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400 pages, Kindle Edition
Published November 19, 2016
Yes, women's tales, too, have been told by men, but with an important difference: they are cautionary. They warn men that women are clever, conniving, deceitful, and frequently, the cause of dissension. They tell women how they should be, and more importantly, not be. A common theme is retribution for breaking rules that are invariably manmade. Speaking out of turn, laughing at the wrong time, keeping a secret. Crossing the line.
"I can't wait," said a familiar voice. I whirled around.
Aware that the cook and his assistants had turned into stone through sheer fright, their eyeballs glazing over, their tongues frozen, I said quickly, "Rishivar, I'll bring a dish to your chamber."
"I cannot wait," he repeated, a manic gleam in his eyes. "I want it now."
Not knowing what else to do, I did something that seems incomprehensible even today. I picked up the pot with the ladle in it. He stood and calmly ate while I held up the pot before him. His tongue did not burn, but can I say the same of my hands? The heat seared the flesh of my palm, a red-hot sword slicing all the way through the layers of skin and sinew, burning up nerve and charring bone. It felt as though the fire was devouring me. How long did the ordeal last? Three minutes, five or ten, I cannot say. All my senses contracted to a pinpoint that glowed white hot. I was not aware of falling, but when I opened my eyes, the world seemed different, skewed, peopled by unfamiliar faces wide-eyed in shock, mouth rounded in horror, staring at me. The seer was gone. I looked at my hands, as if they were things unconnected with me. They did not seem anything like hands, but more like remains: swollen, raw, scalded, whitish pink blisters erupting like volcanic islands out of a purple ocean. A scream rose in my chest, caught in my throat, emerged as a pathetic mewling cry of distress. Help me! And then, mercifully, I fainted.
"A daughter-in-law of the Kurus!" mocked Gandhari. You and I are daughters-in-law of this house too. Haven't we accepted our fate? Why must she be different?
"Panchali is a different woman. She does not blindly accept her fate but makes her choice and risks the consequences."
"Her risk will be our ruin," hissed Gandhari.
Gandhari repeated her question. "What is happening?"
"Your son is trying to murder mine," I said. "Again."
Gandhari gasped. Dushala too, turned to me with a shocked look. I stared straight ahead.
"I have never differentiated between Dhritarashtra's sons and my own. But if there is any hope for justice, for dharma to endure, then my sons have to get back their kingdom." The instant I said those words, I knew that they were the only words left to be said.
"Kanina, sutaputra," he repeated, as though carefully measuring the weight of the words. "Sutaputra, kanina. Those were my choices, but never a kshatriya. Never till today. Why is the world suddenly so keen to recognize me as a kshatriya?"
...
"The secret itself is relevant, but that you chose to reveal it today is what is of concern to me. Does it have anything to do with the fact that I've just been appointed the senapati of the Kaurava army and have sworn to kill your sons?"
"Glory," the son said, his shoulders slumping tiredly. "Strange as it may sound to you, but I don't care for it. Do you want to know why? I am weary of the life you two gave me. Once I was greedy for victory, fame, a kingdom... but now, all I crave is an honourable end. Death on the battlefield would be a welcome thing."
Death had ushered in a new camaraderie. Facing each other, hands reaching out.
"Have you seen my brother?" The girl who stopped me with her question was young, no more than sixteen... She could have been me - when I was that age.
"What does he look like?"
"Like me, of course. Taller by a few inches, though he is a year younger."
Purujit, I thought. But Purujit was dead. As was Kuntibhoja. [...] Whose army had her brother fought for? How had he died? How did it matter? They were all dead.
My presence in the battlefield had been noticed; it was causing a stir.
"Kunti?" I heard Gandhari say. "Here?" After a moment. "Whom has she lost?"
I remembered by dead love and wept for all I had lost. Whatever I had done, good and bad, hadn't I done it for him, his sons? He had always cared deeply for his blind brother, and now I, too, had begun to see why: Dhritarashtra was pitiable, he had always been so.
"My decision is firm," I said. In my mind's eye, I saw the open road welcoming me. Above it, a free sky.
Men's stories are the bones of a bygone age, sanctified as relics, preserved in stone. Women's stories are written in water. Yes, women's tales, too, have been told by men but with an important difference: they are cautionary. They warn men that women are clever, conniving, deceitful and, frequently, the cause of dissension. They tell women how they should be and, more importantly, not be. A common theme is retribution for breaking rules that are invariably man-made.