the palace of illusions

I don’t think I’ve ever finished a book faster than this one.

The ‘Palace of Illusions‘ by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni explores the Mahabharata by retelling it through Draupadi’s perspective. I had a friend suggest this book, and the moment I heard this, I knew this was something I HAD to read.

I’ve never read the Mahabharata before. Like most of us, I know some scenes here and there, referenced through childhood stories and serials.

The only main part of the story I was aware of before reading this, was when Arjun breaks down crying in the midst of Kurukshetra, and Krishna begins to advise him.

(Note: This sets up the Bhagwad Gita.)

Back to the book: Instead of the traditional, male-centered narrative, Divakaruni invites us into the private chambers of Draupadi’s mind, letting us witness her doubts, desires, and defiance.

For me, the main selling point was not because it retells the Mahabharata (arguably the most epic saga ever written) but because it flips the entire narrative on its head, showing us the great war through the eyes of a woman who burned kingdoms to the ground with a single oath.

She’s not your traditional woman. From the moment she was born, (she stepped out a fire) she was told by sages and the mysterious voice (revealed later to be Krishna) that she was destined to change history.

That the Third Age of Men would decisively come to an end by her actions and decisions.

Draupadi thus becomes the subject, not the object, of her own story, and through her, the epic of Mahabharata is filtered into something intimate, raw, and deeply human.

The story is really intense, so many excruciating little details that make the difference throughout. From her childhood, the swayamvar where she chooses her husband, external-public humiliation, exile, ego, loss, vengeance - it takes you through the emotional (but rational) mind of the Pandava queen.

There are so many different incidents I can talk about, but this is the one main revelation I wanna include here for you.

(Hint: 🦚🦚🦚)

You know that friend who never quite gives you the answer you want?
Krishna was that friend to Draupadi.

From their very first meeting, he showed up with his trademark crooked smile and responses that sounded more like riddles than advice.

When Draupadi complained about injustice, Krishna would talk about dharma.
When she sought revenge strategies, he'd offer philosophical puzzles.
When she wanted sympathy, he'd crack a joke that somehow made cosmic sense.

God, he was annoying. (Literally, in this case.)

The fact is: Krishna never tried to fix Draupadi.

While everyone else in her life—her husbands, her brother, even her sons—kept trying to protect, avenge, or define her, Krishna just... stayed.

Krishna had this habit of dropping truth bombs disguised as casual banter. Like when Draupadi was obsessing over palace politics, and he'd say something like, "You're worried about who sits where at dinner when the whole universe is inside you."

Classic Krishna. Making you question your entire existence while passing the butter.

Oh and how could I forget about the ending?

In Draupadi's final moments, as she's climbing the mountain to heaven (literally), she starts falling behind. Her body is failing. And suddenly, she begins to see her life flash before her eyes—except it's not what she expects.

The palace intriques? Barely register.
The great war she helped trigger? Background noise.
Her revenge on those who wronged her? Surprisingly hollow.

She comes to the slow realisation that everything she desired, from material to vengeance and death of her wrongdoers — nothing mattered.

At the end of her life, she was left for dead on the cold, icy Mahaprasthan, with even her husbands not coming back to save her.

As the 7 seconds of her life flash before her eyes, she tries to remember the happy ones.

And then it hits her—and us: In every single happy memory of her dramatic, epic life, Krishna was there.

Not as the divine avatar, not as the political mastermind, but as her friend.
The one constant in a life of variables.

He was always there. 🦚

In the end, Draupadi finally understood the cruel irony of her life's name.

She had spent decades in a palace that materialized from magic—walls that rose from earth at an architect's divine command, gardens that bloomed in impossible colors, corridors that shifted with celestial geometry.

But as she lay dying on that mountain path to heaven, her body failing while her husbands walked ahead, Draupadi saw with brutal clarity what Krishna had been trying to tell her all along.

Everything had been an illusion.

Sometimes you need to lose everything to realize what was never yours to lose in the first place.

And as she drew her last breath on that mountain, Draupadi finally understood Krishna's most irritating teaching: that perhaps the greatest illusion of all was believing that anything but love was ever real in the first place.

(I highly suggest you read the book for yourself, I could never do as good a job of portraying the actual story the way Divakaruni did.)