to go back inside the palace! This pitiless sun—even with a canopy, it was so bad for the skin! They'd have to spend hours soaked in yogurt and turmeric paste to counter its ravages!
I ignored them sternly and continued to read. The book, which described in diligent, morose detail complicated laws concerning household property—including servants and wives—caused my eyelids to droop. But I was determined to learn what a king was supposed to know. (How else could I aspire to be different from these giddy girls, or from my father's wives, who spent their days vying for his favors? How else could I be powerful in myself?) So I ignored summer's blandishments and battled with the book.
But I was fated never to finish learning nyaya shastra. For even as I turned the page Dhai Ma came from the palace, waddling as fast as her bulk would allow. Out of breath and wheezing, her face an alarming red, she shooed my companions away. Then she whispered the news in my ear (but in her excitement she was so loud that everyone heard): my father had decided—Sikhandi's visit must have stirred up a veritable storm of anxiety in him—that I was to be married next month.
Ever since the prophecy, I'd thought intermittently of marriage—at times with excitement or resignation, at times with dread. I sensed, vaguely, that it was a great opportunity—but for what I wasn't sure. I'd imagined that it would be similar to the weddings of my father's other daughters: arranged by elders. But Dhai Ma informed me I was to have a swayamvar. Eligible rulers from every kingdom in Bharat would be invited to Panchaal. From among them, my father had announced, I would choose the man I was to marry.
After the initial shock, I was filled with exhilaration. I ran to find Dhri. “I can't believe I'm going to pick my own husband!” I cried. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“Don't get so excited,” he replied glumly. “Something always goes wrong in a swayamvar—either while it's happening, or later.”
I felt a twinge of foreboding, but I refused to let Dhri's words ruin my mood. He was too cautious. Sometimes I told him that the gods
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