The Dice, the Drag, the Divine

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.

The Drag

I, the queen, was dragged to the sabha — as a wager.
Dushasana guffawed,
eyes blazing with triumph.
He caught my hair and flung me to the floor.
The queen of Indraprastha, pulled like a slave before her husbands.

They thought I would bow.
That silence was a woman’s fate.
But I was not silent.
I questioned. I resisted.
And in doing so, I broke more than their moment of triumph —
I broke the illusion that dharma was still alive in that hall.

The Faces of Silence

I looked around the assembly — faces once familiar, now turned away.

Bhishma — the grandsire who could have stopped it all.
No warrior alive matched his strength; no council dared overrule his word.
Yet he stood still — not because he did not see the wrong,
but because his vow bound him to the throne, not to dharma.
He had promised to serve whoever ruled Hastināpura,
and in keeping that promise, he broke the greater one — to his own conscience.

Dhritarashtra — the blind king who saw only his son.
In him, love had turned to weakness, and weakness to sin.
He had once dreamt of the crown denied to him by his blindness,
and now he lived that dream through Duryodhana’s defiance.
He heard my cries — and chose silence,
for a father’s pride was dearer to him than justice.

Vidura — the voice of dharma in a hall that had forgotten it.
He spoke, calling the act vile,
but Duryodhana stung him with one word — dasi-putra.
In that court, truth without power was silenced.

Drona and Kripa — teachers turned servants of the crown.
For Drona, his words carried little weight;
Duryodhana had long accused him of favoring Arjuna.
And perhaps it was true —
he had once demanded Ekalavya’s thumb
to preserve Arjuna’s pride.
Loyalty and guilt warred within him now,
and both kept him silent.
Kripa stood beside him —
faithful, voiceless, uncertain which side held dharma.

Karna — born of the sun, yet living in shadow.
He struck not with sword but with scorn.
He called me unchaste, not out of judgment, but revenge —
revenge for the wound of rejection that had never healed.

My husbands —
five men of valor, five hearts bound by shame.
Yudhishthira chained by vows,
Arjuna and Bhima smoldering but still,
Nakula and Sahadeva silent, disbelieving.
Bound by rules. Bound by helpless filial love.

The Humiliation

Dushshasana turned to Duryodhana and said,
“She is ours now — let her sit on your lap!”

The hall burst into cruel laughter —
a sound that hung heavy in the air like smoke.
Duryodhana smirked and slapped his thigh.
“Let her sit here,” he said, pointing to his lap.

I turned to the elders once more.
To Bhishma, to Vidura, to Dhritarashtra.
I pleaded. I questioned. I cried.
And for a moment, I still believed
that someone — anyone — would rise. But they lowered their eyes.

I saw the helplessness of the wise
when they stand before power without truth.
And I saw in Duryodhana's gesture
the hand of every silence that had allowed this moment.

Dushasana began to pull at the single garment I wore,
tearing through every law of decency,
every code that once held this world together.

The Divine

That was when the truth struck me —
no vow, no throne, no elder would protect me.
All that stood for dharma had turned into shadow.

So I let go —
not of myself,
but of the belief that I could be owned.
In that moment, stripped of all pride and protection,
I called to the one truth left to me.

Krishna.

And then — cloth upon cloth,
a miracle that no hand could stop.
As Dushasana pulled and gasped,
the garment flowed endless as faith.

The laughter died.
The hall fell silent.
And I stood — untouched,
wrapped not in fabric,
but in grace.

The miracle was not in the fabric —
but in the return of my own strength.
Krishna had not come from outside.
He had risen within.