I faint in the arena, not from weakness but from the shock of seeing my past walk into my present — alive, grown, strong, claimed by another woman and another world. When I wake, I say nothing. The truth inside me tightens like a knot pulled too hard. ******** After the tournament, life moves on as if nothing has changed. Duryodhana stands beside Karna with a pride that only deepens with time; their bond grows quickly, two young men hungry for recognition and fiercely loyal to each other. I watch them from afar, always with the same quiet dread. I know what it means for a boy to be lifted from obscurity and given a place. I know what such gratitude can become. I know the same ache Karna carries : the hunger to belong, the desperation to prove oneself worthy. And that is when I realise I cannot reveal the truth now. He is no longer a child in a basket — he is a man with pride, anger, and wounds I cannot predict. And he stands beside the one person who trusts him completely. If I spe...

I am Kunti. I was Pritha once, but I grew into Kunti — shaped by the homes I entered, the vows I kept, and the secrets I carried. Though young, I vividly remember the moment when everything familiar is taken away from me. One day I am in my father Surasena’s palace — the footsteps I know, the voices I recognize, the comfort of routines that never change. And the next day, I am being sent to Kuntibhoja’s kingdom, because my father must keep a promise given to his childless cousin. A child understands no promise. A child only knows the fear of being uprooted. My new mother — the mother of this new house — welcomes me kindly, holds my hand, even hugs me. But her touch is not my mother’s, and my mother does not seem to miss me the way I miss her. So, I try to be careful. I try not to offend. I try to belong. Some days I feel accepted. Other days I feel like I must prove myself again. Slowly, the new rhythms become familiar, but the insecurity settles quietly inside me — not lou...

(Continued from Part 1 : While Kuntī and I waited for the thirteen years to end, my sons plotted to find the Pāṇḍavas during their concealment in Virāṭa’s kingdom — so that exile might begin anew.) Meanwhile, whispers reached Hastinapura — Keechaka, the mighty general of Virāṭa, had been slain. I needed no further sign. Only Bhīma’s hand could have struck so. My heart trembled — if they were discovered before their time, the wheel of sin would turn once more, and no redemption would follow. Restlessness seized Duryodhana. Convinced that the sons of Pāṇḍu were hiding in Virāṭa’s court, he led a raid upon its cattle, eager to draw them out. Soon I learnt that Prince Uttara had gone to face our armies, taking with him his charioteer — a dancer from the women’s quarters. That charioteer turned the tide, scattering seasoned generals and humbling our might. I needed no confirmation — only Arjuna could have stood thus. The Paṇḍavas’ disguise had served its purpose; what was meant to be h...

I remember the scent of sandalwood that morning in Gandhara — faint, deliberate, the fragrance our women used before dawn prayers. Outside, the court murmured with talk of Bhishma’s arrival from Hastināpura. In those days, Gandhāra was a small border kingdom — between the Kurus of the plains and the western realms of Madra, Bāhlika, Sindhu, and Kamboja — a frontier that often bent before power but preserved its pride in wisdom and diplomacy. My father, King Subala, had ruled long enough to know that pride alone cannot guard borders. Bhishma’s proposal — that I be wed to the blind prince Dhritarashtra — carried the weight of a command more than a request. Shakuni, my brother, raged. His love for me was fierce, and his sense of insult fiercer. But he, too, saw the truth in our father’s silence. To refuse would invite ruin; to accept, at least, preserved Gandhāra. When the decision was made, I felt no anger. Only a stillness, as if my life had suddenly stepped out of its own light. Tha...

Draupadi’s Reflection They played the game. And lost. Gold. Livestock. Brothers. The self. And then — me. I was not in the sabha when the dice fell. A messenger came and said I had been lost. I asked, “Did Yudhishthira lose himself before he lost me?” There was no answer. I refused to move. Another messenger came. Still, no answer. Then came Dushasana. Leering. Gloating. Smirking. He came not to speak, but to seize. He was Duryodhana’s hand — exultant, vicious, unrestrained. His face gleamed with triumph. He dragged me by the hair — This was not duty but desire — a moment long awaited, to drag me, to break me, to show me where I belonged.