#sahadev

Their love for each other is the core of the war, actually.

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.

Part 1

Note: Everything in Mahabharata is open to interpretation, and it’s fine if you don’t agree with mine, just don’t be rude about it. 😊

“Pati-vridhhi kule mama” – Draupadi to Bhanumati.

This little shloka snippet is not from any version of the Mahabharata, but this little anecdote captures Draupadi so beautifully that when I read it in Dr. Bhaduri’s work, I couldn’t resist the urge to put it in here.

One day, when Draupadi had come to visit Hastinapura, Duryodhana’s wife taunted her about the number of husbands that she had. Draupadi hit back with this gem: “Pati-vriddhi kule mama” [Husbands are to be maximised in my family]. With this one retort Draupadi looped in not just their immediate elders like Kunti, Madri, Ambalika, Ambika or Satyavati, but also went further back, to Ganga, to Urvashi and to Tara: the founder/revivor/sustainer mothers of the Kaurava line, the single thing tying them all together apart from the lineage being the greater-than-one number of their partners, thoroughly traumatising Bhanumati in the process (we don’t talk about that, right?).

The fact that Draupadi is a great logical speaker and a fine orator often gets suppressed under the weight of ‘her revenge’. The point of the anecdote is not just to prove that she can be snarky, but rather to tie in to the fact that Draupadi is an extremely present and intelligent speaker who can, so to speak, ‘dish it right back’.

One of the first times that we, the readers, ever hear of Draupadi within the main story is when some random Brahmins recount the story of her birth for the five brothers on their way to Kampilya. “Vedi-madhyaat-sam-utpannaa padma-patra-nibh-ekshanaa, darshaniya-anavadya-angi su-kumaari manasvini,” they say [Emerged from the centre of the altar, [with] eyes like lotus petals, worth of being beholden, the one with a body that is incomparable, youthful [on the younger side], contemplative].

Now, I do not like the middle of that shloka, or the other subsequent comments the middle-aged Brahmins pass about the fifteen/sixteen-year-old [or freshly-born if we go with the magic] girl’s body; however, even these men cannot evade the last adjective. Even when they’d much rather be still talking about her physical attributes, Krishnaa-Draupadi’s personality, her introspective, ruminative, a-thousand-solid-thoughts-a-minute brain still wrings out a comment about itself.

Another name of Draupadi’s is Yojanagandha, or the one whose perfume can be perceived across a yojana (roughly 3.6 km).

Interestingly, though this is most probably a stretch, look at this excerpt: “neel-o-tpala-samo gandho yasyaah kroshaat pravaayati”. This refers exactly to the name above, translating to “[Her] Fragrance, like the blue lotus, flows over multiple kroshas (1.8 km)”.  Now, blue lotus, most popularly, is associated with Saraswati, specifically Neela-Saraswati or the Ugra-Saraswati. This form of Saraswati still propagated knowledge, but also has a certain edge, invoked primarily in the study of Tantra. Bhoomi, the goddess, is also often shown holding a blue lotus.

Of course, the on-the-nose interpretation is still tied to the epithet of ‘manasvini’, and the fact that Draupadi, the new Panchala princess, is already renowned in her kingdom, both for her beauty and her dark complexion [hence, ‘blue’ lotus]. However, narratively, a very solid indication is presented (albeit this could just also be a case of the proverbial question of why did the author say the curtains were blue), linking Draupadi, in a single metaphor, to extensive knowledge, to defensive violence and to land [To note: I am not claiming any avatarhood here, just pointing out a probable tongue-in-cheek foreshadowing].

Biologically, the twins seem to be someone in connection to the rishis Yaaja and Upayaaja, and Drupada’s wife makes them promise that the twins would only consider her as their mother. However, there could be any number of places they could’ve actually originated from.

Now, coming to her swayamvara: this was not really a swayamvara; it was a veerya-shulka with a PR spin. My guess is that, if Drupada were to come out and say this is a veerya-shulka, then Karna [or other undesirable people from the Panchala perspective] would have more of a solid ground for just storming the ceremony and kidnapping Draupadi. However, by pretending that this is a swayamvara, Drupada can control the participants (somewhat) and Draupadi has a say.

Dhrishtadyumna starts off the competition by listing the family’s preferences for the future-husband of their one-and-only princess: “roopeṇa veeryeṇa kulena chaiva; dharmeṇa chaivaapi ca yauvanena” ([Great in] beauty, in valour, in lineage, in a sense of duty, and more importantly, in age [reasonably young]). The list goes on for a while there, and reads almost like a terms and conditions page we all sign without actually reading. The simile is not really off-base, and this is, in fact, a pre-declared disclaimer that the Panchala royal family give, in case they wish to reject a successful participant later.

We know that Drupada was already looking for Arjuna, having chosen him as the desired husband for his daughter, and so he wanted to have enough loopholes in the competition rules so as to avoid any other people who might succeed in the initial challenge. Interestingly, there is no fish involved in this competition. It is only described as a suspended bhrami-yantra, and the meena-chakshu predicate is added on by Kashiram Das in his adaptation.

When Krishnaa-Draupadi enters the swayamvara sabha, on the sixteenth day of the overall festival, a milky-white garland in her hand, Vyasa describes her as: aapluta-angi su-vasana sarva-abharana-bhooshita [slightly overwhelmed, dressed in a fine dress and all forms of jewellery].

Skipping ahead a little bit, when most of the kings have tried to lift the heavy bow and have failed miserably, Karna rises to try. Dhrishtadyumna, by this point, has already given her a hint about both Karna and his overlords. Vyasa mentions that the Pandavas had already mentally written Draupadi off when Karna had risen. Seeing that: “Drishtvaah tu tam Draupadi vaakyam-uchhai-r-jagaad naaham varayaami sootam” [Seeing him, Draupadi declared loudly to the sabha, I will not marry the soota].

This is a contentious shloka, to the point that most editions have just removed it to avoid the trouble [still can be found in the Bangabasi edition]. However, it is quite an interesting position to put Draupadi in.

Obviously, the first point is the casteism of it. None of the main characters (including Karna) is free of this evil. Now, to make it more interesting, I already blabbed a lot about Drupada and Dhrishtadyumna silently pushing for this thing. They are, in my opinion, at least somewhat hiding behind Draupadi, forcing her to be the bad guy here, in public. Because, think about it, if any of the men in the Panchala royal family had stopped Karna, wouldn’t there be a war immediately? But only because this is a swayamvara, and it is the bride that is raising the objection, Karna has to bite the bullet, and we are able to avoid the Great War of the Grooms (for about 15-20 minutes, but that’s a different issue). To note, I am not letting Draupadi off the hook; I am just arguing that her words might not have come 100% from her and no one else, and I’m pretty sure Drupada had something to do with this. Apart from this, this remains also just a glimpse of the ‘manasvini’ that we heard about earlier.

I wonder if Drupada would have made Draupadi say this instead of another man in her family if he knew how much this one sentence was going to haunt his daughter in the future. Again, not saying Draupadi deserved it, squarely because no one deserves ‘it’, but in the story, this is the action whose reaction we see in Karna’s vitriol all those years later.

When Arjuna is successful, we again see a different face of this woman: ‘vinaapi haasam hasateeva kanya’ [without smiling, the girl smiles], and ‘madaa-drite-pi sthalateeva bhavaiha, vaacha vina vyaharateeva drishtya’ [she stumbles as if she were drunk, her drunken [on Arjuna, not alcohol] eyes speak without her lips moving].

After the battle with the kings is won, Arjuna and Bheema take Draupadi to the cottage of the potter, where Kunti is worried sick. A description of their journey is recorded by Dhrishtdyumna later: “Krishnaa pra-grihya-ajinam-anvayaattam, naagam yatha naaga-vadhuh pra-hrishta” [Holding on to the end of his ajina dress, Krishnaa followed him, just like an elephant-bride happily follows her elephant; note: naaga and hasti are synonyms in this version of Sanskrit, signifying both ‘snake’ and ‘elephant’; here the meaning of elephant has been used].

Although, herein lies a question. Kunti knew her sons went to see the swayamvara, but why she didn’t go with them is anybody’s guess. Also, Vyasa, previously, already told Kunti in private that Draupadi is to be married to all five brothers, and I do not think Kunti would be callous enough to forget an instruction like that! Although that one scene could be a later addition, it does add a different flavour to the drama at this point.

Then Arjun makes that fated joke, and Kunti replies: “Sa tvana-vekshya putrou, provaacha bhunkteti sametya sarveh!” [Whatever you brought, sons, devour it all together!] The previous paragraph does raise the question, no, whether Kunti knew what she was saying? On the surface, she didn’t have a clue, obviously, and she definitely regretted saying ‘devour’! Also, when Kunti then asks Yudhishthira to give a solution, she is definitely worried about the dharma of it all, but in a ray of sunshine, is also equally worried that the newly-arrived Panchali must not be put in an uncomfortable situation due to her careless words.

Yudhishthira, to his credit, immediately rules in favour of Arjuna. However, Arjuna, in a knee-jerk reaction, refuses to marry before his elders (buddy, I love you, but this is a thing you usually touch base on before you get engaged). While they are ping-ponging this decision back-and-forth, Draupadi is quite enjoying seeing all five grown men squirm- “drishtvaam te tatra pashyanteem sarve Krishnaam yashasvineem” [Then the illustrious Krishnaa looked at all of them]. She doesn’t utter a single word during this entire negotiation, but that is predominantly because she doesn’t need to, she is sort of liking it.

The next morning, when Drupada invited the lot of them to come to the palace, Draupadi was already allowed to shift into the same palace as her future husbands. Drupada arranges this so she can get acquainted with her new family with some level of privacy. After leaving them alone for a week, Drupada calls Kunti and Yudhishthira to his private sabha to fix the date of Arjuna and Draupadi’s marriage. This is when Yudhishthira decides to drop the bombshell. Apparently, no one else had bothered to inform the bride’s family about the final decision.

Yudhishthira starts with the fact that he and Bheema aren’t married yet (Hidimba doesn’t count, obviously), and Drupada declares that he is happy to find them a couple of nice girls, or have Draupadi marry Yudhishthira and then find Arjuna and Bheema a couple of nice girls. He is quite angry (understandable, after the radio silence for a week) when he hears about the Pandava Solution, and then Yudhishthira makes him angrier: “Esha na samayo Rajan, ratna-sya saha bhojanam” [In these times of the world, King, a gem [of a woman] must be devoured together]. (Darling let your mummy talk, and you…just…finger-on-lips please. Look, I understand eroticism, and the lady’s most probably on board, but must you say it like that to her father? He might have heart issues, you know)

Yudhishthira, then, once Vyasa arrives to back him up, brings up several examples of polyamorous women, let’s be clear, not to be progressive in general, but more so to win that argument. Also, ‘sookshmoh dharmoh maharaja’ [Dharma is a very fine/delicate concept, King]. This one dialogue had turned Draupadi’s life upside down more than once! Vyasa, after some more similarly questionable food-related comments (just let the women talk, Sir, and don’t ruin food for me), says that a woman at least desiring multiple partners, given the men too do the same, is simply ‘dharma-ir-shchasha sanaatanah’ [this is the traditional dharma]. Then, after the famous story about the five imprisoned Indras and a distraught Swarga-Lakshmi, Vyasa finally manages to convince Drupada, (this part’s only there to stuff the polyamory into a socially accepted single-husband structure).

Hence, the five brothers, canonically, like five well-behaved, and well-built bulls, followed Dhaumya, their cowherd, onto the wedding altar, where they each married Draupadi, on five consecutive days.

After this, we see Kunti being a delightful mother-in-law, who relinquishes her control of the household immediately and reiterates her trust in Draupadi by giving her the job of coronating the Pandavas as Emperor(s) in Kurujangala (the general area of Hastinapura) by her own authority as the Empress.

When the Pandavas then return to Hastinapura, now strengthened by the alliances of Drupada and Krishna, they are welcomed by, interestingly, Duryodhana’s wife, followed then by a mildly jealous and apprehensive Gandhari. Too bad, the men were too angry to show their faces. Also, interestingly, now, Gandhari orders Vidura to take Kunti and Draupadi to Pandu’s old room, and clean that up for them to stay in, when the last time they were here, they were shunted off to some spiderwebbed corner of the palace, still on Gandhari’s watch!

Then, after some time, Dhritarashtra again banishes them to Khandava, where Krishna finally, properly catches up to them, and personally helps them measure out the land and start building the city (leveraging his experience from Dwarka, no doubt) before returning for some time. There, Narada arrived to help them negotiate the one-year-per-brother rule for living with Draupadi. Vyasa describes the situation as “gaja-ir-yukta anya-ichhetyum ashakya, vabhoova parama-preeta naaga-ir-eeva saraswati” [Draupadi became a forest with many lakes where each of her elephants/husbands enjoyed a swim and kept other animals away, and she became an ecstatic forest providing shade to all five of them].

Then, of course, Arjuna disappears for twelve years, leaving Draupadi to fume at the absurdity of the entire situation. And then, he returns with Krishna’s sister, now married and ready to share her household. When Arjuna returns to Indraprastha, he goes straight to Draupadi, who promptly directs him to return to his ‘newer-model’ and stay there, among other things. So, Arjun does exactly that.

Interestingly, it is his idea to dress up Subhadra as a gopa woman and send her in to mollify Draupadi instead. It works, only somewhat. Draupadi is impressed with the gesture, but she is still angry. She says to Subhadra, “Nihsapatno-stu te pati.” This on-the-face translates to ‘may your husband not have any enemies’. However, sapatn[o/i] also means co-wife (‘sautan/shotin’).

Dr. Bhaduri interprets this as: ‘may you have no co-wives’, by which Draupadi still keeps Arjuna on the rack, as an extension of her previous comment.

I also like the other reading, which is: ‘may your husband have no co-husbands’: a covert expression of how tired she was starting to get of her husbands’ antics and their rapid-fire marriages.

Krishna also arrives shortly (primarily for damage control with Draupadi, I imagine), but also, with huge military help, which he practically ‘launders’ into the Pandava artillery disguised as wedding presents (he did the same thing during Draupadi’s marriage), since Balarama wouldn’t let him help them like this otherwise (Rohini is Shantanu’s brother Bahlika’s daughter/granddaughter, so that’s where his neutrality mainly comes from). This is also the time when Krishna is properly promoted from ‘weird generous acquaintance’ to ‘best friend forever’ in Draupadi’s books.

Right before Khandava is burned, we see Draupadi enjoying a nice picnic with Krishna, Arjuna and Subhadra, where she throws her own jewellery and even clothes at the entertainers who were performing for them. We see that Draupadi is 110% comfortable doing this in front of Krishna, most probably because she (and the other male members of her family) knows that Krishna is never ever going to look at her that way.

From here itself, we see Draupadi take a greater-than-average interest in politics, where Vyasa comments that by killing Jarasandha, Bheema and Arjuna have made her very happy. It seems that she is very much actively involved in at least the planning part of the conquest step of the rajasuya.

Again, if we have to pass rajasuya, we need to at least touch upon the infamous ‘andhe-ka-putra’ mess. Just to clarify, that did not happen. Draupadi didn’t laugh. In fact, she wasn’t even in the same building when Duryodhana fell into that indoor pond. That was all Bheema, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva, who laughed at him. The specific dialogue comes from a Telugu play that B. R. Chopra saw, then put in his show, and created a permanent additional headache for poor Draupadi. In the text, however, Duryodhana straight-up lies about Draupadi laughing at him (this being the inspiration for the play to make it true) when he is pitching a fit to his father.

I also have to blame Yudhishthira a bit for what happened next. This dude decides to prank his homicidal cousins at the worst possible time, and with the worst possible scenario. Why on earth would anyone think that Duryodhana being in charge of receiving the gifts meant for the Pandavas, Dushhasana in charge of food and drinks, Ashwatthama in charge of saying hello to everyone and Jayadratha in charge of choreographing the support staff is remotely a good idea, on any front. Did he want his guests to have the worst possible time?

Then, Shakuni gaslights Dhritarashtra into thinking that he has neglected Duryodhana, and he convinces Duryodhana to host the infamous dice game. Now, the game itself is very interesting. It seems from Shakuni’s words that it was almost expected that one would cheat in this, to the point that Shakuni classifies a certain speed of counting and a talent for adding/removing points as a necessary skill rather than any form of cheating. Yudhishthira doesn’t agree. Shakuni pretty much tells the prince that he is going to cheat, and even the method he is going to use, confident that Yudhishthira can in no way match up to this particular ‘skill’ and will lose.

Interestingly, Yudhishthira very much knows that he is walking into a trap. He is naïve, not unintelligent. Then, one after the other, he stakes all his brothers, and then himself. We see that he has genuinely forgotten about Draupadi (and hence didn’t stake her organically, without Shakuni’s prodding), since she isn’t in the sabha yet.

Then Yudhishthira, almost feverishly, starts describing Draupadi. I won’t go into the overtly physical detail that he gives. Interestingly, this is one of the few complete physical descriptions of Draupadi, and it seems very intentional to have this be publicised by Yudhishthira, of all people, especially in the situation that he did. Even if the next events did not happen, I would still hold this speech against him.

Then, Duryodhana asks Vidura to go fetch Draupadi, so she may clean their quarters with a broom. This seems also a cruel mockery on Duryodhana’s part, to begin the insult of Draupadi with the one man who was trying to shield her. Then, when Vidura, instead of swallowing the insult, starts throwing legal jargon and moral fables at him, Duryodhana turns and asks the soota Praatikaami to go fetch her instead.

Draupadi, the ever-present debater, understands in a second, from Praatikaami’s summarisation, and tells him to go ask the Pandavas if Yudhishthira had already lost himself, then who gave him the right to stake Draupadi, who would then be an independent woman (or at least belong to her father, pardon me for being crude about it).

Yushishthira doesn’t answer Praatikaami, and instead sends a separate messenger to beg Draupadi to tie her dress lower than usual, cry a little, come to the sabha, and beg (read: argue legally) on their behalf.

Finally, Duryodhana ordered Dushhasana to bring her instead. To save herself, Draupadi ran towards Dhritarashtra’s bedrooms, where his other wives were (also, this is where we learn he did have other wives, even besides Gandhari and Yuyutsu’s mum). However, none of those women helped her, and Gandhar most probably was not there at the time. Dushhasana catches up to her there and pulls her to the sabha by her braided hair: “Dushhasano naatha-vatim anaatha-vat, chak-arsha vayuh kadalimivaartaam” [Dushhasana pulled the woman, who had husbands, as though she had no protectors, just like the wind bends a soft banana tree].

When she reaches the sabha, the first thing she does is glare at her husbands with an intensity that sends a chill down their spines. Then, she continues speaking (yes, she never stopped arguing her point).

Now, Karna has had our sympathy through the entire story so far, but here, personally, he slips so far that it is unrecoverable, no matter how many (not many) good things he accomplishes in the story after this point. You sort of expect it from the Kaurava brothers, but you do not expect it from Karna, and it does come almost out of nowhere, that Karna, too, is laughing his head off, while Draupadi is begging to be let go. Yes, she insulted him before, but this is hardly an acceptable response. Nor are the words he uses to describe Draupadi next.

Draupadi argues that since Yudhishthira has lost himself, she is an independent woman, and so her now-legally-ex-husband could not have staked her. Vidura agrees with this and is, in fact, the first to argue that point, even before Draupadi gets involved. However, Bheeshma gets in the middle and complicates the matter by bringing up a tradition, where a wife is but half of her husband, and according to the old pitamaha, when Yudhishthira lost himself, he lost Draupadi to the Kauravas automatically, and hence the last bet isn’t legal. Also, since Yudhishthira didn’t protest against himself while placing the last bet, Bheeshma isn’t too sure what he should say (???). However, this doesn’t help Draupadi whatsoever. Good job, grandpa, you just muddied the pool nice and thorough and hurt her defence in the process!

Draupadi, however, refuses to give up, and argues further that everyone knows that Yudhishthira is a novice in this game, so how come the elders even allowed him to play against Shakuni? Here, Dushhasana tries to start pulling her garments again, Bheema shouts at Yudhishthira and Arjuna stops him. Vikarna, becoming the opposing force to Karna as the stand-in “Virudhha-Karna”, stands with Draupadi, but is silenced by Karna himself. He is determined to, today, extract a twisted revenge for the insult in her swayamvara all those years ago.

Then finally, when Dushhasana pulls open her dress, she calls out to Krishna (not in every edition), and Dharma is the one who comes to her rescue (no harm in conflating the two, really, you do you <3): “Tatastu Dharmo-ntarito mahaatma, samaavrinod vividh-air-vastra poogaiha” [Then Dharma, the great soul, transformed himself and wrapped her in various clothes]. A non-magic explanation could be that all the kings who were present in the sabha finally had enough of this and threw their own dresses for Draupadi to catch and cover herself with. This is when Bheema vows to kill Dushhasana.

After this, Draupadi sort of regains her composure and very sarcastically says, “I failed to follow proper procedure and convey my regards to the elders, but only because I was a little preoccupied with the impolite prince. I am the daughter of Drupada, the sister of Dhrishtadyumna, the daughter-in-law of Pandu, and the sakha [note it, not sakhi] of Krishna. I am also the lawfully wedded wife, of the same caste, of the kshatriya Yudhishthira. So, if you could kindly wrap up this drama and fast-track the decision of whether I am a slave or not, then we can all get on with our day.”

Then a long legal debate follows, between primarily Bheeshma, Duryodhana, Karna and Draupadi, interspersed with the other vows. It results in Dhritarashtra’s fears finally catching up with him, and he therefore releases the Pandavas, Draupadi and their wealth. Seeing the sabha’s opinion slowly turn against them, Karna is the first one to give up: “Panchali Pandu-putraanaam nauresha paara-gaa-bhavet, stri gatih Pandu-putraanaam ityu-vaacha su-dur-manah” [Panchali dragged the Pandavas ashore on a boat; at last, a woman is what saved the great Pandavas].

Then, they leave but are called back from only a little distance. Then they lose again and are sent to the forests. They also get a magic plate which is ever-filling until Draupadi eats, which basically amounts to the fact that now Draupadi is not only stuck in the forest in the middle of nowhere, she is stuck also cooking for the entire forest in the middle of nowhere.

This is when Dhrishtadyumna, Krishna, Dhrishtaketu and other allied Kings catch up to them. Krishnaa-Draupadi, going against some decorum, demands an answer from Krishna as to why he wasn’t in Hastinapura to save them. For one thing, she describes her ordeals with no sugarcoating, with all the gory details, which is relatively rare for women in literature, and we love her for it! If she has to live through it, the men can at least hear her out without complaining.

In her words, Draupadi enumerates several legal points, ranging from a failure on Dhritarashtra’s part in controlling his administration to the various torture Bheema specifically has had to put up with over the years. Practically, unfortunately, she knows most of these kings will not lift a finger to help her, but she hopes at least they’ll stand with her husbands (who she also blames, but to a lesser degree) on the question of inheritance: na bhraataro na cha pita naiva tvam Madhusoodana [I don’t have a brother, nor a father, and not even you, Madhusoodana!], is where her speech culminates.

Draupadi corners Krishna and declares that he has four reasons for why he is obligated to protect her, even if her husbands don’t: (1) sambandhaat: she is his aunt’s daughter-in-law, (2) gauravaat: she is born from the yajna fire and hence is a special person, (3) sakhyaat: she is Krishna’s personal friend and hence has a special right to his care, outside of her familial contact, and (4) prabhutvena: Krishna is powerful. The 3rd should speak to us the most about their relationship.

Krishna assures her, and they all return. Her five children go to Panchala with Dhrishtadyumna, Krishna takes Subhadra and Abhimanyu to Dwarka, and Dhrishtaketu takes Karenumati to the city of Shuktimati in Chedi. Yudhishthira’s charioteer Indrasena also goes to Dwarika with the bulk of their remaining support staff and Draupadi’s jewellery before rejoining them later. After this, the Pandavas retreat northward from Kamyaka-vana (Thanesar) into Dwaita-vana (Deoband, Saharanpur). There, several Brahmins (read: political theorists) meet the Pandavas (political implementors), and they begin planning their strategy of recovery.

Meanwhile, the ‘priyaa cha darshaneeyaa cha panditaa cha pati-vrataa’ [Beloved, worthy of being beholden, the expert advisor, dedicated to the well-being of her husbands] Draupadi is fuming. She understands the theory well enough, but she is thirsty for some action. Something tangible she can see with her own eyes. The more frustrated she becomes, the more she takes it out on her husbands. She points out the various differences in their lifestyle, imploring her oldest husband to do something productive.

Draupadi and Yudhishthira, both skilled debaters and both near-identically entrenched in their contemporary political theory, have a long conversation, contrasting the theories of Yudhishthira’s kshama/anrishangsata [forgiveness/non-cruelty, Yaudhishthiri-neeti] and Draupadi’s utthana/udyoga/chairavati [standing up/initiative/movement, Vaarhaspatya-neeti]. Finally, when Draupadi blames God for not intervening, and therefore implicitly supporting Duryodhana’s atrocities, or not existing at all, Yudhishthira is taken aback. He momentarily praises Draupadi, accepting his defeat, but then falls back to patriarchy and chides his wife for making ‘atheistic’ points- ‘naastikyantu prabhaashase’ and implores her to be less reliant on her own intelligence.

She then serenades him in adjectives such as “alakshmi”, “durbudhhi”, “kleeva” (don’t like this), “unmaada” and “I should’ve just picked one of you”. Now, the last one, yes, she said that, but it was in terrible anger, and there is no reason to assume based on this alone that she regretted marrying all of them. After the dyuta sabha, their equations changed obviously, but Draupadi’s natural propensity for polyamory was never the point in question.

Then Vyasa advises Arjuna to seek more advanced weaponry, and we see a glimpse of Draupadi and Arjuna’s rather silent relationship. Draupadi obviously uses “we” for everything and says, “We will not be happy even a single second without you.”, “We shall talk about you day and night!” And, “May no one else be cursed with a kshatriya birth, one that takes a man away from his family!”

Sahadeva: Gentleman of the jury, you have seen over the past few days, states' prosecutor using loose speculative evidence and hearsay- placing my client at the scene of the crime of Keechak's death, and at the time of the murder. You are tasked to examine the evidence and determine beyond a reasonable doubt, whether my client is guilty. Is my client a perfect man? No-

Bheem: I killed him, yeah.

What did my father call me when I was younger?

As Arjuna plunged into the abyss, he heard his brother Bhima's voice calling out to him, the last desperate cry for him to hold on. His other brother did not even spare him a glance. The son of Yama merely uttered the cold truth- his most fatal flaw- and continued on his path to enlightenment.

The jagged edges of the mountain tore through his skin, each impact sending shocks of pain through his weary frame. Yet pain was nothing new to Arjuna; it had been a companion in every chapter of his life. Now, at the end, it felt almost like a solace door waiting to open, leading him to where his Madhav stood with open arms.

The spinning world came to a stop. His back lay against the unforgiving earth, and his eyes, tired yet unseeing, beheld the pristine blue sky above. The blues reminded him of the ocean surrounding Dwaraka, and the clouds reminded him of the waves Krishna had once commanded with laughter in his voice. The clouds hung still, like the frozen crests of those very waves.

Had I always been Arjuna?

No I think he had called me Krishnaa.

What was the name of the book that Sahadeva and I debated over a lifetime ago?

Among all his brothers, Sahadeva had been his quiet solace. Bhima and Nakula carried an energy that demanded attention, but Sahadeva was the stillness in the storm. The two of them, introspective in their ways, had navigated chaos with shared glances and unspoken words. Though, when the time came, they were the very sparks that ignited mischief.

Despite his calm demeanor, Sahadeva possessed a wit sharper than any blade. When Yudhishthira once sought his advice on moral dilemmas, he had responded, "Try not to gamble your kingdom next time." The entire hall had erupted into laughter- everyone except Yudhishthira, Of course.

His youngest brother, with unparalleled knowledge, is his gentle, kind Deva. He used to be the tiniest baby, with chubby hands always reaching toward his untamable curls. One smile from his youngest brother, soft and fleeting, like a timid ray of sunlight peeking through clouds, could melt Arjun's heart like utter softening under the sun's warmth. His brother carried the heavy burden of knowing the future

I hope we can still talk about your favorite poems and lament the foolishness of the world around us, just like we did when we were young- perhaps somewhere beyond this realm.

Nakul, have I ever told you that your laughter was enough to lighten the darkest of days?

Nakul, the charmer, the peacemaker, the one who never failed to make Arjuna smile even when grief held him captive. His younger brother was more than his renowned beauty; he possessed a rare kindness, an understanding of emotions as deep as Sahadeva's understanding of logic.

Perhaps it was why animals were drawn to him. The wildest of creatures-horses, birds, even stray dogs-flocked to his side as if they could sense his untamed heart, one free of malice. Bhima had once joked that Nakula could win wars simply by leading an army of beasts.

After Abhimanyu's death, Nakula approached Arjuna in the gentlest, most thoughtful way. He tended to small things, like polishing Abhimanyu's weapons or leaving food by Arjuna's side when he wouldn't eat. "I can't imagine your pain, Bhrata, but I do know this-Abhimanyu adored you. Every time he spoke of you, his eyes shone brighter than the sun. He would want you to keep fighting, to honor his memory. He'd never forgive me if I let you give up." Nakula's quiet, persistent care reminded Arjuna that he wasn't alone in his grief, even when words failed.

Thank you for always cheering me up. I hope you'll still be there to annoy me when it's my turn to join you.

Bhima's bear-like embrace- when was the last time I held him?

Bhima, his elder brother, his shield, his greatest rival and ally. They had turned everything into a competition: who could shoot faster, who could run farther, who could lift the heaviest weight. Bhima, who laughed the loudest, fought the fiercest, and loved the hardest.

Bhima, who always teased Arjuna when he won, saying, "Even the greatest archer can't outmatch my strength," and Arjuna would retort, "Strength is nothing without precision, brother."

On the battlefield, they had been an unstoppable force. Bhima would clear the path like a storm, and Arjuna would follow, striking with precision. Together, they had been a force of nature, their synergy unmatched. Yet Bhima, the mighty warrior, was also the one who cradled children in his arms, who told the wildest tales of war, exaggerating every detail just to hear the laughter of his loved ones. "The asura was as tall as three mountains!" I roll my eyes every time.

How could I have ever doubted the love in his heart? I would give anything for just one more embrace.

Jesth Bharata... I never meant those words I said that day.

When their father died, Yudhishthira wiped Bhima's tears, held Arjuna for hours as he wept, and consoled the twins as they witnessed their mother step into the fire. After that, he tended to the rishis, ensuring they were fed, and took on the immense burden of handling the funeral rites with a composure no child his age should have had to bear.

For years after, Yudhishthira was their father. The one who guided them, the one who worried over them, the one who bore the weight of duty so that his brothers would not have to. He smoothed their fears with his steady voice, his hands firm but kind upon their shoulders.

Arjuna wondered- had Yudhishthira ever been a child himself? Had he ever been allowed to stumble, to make mistakes, to cry without the weight of responsibility forcing him to wipe his own tears before anyone could see?

Perhaps that was why fate had been so unkind to him, why Dharma itself tested him in ways none of them could comprehend. Because Yudhishthira had never been allowed to fail and learn from it- he was expected to be right, always. A flawless king, a righteous man, an unwavering guide.

But Arjuna knew the truth. Knew that behind the wisdom, the patience, the seeming detachment, there was a man who had once been a boy- one who had carried too much for too long, whose heart had been burdened by expectations too heavy to bear.

And Arjuna, in all his righteousness, had failed to see it until it was too late.

Jesth Bharata, forgive me.

Abhimanyu, what did your smile look like, my son?

His dimpled face, radiant like the moon, the sparkle in his eyes that held boundless curiosity and mischief. He had smiled just like his mother- soft yet unwavering, with an innocence that belied the warrior's blood in his veins. His laughter had been the sweetest melody Arjuna had ever known, echoing through the halls of Indraprastha, in the courtyards where he trained, in the soft glow of evening when father and son sat side by side, speaking of battle, honor, and dreams of the future.

Arjuna remembered the first time Abhimanyu had held a bow. The boy had been so small, barely able to pull the string, but determined, nonetheless. "One day, I will be like you, Pitashree," he had said, his voice bright with conviction. Arjuna laughed, adjusting his son's grip, ruffling his curls. "You will be greater, my son," he had promised.

But fate had stolen him away too soon. His pride, his greatest joy, had been left broken, surrounded by enemies, trapped in a web of deceit and cruelty. And Arjuna- mighty, victorious Arjuna- had not been there to save him.

Would he be waiting for him, just beyond this life? Would he rush toward him, grinning as he always did, bow in hand, eager to show his father how much stronger he had become?

Or would he look at him with quiet reproach, asking the question Arjuna had asked himself every day since that cursed battle- Why weren't you there?

Subhadra, did I ever tell you that your smile reminds me of our son?

His wife, his fire, his fiercest the princess who had taken the reins of her fate as easily as she had taken the reins of his chariot that fateful day. She had not waited to be rescued, nor had she hesitated when he held out his hand. She had laughed, eyes alight with mischief, wind whipping through her hair as they rode away, her knowing smile promising that this was only the beginning of their story.

He could still see her as she had been that day, unafraid, radiant, free. And when Abhimanyu was born, Arjuna saw her again in their son- in the crinkle of his eyes when he laughed, in the tilt of his head when he listened, in the sheer, unstoppable will that burned within him. He had her fire, her stubbornness, her boundless warmth.

But had he told her enough? Had he ever whispered to her in the quiet of the night how much she meant to him? That beyond war and duty, beyond victories and losses, it was she who had given him his greatest happiness?

Did I tell you enough, Priye? That I loved you since the moment I first saw you? That I loved you even more in every moment after?

Panchali, my fire, my queen- how could I ever have deserved your love?

From the moment she placed the garland around his neck, he had been hers. Not just by fate, not just by duty, but by the quiet pull of something deeper, something undeniable. She had chosen him, and yet, had he ever truly been worthy of her?

His most beautiful, fiercest, wisest wife. The one who had stood unbroken through every storm, who had faced humiliation and war with her chin held high, who had been the strength none of them had deserved, the strongest amongst them all. She had loved him despite his absences, despite the distances between them, despite the battles that had taken him far from her. She had been his fire, his fiercest advocate, his harshest truth. And yet, how many times had he let her down?

He had won her hand, but had he ever truly won her heart? Had he ever given her all that she had given him? Did she know, in the quiet moments, when duty did not weigh upon them, that he saw her? Not just as a queen, not just as the mother of his children, but as his Draupadi- the woman who had laughed at his arrogance, who had met his gaze without fear, who had walked beside him, always beside him, even when the world had turned against her.

Draupadi, tell me my love- how can I ever be worthy of you?

Uttara, my child, my daughter in all but blood.

Did I ever tell you that you were the daughter I always wanted to have and so much more?

He had watched her grow from a bright-eyed girl who once looked up to him with admiration, calling him Guru, to a woman who bore the weight of tragedy with a quiet, unyielding strength. The day Abhimanyu fell, she had not wept before others. She had carried his child within her, and for his sake, for the son who would never meet his father, she had stood unbroken, even when the world around her crumbled.

You were barely more than a child when the war stole everything from you. I watched you stand in the ashes of a shattered world, carrying life within you while drowning in grief. And yet, you endured.

I should have protected you, should have spared you from this pain. But you, my brave girl, bore it with a quiet strength that humbled even warriors.

You were always meant for joy, not sorrow. If only the gods had been kinder.

Did I ever tell you how proud I was of you?

My sons- brave, noble, gone too soon.

The best of us lived in you. Prativindhya carried your mother's fire, Sutasoma had Bhima's fierce heart, Shrutakarma bore my own stubborn will, Satanika was Nakula's sharp mind, and Shrutasena was Sahadeva's quiet wisdom.

You were not just our children- you were the promise of a future we would never see. You fought like lions, defended your home like true Kshatriyas. And yet, you were slain in your sleep, denied even the honor of a warrior's death.

How cruel fate is, to take our brightest stars before dawn.

Pitamah... Did you ever forgive me?

The man who had once held him as a child, who had taught him to wield a bow before he could even walk properly, now lay upon a bed of arrows- his own arrows.

Arjuna still remembered the firm grip of his Pitamah's hands as they corrected his stance, the deep voice that guided him through his first lessons, and the rare smile that softened his otherwise unyielding features when his young grandson struck his mark. Bhishma had been a fortress, an unshakable pillar of Hastinapura-until the day he fell by Arjuna's hand.

Arjuna had always known this battle would come. But he had never imagined what it would feel like.

He had fired those arrows with trembling fingers, his heart screaming even as his duty commanded him forward. Each shot had been precise, each strike had been devastating. But no matter how sharp his aim was, nothing could dull the pain in his chest.

"Pitamah," he had whispered, kneeling by the bed of arrows. "I-"

Bhishma had only smiled, weary yet serene. "You did well, my son," he had said, as if none of it- none of the war, the pain, the broken family- mattered anymore. But Arjuna could not take solace in those words. He wanted to believe them, wanted to believe that Bhishma had truly meant them. But how could he, when the sight of his grandfather, his teacher, his elder: pierced and broken by his own hands, haunted him even now?

Did you ever forgive me, Pitamah? Even if you did, I do not know if I can ever forgive myself.

Acharya, Did I ever make you proud?

From the moment I first held a bow, it was your voice that guided my hands. Your lessons shaped me, your praise lifted me, and your approval became my greatest pursuit. More than a teacher, more than a master of warfare, you were like a father to me.

I gave you my everything. I trained until my fingers bled, until my arms ached from drawing the bowstring a thousand times over. I surpassed every challenge, met every expectation, and honed my craft with a devotion unmatched by any of your disciples. And in return, you called me your greatest student. You assured me that I was the best, that no one- not even your own son- could rival me.

But tell me, Acharya, did you ever truly mean it?

Was I your pride, or merely your sharpest blade? A weapon you forged with care, but never love?

I told myself it didn't matter. That your approval, your teachings, your guidance were enough. That your distance, your unwavering gaze fixed on your son, did not bother me. But on the battlefield, when I stood before you as an enemy, I saw the truth.

You looked at me not as a son, not even as a beloved student, but as a mere warrior standing in your way. And yet, when you fell, when you closed your eyes for the last time, I could not help but wonder-did some part of you, even for a fleeting moment, think of me as yours?

Acharya, you were a father to me. But was I ever a son to you?

Mata... did I ever tell you how much I missed you?

Kunti, the mother who shaped them all, the woman whose love was as fierce as the storms she endured. She was the first person to ever hold him, to ever whisper his name with pride, to ever soothe his childhood fears. He remembered the way her hands, calloused yet gentle, ran through his curls as she sang lullabies that carried the weight of ages.

He used to watch her in awe as a child- how she carried herself, how she stood tall even when fate stripped everything away from her. She never wept where they could see, never faltered where they could hear. Her strength was like the unyielding earth beneath his feet-always there, always holding them up, even when it cracked under its burdens.

And yet, he wondered... did she ever long for a moment of softness? A moment where she wasn't a queen, wasn't a mother, wasn't duty-bound- just Kunti?

She had raised them with fierce love but also with lessons that often tasted bitter. Her decisions had shaped their fates, made them stronger, but also left wounds too deep to ever truly heal. There had been times he resented her, times he wished she had chosen differently, times he wished she had been gentler with them. But as he grew older, as he carried his own burdens, he understood. She had done what she thought was right-what she had to do.

And then there was Karna.

Arjuna's breath caught in his chest at the mere thought of him. The shadow of a brother he never got to know, the warrior who should have been by his side but instead stood against him. The man he had hated, fought, and finally killed-only to learn the truth when it was far too late.

For years, anger had burned in his heart like an unrelenting fire. But now, as he lay upon the cold rocks, it was not anger that remained- only sorrow. Had Karna ever wondered, even for a second, what it would have been like to stand with them, to be one of them?

Would things have been different if Kunti had spoken the truth earlier? Would it have changed anything at all, or was fate too cruel, too unyielding to ever let them be brothers in this life?

The last time he saw Kunti, she had been walking away. Choosing exile, choosing to leave them behind along with Dhritarashtra and Gandhari. He hadn't understood it then, had barely spoken a word when she made her choice. But now, as he lay battered and broken upon the mountains, he understood. She had given everything for them- her youth, her happiness, her very being. And in the end, she had simply wanted rest.

Mata, did you ever find peace? Did you ever forgive yourself?

Because I forgave you a long time ago.

Madhav-was I ever truly Arjuna before meeting you?

You were my charioteer, my guide, my anchor when the world threatened to sweep me away. You were my laughter in moments of quiet, my wisdom in moments of doubt, my Sakha in every joy and sorrow. Without you, was I ever truly Arjuna, or was I just a shadow of the man you once steadied?

Do you remember, Madhav? The nights in Dwarka when we raced our chariots under the moonlight, laughing like reckless children? When we sat by the ocean, watching the waves kiss the shore, speaking of things too great for even kings and warriors to understand? When you stole my crown mid-battle, just to scold me for my pride, and I could only shake my head because, as always, you were right?

Do you remember, Madhav, that morning in Vrindavan, before the weight of kingdoms and war lay upon our shoulders? When I woke to the sound of your flute, its melody weaving through the golden light of dawn, and found you perched beneath a tree, eyes closed, utterly at peace? I had never envied anyone more than I did in that moment. You belonged to the world, yet you were entirely your own.

I had asked you, "Do you ever tire of always knowing more than the rest of us?"

And you had only smiled. "Do you ever tire of always striving to be more than yourself?"

I had scoffed, pretending to take offense, but we both knew the truth. You understood me better than I ever did myself.

Do you remember the battlefield, Madhav? When my hands trembled, my heart wavered, and you caught my wrist, steady as the earth itself? "I am here, Parth," you had said. And that was all I needed to fight.

And when you left- oh, Madhav, how did you expect me to stay? How was I to go on in a world where your laughter no longer rang in my ears, where your words did not pull me back from the abyss?

I have walked through fire, wielded my Gandiva against gods and men, lost my son, my kin, my very soul- but nothing, nothing, has ever undone me as much as your absence.

Will you be waiting for me at the end?

Arjun's breathing slowed, and he felt his strength all but vanish out of his once invincible body. 

But Arjuna had died long before his body ever fell.

He had died the day he placed his grandsire on a bed of arrows. He had died the moment he first saw his son's lifeless body.

Truly, he had stopped living the day his Madhav left him.

Because what was left for him in a world where Krishna did not walk?

Somewhere along the years, through war and bloodshed, he had always known- he would not die on the battlefield. Despite his name being synonymous with it, despite his life being defined by it, war had never been his final fate. His end was meant to be something quieter, something lonelier.

In the mountains, where he breathe his first, and now will breathe his last.

As he fell, the jagged rocks tearing through flesh and bone, his life did not flash before his eyes in a blur of bloodstained memories. No, instead, he saw the moments that had made life worth living.

The first time he held a bow, the wood smooth beneath his hands, his heart hammering with certainty: this was his calling. Pitamah's hand rested on his shoulder, firm yet gentle. "Steady, Arjuna. A warrior's hands must never tremble." And in that moment, with Bhishma's unwavering faith in him, he had never felt stronger.

"You remind me why I became a teacher, Arjuna," Guru Drona had said, resting a hand on his head, after the first time he struck the eye of a moving target. Just those words, simple and rare, had meant more to him than any title or prize.

The way Subhadra had laughed when she took the reins, wind whipping through her hair as they rode into the night.

The way Draupadi had looked at him that day in Kampilya- steady, knowing, fierce- as if she had chosen him long before she ever placed the garland around his neck.

The gleam of mischief in Nakul's eyes before a prank, the quiet steadiness in Sahadev's when he spoke truths no one else dared to say.

The warmth of Bhima's crushing embrace, the rare gentleness in Yudhishthira's touch when he wiped away his brothers' tears before shedding his own.

Abhimanyu, grinning, dimpled, bright as the sun itself, his little hands trying to pull the string of a bow far too large for him.

And then, there was Madhav.

Laughing beside him in Dwarka as they raced their chariots under the moonlight. Sitting by the ocean, speaking of things too vast even for warriors to comprehend. Catching his wrist in the midst of war, steadying him with nothing but the weight of his presence. His god. His very soul. 

He had been so tired for so long. 

His eyes fluttered open one last time. As the world around him blurred into light, a familiar voice, warm and teasing, cut through the silence.