#draupadi

A very rough draw of Draupadi

My god makes mistakes. My god gives the right blessings to the wrong people. My god sometimes keeps quiet when he sees injustice. My god pretends not to listen to my pleas. My god refuses to let anyone see him. My god is not always right. My god does not makes the right choices. My god sometimes lets bad people roam the earth free. My god lets the good people suffer. Why?

Maybe because, my god is not an all-powerful, all-knowing being. Maybe he is human, just like me and next person. My god makes mistakes, and then he gives himself a chance to correct them, asks for help to correct them. Be it Shiv asking Vishnu to preserve the universe, because he gave the wrong asur a boon. Be it the gods asking Parvati to help defeat Mahisasur, because they gave him a boon. Maybe, this is what makes my god so godly. He asks for help, something we can't do. He accepts his mistakes, something we can't do. He forgives, something we can't do. He speaks up when he must, something we can't. He defends, protects when he must, something we can't do.

I just realized something striking about the Indian epics: they only seem to recognize kidnapping as a serious form of abuse or crime when the woman is already **married**—meaning she "belongs" to another man. But when an unmarried woman is abducted, it's rarely treated as a real crime or even acknowledged as abuse. In their worldview, it appears that kidnapping violates a sort of "men's code": you don't steal a married woman because she's already claimed as someone else's property. An unmarried woman, however, has no "owner" to defend her honor or stake a claim, so her abduction isn't seen as a big deal.

Take these examples from the Mahabharata:

- Bhishma abducts Amba and her two sisters (Ambika and Ambalika) from their swayamvara to secure brides for his half-brother Vichitravirya. The two younger sisters eventually accept the marriage (to the stepbrother), and no one bats an eye. But Amba, who was in love with someone else (King Salva) and had already chosen him mentally, protests fiercely. Yet no one—not Bhishma, not the Kuru elders, not even the other kings—treats her abduction as a crime or offers her real justice. She's left to fend for herself, her suffering dismissed, and her plight fuels a lifelong vendetta that ends tragically.

- Then there's Arjuna's abduction of Subhadra. Krishna himself advises Arjuna to kidnap her because, as he puts it, Subhadra might not choose him in a swayamvara—she could pick someone else. So Arjuna forcibly takes her away during a festival outing. The Yadavas (including Balarama) get furious and want to chase after them, but not primarily out of concern for Subhadra's well-being or consent. Their outrage is mostly about the insult to their family honor and prestige—how dare someone "steal" their sister like that! 😂 Krishna has to calm them down, and the whole episode gets romanticized later as a grand love story.

It's honestly hilarious (and frustrating) how people spin the Subhadra-Arjuna episode as some sweet, consensual romance. Subhadra was given zero real choice in the matter—Krishna explicitly says she wouldn't have picked Arjuna in a self-choice ceremony, so they bypass it entirely through abduction. Fans who idolize Subhadra should actually be outraged at Krishna and Arjuna for disregarding her autonomy and right to choose her own groom. And don't get me started on Balarama and the Yadavas—they cared more about their bruised egos and "family honor" than about whether their sister was genuinely okay with being dragged off. 🤣🤣

In short, these stories reveal a deeply patriarchal lens where a woman's agency only matters if it affects a man's claim over her. Unmarried women? Fair game for heroic "abductions." Married ones? That's crossing the line. The double standard is glaring.

The text reflects a deeply patriarchal framework where a woman's "value" or protection often hinges on whether she's already "owned" by a man through marriage. Unmarried women could be abducted under the guise of rakshasa vivaha (marriage by capture), which was explicitly praised for brave Kshatriyas in certain contexts—Krishna even endorses it for Arjuna, saying forcible abduction is applauded.But once a woman is married, abducting her crosses into violating another man's property rights, triggering outrage (as with Ravana's abduction of Sita in the Ramayana, framed as the ultimate adharma).

In the examples mentioned:

Bhishma's abduction of the Kashi princesses — It's treated as a bold, heroic act to fulfill family duty. Ambika and Ambalika adapt and marry Vichitravirya, so the abduction is "justified" in outcome. Amba's refusal and prior attachment to Salva are dismissed; her trauma and quest for justice are sidelined, leading to her tragic fate. No real condemnation of the act itself.

Arjuna and Subhadra — Krishna orchestrates the abduction precisely because he doubts Subhadra would choose Arjuna in a swayamvara. The Yadavas' anger (led by Balarama) is framed around family honor and the insult of being "robbed," not Subhadra's feelings or autonomy. The text later describes (comparing ther union to Shachi with Indra or Shri with Krishna) even duryodhana was compared to indra lol, but it's after the fact—consent is retrofitted, and the episode gets heavily romanticized in modern retellings, TV serials, and fan narratives as pure love at first sight or mutual destiny. The original Vyasa text is far more pragmatic and political: it's an alliance-strengthening move between Pandavas and Yadavas.

And yes, the hypocrisy in modern adaptations is ridiculous. Endless romantic dramas glorify Arjuna-Subhadra as this swoony, consensual epic love story while portraying Draupadi's polyandrous marriage as tragic, burdensome, or miserable—often emphasizing her "suffering" under five husbands, the dice game humiliation, exile hardships, etc.

But the original Mahabharata (in sections like the Adi Parva) explicitly counters that narrative about Draupadi. After her marriage is settled, Vyasa describes her as extremely happy with the five Pandavas:

"Krishnaa [Draupadi] followed the wishes of all the five sons of Pritha, who were lions among men and immeasurable in their energy. She was extremely happy with the five valourous ones as her husbands, like Sarasvati with her elephants, and they were also delighted with her."

This simile (Sarasvati surrounded by her elephants—symbolizing abundance, harmony, and mutual joy) paints a picture of contentment and prosperity. The Pandavas abide by dharma, the family thrives, sins are absent, and happiness prevails. There's no dwelling on misery or resentment here; it's presented as a successful, dharmic arrangement that benefits everyone.

In contrast, Subhadra's happiness with Arjuna gets no mention, nor emphasized with the same detail or communal prosperity angle as Draupadi's. Subhadra's story fades into the background after Abhimanyu's birth, while Draupadi remains central through trials and triumphs.

Modern serials and fictions flip this: they amp up Arjuna-Subhadra romance (often inventing mutual pining, secret meetings, etc.) while making Draupadi's life look endlessly tragic—focusing on jealousy, inequality among co-wives, or her "sacrifice." It's selective storytelling that reinforces certain ideals (monogamous romance = ideal) while downplaying the epic's own portrayal of Draupadi's fulfillment in her unique marriage.

But you, oh you.

You held my hand for 21 really fast heart beats

And I was addicted.

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Arjun loves monsoon.

It's a fact that's been known for years in his family. Bheem loves late night walks. Yudhishthir absolutely loves raw mangoes. Nakul loves to create colours from flowers. Sahdev is irrevocably in love with wood crafting. Arjun loves rains.

They first found out about it when Arjun was four, they were still in the forest and the little terror escaped from Pandu's side to play in the mud near their hut and was drenched in less than the five minutes it took for Pandu to realise that his middle child was missing from story time.

Of course, Arjun's play time had been cut off as a punishment for going away without informing his father and subsequently getting sick, but Arjun discovered something that day: rain isn't as bothersome as Mata Kunti thinks. Water dripping from his lashes, droplets falling on his lips, the soft cold of the weather and the smell of earth and the vibrant verdant of the rest of the forest— all of it, really, was beautiful.

The taste of rain was addictive.

However, as he grew older, he realised something else as well.

No one in his family liked the rain. Mata Kunti hated the humidity. Bhrata Yudhishthir hated the dark and gloomy weather. Bhrata Bheem hated the muddy earth under his feet. Nakul hated the rain because it meant that a lot of animals would suffer from the weather due to not having proper shelter. Sahdev hated the rain because the clouds later always hid the stars that he loved to watch every night.

Every time it rained, Arjun went out of their hut, on a walk. It was his mission to spot beautiful flowers covered in water droplets and discern their smell. Rain water drenched berries tasted much better too.

He is used to it, honestly. It doesn't really bother him anymore. He just brings his family flowers from his walks and annoys them by trying to embrace them while still wet from the rain.

Multiple times, Bheem bhaiya has threatened violence against Arjun because he keeps shaking his head near Bheem bhaiya to spray him with the water in his hair, like a wet dog trying to dry off. Each time, Arjun hides behind a progressively more amused and exasperated Yudhishthir and while the eldest tries to corral Bheem bhaiya, Arjun wipes his wet hands on Yudhishthir's angvastra.

(Yudhishthir never gets annoyed at Arjun for that. He never even changes the half damp angvastra, even if he has to attend court with his little brother's wet hand print on his arm or shoulder. Arjun gets stupidly sentimental about that fact every time it rains, too.)

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When they leave the burning palace behind them, Arjun, with calloused hands and aching shoulders, laughs as it drizzles, gradually curling all Nakul and Sahdev's hair. Nakul's hair remains in those loose curls and Sahdev's hair, not long enough to curl properly, sticks to his forehead in waves that look absolutely ridiculous.

He and the rest of the brothers annoy Sahdev about it until Mata herself has to step in and protect her favourite son from any further ridicule.

Arjun makes eye contact with Bheem and they both grin, knowing instinctively that they'll both be dragging this instance to irritate their youngest for the rest of their lives. If Yudhishthir squeezes their shoulders in silent gratefulness to lighten the mood, only the eldest three need to know that.

It's easy, after that. The ground under their feet softens because of the rain and Arjun ignores his brothers as they wonder if the rain had extinguished the fire in the palace and if the people would find out that the Pandavas and the Raj Mata are alive after all.

A part of him, older than blood and flesh, older than his years on earth, the part that shows strands of gold in his hair— it already knows. It knows the way of the rain as it sees the canines in Yudhishthir's smile. As it hears the booming voice of Bheem. As it smells the continuous smell of jadibootis from Nakul, despite the man never carrying those. As it sees the abnormally large irises of Sahdev.

It already knows the rain like the blood in his own vessels.

The palace still burns. The rain refuses to touch such filth.

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She is absolutely radiant.

Panchali is everything. She's fiery, she's intelligent, she's a great conversationalist, she laughs whenever Nakul sits grumpily in the kitchen because his newest try at cooking didn't meet his high standards, she teaches Bheem the different types of embroidery she knows because she knows he likes to keep his hands busy, she oils Sahdev's hair every time he gets a headache because he gets overwhelmed with all the information he understands from the stars, she banters with Yudhishthir over philosophy and does a little dance whenever she manages to leave him speechless, rare as it is. She convinced Mata to put on kajal for her birth anniversary— something that Mata hasn't done since Pitashree and Mata Madri passed.

He regrets his big mouth for putting her in a horrible position on the very first day of their marriage, but dear lord, he is so in love with her, he can spend a lifetime only observing her eyes crinkle with her big smile whenever anyone pays her a compliment.

He isn't a poet, but he thinks she's poetry in motion and he wishes he could encapsulate what she means to him in words but all the words in the world couldn't describe a miracle such as her.

The first rain after their marriage comes when she still isn't entirely comfortable in the role of the wife and is just settling as a friend first. It was something that they had decided mutually. Panchali's fate had been forced enough. She deserves time to get to know them all first and then be a wife, the expectations of the society be damned.

So when, Arjun, grinning ear to ear, tells them that he'll be back, the rest of his family doesn't react much, except the warning Mata gives him to be careful because it's twilight now and the night will soon swallow the village they're staying overnight in and with the rain, no fire will be possible to be a source of light for him to see anything.

(She doesn't see the world as clearly as he does when it rains. When thunder strikes the sky and all Arjun sees is a bright day despite dark clouds. When there's rain drops clinging to his eyelashes and his vision is ten times sharper and he can see all land where any rain touches.)

Panchali looks up from the flowers she's weaving into Bhrata Yudhishthir's hair and frowns at him, asking him where he is off to, what cannot wait until it stops to rain.

Bheem bhaiya shows all the exasperation of a man who already knows he's about to be annoyed to death when Arjun returns as he tells her about his love for rain.

Panchali raises her eyebrows, half impressed and half incredulous. She asks him if she can accompany him on this walk.

Elation rushes through his veins and he doesn't even think for a second before he says yes, his heart pounding in his chest much faster than the thunderclaps in the clouds that are not half as alluring as Panchali's eyes.

As they walk under the rain, Panchali walks beside him, matching each of his steps. The sound of rain against the earth is nothing compared to the sound of her payals tinkling and her bangles hitting the thick silver bracelet he wears. It's a harmonious sound that he wants to swallow. He wants to twist his heart so that his heart beats sound like their jewellery brushing against each other.

As the rain slowly but surely drenches them both, they come to stop under a gulmohar tree, which looks like there are rubies littered on the leaves, such is the brightness of the redness of those flowers.

"You know," she says, grinning as she wrings her hands to rid her hands of the extra water on her fingers,"I do suspect that you are quite right about this rain, husband. I have never felt so... exhilarated. The rain on the balcony of the palace and the rain under an open sky are two widely different things."

Arjun laughs, because he knows she is half truthful but half determined to not compliment him since she has learnt that he preens too much at every compliment.

(Every compliment given by her, that is. Sahdev teases him ceaselessly about being completely and ridiculously transparent in his worship of their wife. Arjun does not hesitate to remind him that he knows that Sahdev has forged his favourite delicate chain into a ring for their wife, who wears it every day and Sahdev preens much more than Arjun whenever he sees her fiddle with the ring.)

"You can admit that you enjoyed the rain, dear wife. I promise, I will not preen for the compliment you pay to nature."

Panchali laughs and moves closer to him, intertwining their arms and grasping his forearm in her hand. "Of course not, husband. I do enjoy the rain. Satisfied?"

Arjun looks down at her— she is almost a head shorter than himself— and sees that she is already looking at him.

Thunder strikes. She jumps slightly before pretending nothing happened and slipping her hand into his, slotting their fingers together.

The drops of rain cling to her eyelashes, a rivulet rides from her nose to her lips, sliding down to her throat and merges into the necklace she wears. Her cheeks are flushed and hair is stuck to her forehead and her tilak is smudged.

Arjun's stomach tightens.

All he can think is that he's seen all types of flowers covered in the rain, except the lotus.

Now, he has seen his wife's eyes under the rain. They are much better than any lotus in any water body in any land.

"And I enjoy you, sweet wife." He says, gently pushing away a wet strand of hair from her forehead so it does not fall into her eyes.

Panchali smiles, the one where her eyes crinkle, the smile she smiles when someone compliments her, and ducks her head.

It is then she realises that they are holding hands. She takes a breath sharply, squeaking as she does when she is embarrassed and the hollow of her throat is even more pronounced for a single second.

She leaves his hand immediately, but does not move away, standing shoulder to shoulder.

When they return home, Arjun and Panchali both wring their hair near Bheem. This time, Bheem almost catches and pinches Arjun for teaching Panchali his "absolutely uncivilized and annoying" habits. Panchali is about to be tickled, too, because Bheem bhaiya is nothing if not good at retribution.

They both hide behind Yudhishthir, who does placate Bheem bhaiya while Arjun wipes his hand on his angvastra and Panchali wipes hers on his dhoti, leaving their hand prints on his shoulder and waist respectively.

Sahdev pinches Arjun for stealing away Panchali from braiding his hair and Nakul grins at him because after coming back from the rain, Panchali beelined to Nakul immediately to request his help in cooking and he, at his core, is an opportunitist.

I've been an ardent fan of Mahabharata, but now that I think about it, except for Draupadi, Amba etc. getting their rightful revenge, it actually normalises rape and materialising women during several instances... Here are a few I remember:

Sage Parashara sleeps with Satyavati, in spite of her unwillingness, his only assurance to her that she will go back to being a virgin after giving birth to his child and she gets a “divine fragrance” (because apparently trauma is fine if you get perfume out of it; wth?)

Bheeshma "ACQUIRING" Ambika and Ambalika from their swayamvar for Vichitravirya....

Salva refusing to marry Amba, because he got defeated by Bheeshma.

Satyavati later calls on Vyasa to impregnate her daughters-in-law (who are clearly repulsed by him) by something called "niyoga", which does not make the term rape better in any way. And mind you, they were not even asked for consent. It is nauseating to think that Satyavati, herself, who went through something similar, did this. Oh, also after, Ambika, one of the victims, sends her maid to Vyasa, when he comes to impregnate her again... Ik it was a desperate move, Ambika, but way to go👏

Kunti accidentally calls upon Surya to test her powers, when she's still a child, and poor Lord Surya, bound by his duty, rapes her and leaves her to have his kid.

Pandu having no issue with the fact that multiple gods are sleeping with his wives, just so that he can have a son, which is obv not his.

Dhritarashtra impregnating Sugadha, Gandhari's maid, because Gandhari did not deliver her child past usual due... Apparently, being desperate for a child (i mean, a SON), is a valid reason to rape a maid

And yes, Draupadi is powerful. She questions the court. She refuses silence. But she and Bhanumati are both gambled away like property before anyone suddenly remembers morality exists.

Basically, Lineage > women. Sons > consent. Dynasty > dignity.