My name it is Draupadi, and my name it is my fate. It means battle-blood and womb-blood, means fire and loose hair. Yes, my name it is Draupadi and this is a woman’s story. And that means this story is a story of revenge.
If you don’t know my name, you will learn to know it. There’s no person in India who doesn’t know my name. Two thousand years before its birth, her rage consumed my country. Two thousand years ago she soaked this nation in its blood.
But no one knows this Draupadi, no one knows my rage. I am a nobody and a many-body– a slumchild, a servant-girl. But my namesake was a princess. My namesake was a queen. “Draupadi the fire-born”, “Draupadi the Dark”. She was not a warrior but mother of the greatest ever war. And she didn’t need to lift her hand. She only let loose her hair.
Her story is all of India’s, and yet here there are none that have her name. This is the land of Sitas– girls obedient and sweet. They walk soft as elephants and are led as quietly as cows.
But think “Draupadi” and think revenge, think Draupadi and think blood. No one wishes that upon their child, not a well-wishing mother. But my mother birthed me full of rage, rage against my father. You see my father was a rapist, and my mother a corpse. She died giving me life, and she said “Call her Draupadi.”
Do you know the story of Draupadi? Hear it now, for hers is mine.
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She was born not from a woman’s womb but from a fire’s flames.
A king with half a kingdom, her father was searching for revenge. He wanted a son to bring the revenge he’d sworn. He found a priest to build for him a sacrificial pyre. He used it to ask the gods for the son the king desired. But out of it came more than a son, more than a warrior-man. Out of it came Draupadi, a woman fully formed.
And when she emerged from the fire a heavenly voice proclaimed:
This woman is the best of women. This woman is Draupadi.
And in the poem male lust licks her body like the flames. ‘Breasts like mangos’, says the poem, ‘thighs like plantain trees.‘ They say the same thing of all women, for myths are the dreams of men.
So these words tell us nothing. Nothing but one fact.
Draupadi the Dark, they called her. Draupadi the Black
She was no Bollywood bimbo, no lily-skinned doll. Those who looked upon her saw beauty, but also they saw their doom. And in case they doubted her danger, the heavenly voice proclaimed:
The kings of the earth shall fear her, for she will be their ruin.
The gods themselves could not stop her, stop Black Draupadi.
These gods were slaves to fate, its puppets and not its source. Fate’s the echo of our actions, the shadow cast in past lives. Gods work to make us taste the fruit of the plants we once planted. So the gods were forced to call Dark Draupadi by her name.
Voracious as her mother-fire, her hunger was too great. Too great to be satisfied with one man’s love alone. In a past life she’d wanted five, and now five men was what she got. Some say this was her punishment, and others say it was her reward. But I say she was voracious, and one was not enough. And so she married five brothers, brothers close as fingers in a fist.
The brothers shared a single mother but were fathered by five gods. Gods dead to modern religion, but who in those days were great. Yudhisthira, the wise, was son of Law itself. Arjuna, the warrior, was son of Lightning and of Thunder. Bhim, the strong, was son of the Wind. And Nakula and Sahadeva, sons of Sunrise and Sunset.
Having a wife or two in those days was really no great matter. It was the habit of all men who could afford the luxury. But to take more than one husband was unknown to any story. And so it was unheard of, unknown and unjustified.
And so Draupadi, great Draupadi, became her own precedent. Draupadi the Dark became her very own fate. So she married the Pandava brothers, for they were the greatest of all men.
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Draupadi, Queen Draupadi, was a queen of the greatest land. But the whispers could not be silenced, earthly whispers that named her “whore”. The crown gave her a pride that no slumgirl’s ever tasted. The pride stopped her from learning what every slumgirl knows.
Every woman’s owned by someone. Even queens are ruled by Man.
They say Yudhisthira was wise, and yet he was a gambler. He was the essence of Religion, and the essence of the Law. He was a king and yet was enslaved to the dice’s whispers. He was a king and yet to dice he always, always lost.
In that gambler’s madness he one night bet it all away. He bet away his servants, his jewels and his land. The dice to him were whispering that all could be reclaimed. So he wagered and he wagered, wagered desperately. And when he’d lost his possessions he bet his brothers one by one.
One by one he bet them.
One by one he lost.
And having lost his family, he bet and lost himself.
Dice have a language and Shakuni could speak it. And Shakuni was a man who wanted his revenge. Bloated with success he was still unsatiated. Bloated with success he still wanted something more.
“You have something more,” he said, in a deathly whisper. A whisper that sent shivers right through the brothers five.
“I have nothing,” said Yudhisthira, and his head was heavy. It hung low and crownless, hung heavy with his shame.
“You have something more,” said Shakuni, and his eyes they gleamed.
“You have taken all my servants, Shakuni, you have taken all my lands. You have taken all my brothers, you have taken even me. What more do I have? What more can you take?”
“Draupadi,” said Shakuni. The name echoed through the hall.
Watching them were the elders, many old and noble men. And I imagine they all gasped as Shakuni spoke that name. I imagine they all gasped as Yudhisthira wagered. I imagine they all gasped as Draupadi was lost.
I imagine they said nothing. I imagine they just watched.
“Bring her!” cried the enemies, who the tale says were demons. “Where is Draupadi?” they cried, drunk with power, drunk with lust.
But Draupadi the Dark was not in the hall that day. No, Black Draupadi was menstruating, and therefore had to hide. Such a woman is unclean, such a woman can’t be seen. That was what people thought, thought then and think now.
So Draupadi was resting, bleeding quietly all alone. Alone in her chambers, dressed especially for that. She wore a single garment, a garment stained in blood. No man was supposed to see her stained with her own blood.
But in came a messenger, Dushasan was his name. He was the brothers’ cousin and would die a villain’s death.
“You have been won,” said Dushasan, not waiting a moment to linger. “You were wagered by your husband. You were wagered. You were lost.”
Draupadi, was shocked of course, Draupadi was hurt. She was young enough to still believe the dreams and myths of men.
“What?” said Black Draupadi. “Can a man bet his wife?”
“He can, and he did. And so you have been won.”
“Is a wife like chattel? Is a wife like gold?”
“You have been won,” said Dushasan. “And you will come with me.”
“I am in a single garment. I can’t appear in the hall.”
“You are a slave,” said Dushasan. “You possess no modesty.”
“Please, I am virtuous, and can’t appear like this. It would disrespect my elders, it would cause everyone shame. They must not see these stains, my cousin, they must not see my blood! To bring me would not be lawful, not lawful and not just!”
But do you get her story, or has it aged too rough? Can you imagine her humiliation of being on display? The greatest men of India were there in the hall that day. They wore crowns of gold, jewels and expressions like a mask. And they heard Draupadi screaming as she was dragged into that hall. She was pulled by the hair that usually was bound and braided. She was pulled by the hair and then tossed onto the floor. And Draupadi lay in shame on that white, cold marble. Her eyes were red with weeping, her clothes were red with blood.
And Dushasan, standing above her, watched her weep and so he smiled.
“Your husbands have lost you. And so now you are ours.”
Poor Draupadi, she did not know, what every slumgirl knows. Proud Draupadi, she thought she was something more than just a whore. But queens are just whores, just men’s dressed-up whores.
And “whore” was the word they shouted, the princely men in that hall. They made lewd gestures, they smirked and patted their thighs. “Pick another husband,” they said. “Come here and take a sixth!”
And from the floor proud Draupadi searched for friendly eyes. But the eyes she met were not the friendly eyes she sought. They were the eyes every woman’s felt, the eyes that strip you and leer. The eyes that chip away large bits of you, that make you want to kill. And the eyes of the good men were absent. They’d all cast their eyes down.
For her husbands and her elders, they could not bear to watch. They were too cowardly to help and too cowardly to see. So Draupadi was left alone in a room of many good, honorable men.
I find I have no use for all these good, honorable men.
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You understand this, don’t you? You’ve seen this all before? Good men looking down as it happens, looking away from our shame. As if we are an embarrassment honorable eyes can’t bear to see. Honor means knowing when to speak and knowing when not to look. They speak of respecting women, speak and then close their eyes.
Poor deluded Draupadi, she’d thought she was with friends. But Draupadi was royal and didn’t have the knowledge of the slumgirls. She didn’t know what every slumgirl knows all along. Like me she was alone. She’d been alone all along.
The fact hit her hard, as she hit the marble floor. The floor good men gazed at, with downcast unseeing eyes. So she did all she could– she let her tears turn to rage. Rage that rose like lava and cooled into rock. With a hardened heart she faced the good men who wouldn’t face her. With a hardened heart she gazed straight past all the leering men.
“Can a wife be passed along,” she asked,”like chattel or like jewels?”
And the elder men, they listened, but not a word did they speak. For the men who spoke to her were princes and the elders were afraid. They could not bear her eyes and they could not bear her truth.
And so she said, “My husband, was he not a slave when he bet me? A slave without possesions, without chattel or even jewels? And so how could such a man be able to even wager? Such a man has nothing, not a woman or a wife.”
And the elder men they listened, yet they spoke not a word. And her husbands sat there crownless, with bowed and shame-hung heads.
At last a man spoke, the greatest and oldest of the elders. “A man even with nothing has a right over his wife.”
“A right?” said fire-eyed Draupadi. “What right is that? Hasn’t he sworn to protect her? Has he no duty and only rights?”
But the elder did not answer, only the princes in the hall.
“A woman with five husbands is not a wife but a whore. A whore has no honor and can’t even be dishonored. A whore might as well be naked, so strip the slut down!”
And the hands started reaching. Hands to touch her and to grope. The woman the tale tells us even sunlight had not touched.
Of all the men reaching, not one of them reached to help. Not one, in a great hall of counselors and kings.
But I forgot about Bhim! How could I forget? Wolf-bellied, Bhim, the strong son of the Wind itself. Bhim saw Draupadi and began to rise in anger. But Yudhisthira stopped him, for Yudhisthira was wise. And Bhim, he was obedient, so he sat there and looked down. He swore a vow of vengeance, and yet he did not rise. He said he’d rip hands off, but for now he just looked down.
The brothers could have reached out to save her but sooner came the hand of God. It’s easier for God to reach from heaven than for men to reach ten feet.
Dushasan, he now reached not for her hair but for her garment. It was wound around her body and so as he pulled she spun and spun. The good men closed their eyes completely and the bad men opened theirs wide. And Draupadi, clever Draupadi, she cast her fire-eyes up.
Like Yudhisthira, she was wise, and so she knew that God was male.
She prayed to God to save her, and save her he did. Dushasan pulled the garment but it only grew longer. He pulled over and over until there was a hill of bloody cloth. Likes scarves out of a magician’s mouth the god pulled an ancient trick. For Krishna was a trickster– a laughing smiling god. And he smiled as Dushasan panted and as Draupadi spun.
(Or so they tell us in the movies– he’s never shown himself to me. Despite all my humiliations. Despite all my prayers.)
Dushasan pulled and pulled until he was worn to exhaustion. The hall was humbled by the miracle and now the good men looked up. The blind king, their father, offered Draupadi one wish. So she asked for the freedom of the man who’d gambled her away. He offered her another and she asked for Arjuna too. And offered another and another until she won husbands and kingdom back. All the men who had lost her, she got their freedom back.
“We were drowning in a sea of sorrows,” said the brothers five. “And Draupadi, she was the ship that took us back to shore.”
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But they were wrong– I declare it. They were wrong to speak. I am Draupadi, so I can say it, born not of fire but of shit. Slum-born and poet-mouthed and full of mother-rage. I say that Draupadi’s rage was greater than an ocean. I say Draupadi’s rage could not be swallowed by the sea. Draupadi, when love-hungry, demanded five men to fill her. And now she was vengeful, and hungered for not men but blood.
But Yudhistira, the gambler, he was a wise and moral man. He watched the world with dispassion, with eyes as cool and clear as glass. He preached thin-lipped forgiveness, preached forgetfulness in exchange for peace. To remember meant blood, and to blame meant the same. Those hands were his cousins– it was their blood in his veins. To spill it meant to spill his own, and he was not used to this. He had not the strength of women, used to spilling their own blood.
And besides he knew his cousins and he knew the fight they’d bring. He knew their allies and their strength and knew their great stubbornness. He knew their battle with swallow India, and soak the land in blood. And so he said to all “Look down! I say wisdom means forgetting! Wisdom means looking down!”
But rage is all-remembering, looking with fire-filled eyes. The world had watched coolly as before it Draupadi spilled her blood. Draupadi was proud and so she demanded compensation. Draupadi vowed to see the world’s blood also spilt.
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Draupadi would not do the wise thing, she would not look down or forget. When her bleeding stopped she entered the public spaces once more. She draped her body in silk, her arms in gold and finery. She bathed herself in perfume and drew with khol around her eyes.
But she left her hair unbound, her hair was left unbound.
And in India, my country, the women with loose hair are whores. In fact I’ve known many a whore who won’t do even that.
So they asked her, “Draupadi, my wife, why do you leave your hair unbound?”
And she looked at them with fire-eyes, eyes that were burning and would burn.
“How can you call me wife when I have not five husbands, but none?”
The greatest warriors in the world had not the strength to meet such eyes.
“In the palace I was humiliated, and you didn’t do a thing. You said nothing and you did nothing, as they groped me and called me “whore.” You had not even the courage to watch it all as it happened. You are the greatest warriors in the world, and yet I had to wait for God.
“You have failed me as husbands. You have failed me as men.
“And so,” she said with pride and and with eyes newly hardened. “And so I wear my hair down to remind you of what you wouldn’t see. And so when you look upon my hair you’ll have to remember my humiliation. You’ll have to look at my humiliation until I wash it free with blood.
“Either bring me the body of Dushasan, or cast your eyes down.”
And Yudhisthira cast his eyes down, for he was the wisest of men.
But Bhim was the wolf-belly, he was passionate and unwise. And so he caught the fire that filled Draupadi’s eyes. He stood up against his brother and he let out a roar.
“I will bring you Dushasan,” he said, “I will bring his blood to wash your hair. And after you have washed it clean I will drink my enemy’s blood.”
And Draupadi looked upon him with eyes newly hardened. Eyes that had days ago shed their very last tear.
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But no one angers for me, Draupadi, no one angers for me. Where is my vengeance? Where is my war? I must seek my own revenge, even if only in my dreams. I can no longer stand these dreams and myths of men.
Because that is what this story is, just a man’s dream. Behind a myth is a reality, and behind this one lies you. My Draupadi was real, and forsaken by all men. My Draupadi was stripped and left naked to weep and bleed on the floor. My Draupadi prayed to God but he never ever came to save her. She wept the name of a male god as she was raped by angry, laughing men.
Perhaps it was true that God was looking down and smiling. Perhaps that part was true.
It is a joke that men find inside us their greatest pleasure. That our entrapment and degradation is their ultimate release. It is the joke of a male god, who only rescues us in stories. It is a joke of a laughing male god, who never rescued me.
Back to the story. Back to the dream.
So Draupadi let her hair down, and wouldn’t tie it up. Yudhisthira preached to her religion, preached obedience and law. He preached that to get to heaven, they’d all have to forget.
And his brothers beneath him bristled, set alight with Draupadi’s rage.
For Draupadi was no longer a person– she was only Rage. It had consumed her inside out, burning holes through her eyes. The brothers declared war, and so her fire was released. Mother India was made a cannibal, who hurt and ate herself. Many men died to quench her fire, died to quench her rage. And she watched it all with dry eyes and with free-flowing hair.
Eighteen days was all it took, to make the earth muddy with blood. Eighteen days was all it took to destroy the whole warrior race. Eighteen days and the bodies of even Draupadi’s children lay upon the battlfield. Eighteen days in which the mothers of her enemies wept.
When Bhim finally found Dushasan, he called me and Draupadi’s name.
Her sari became blood-spotted as she walked upon the battlefield. She looked on with hard eyes as Bhim fulfilled his vow.
She watched as Dushasan was thrown to the ground.
She watched as Bhim pulled and ripped off his arm.
She watched as Bhim bludgeoned Dushasan with his severed limb.
She watched as Bhim grasped Dushasan and tore open his chest.
She watched as Bhim kneeled to drink his enemy’s blood.
“The blood of my enemy” Bhim said with bloodied lips, “is sweeter, far sweeter, than even my mother’s milk.”
Dushasan was still breathing as she dipped her hands inside him. He watched as she poured his blood over her long black hair. His blood dripped down her head and soaked her rich garment. His blood soaked like the earth, but her eyes they were dry.
She met Dushasan’s gaze. Her eyes were the last thing he saw.
And warriors watched them both in terror. They watched them both in awe.
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Oh Draupadi, sweet Draupadi, no one fights a war for me. And so there come the nights where I dream a sweet and bloody dream.
I am not just Draupadi but Bhim– not just warrior but also wife. So I kill my enemy with my strong hands and wash my long hair with his blood. And I haven’t tasted my mother’s milk but his blood it’s still sweeter. And his face is like every man’s that leers as I sweep the path they tread.
And like a man takes a woman, like a mother kills her child, I kill him with pity. With entitlement.
And my hair –so tightly bound– now hangs loose and bloody. But I never tie it up again, I never tie it up.
Because the blood was not enough, Draupadi, the blood was not enough. My anger isn’t quenched and my honor isn’t restored. If an ocean of blood was your price, what is all of ours together? The blood of every creature, every man, mother and child?
To squeeze the world of all its blood would not be enough to justify this world.
And I wake up and my knife has pierced no skin other than my own.
My war’s against me alone.
The blood I bleed is mine alone.
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And Draupadi, Dark Draupadi, she died a woman’s death. She fell to the earth in exhaustion, left in dust to die alone. The brother-husbands climbed to heaven as she went straight down to hell. She’d loved one brother too much, and so she was punished for this sin.
And Yudhisthira, the gambler, he walked straight up to heaven. For he was wise and knew that God was male, after all.
And Dushasan, he joined them, to live in heaven with the gods. For he’d been a great warrior, good at spilling men’s blood.
I too shall die exhausted, exhausted and alone. And I’ll never wash my hair in the blood of my enemy. I’ll wear it loose and long, and so they’ll leer all the more. I shall grow it long and never pray to the god of my enemy.
Let them leer all they like and let them say what they please. They may call you a goddess but I’d rather them call me a whore. If men rule up in heaven then let me rule myself in hell. I’d rather be my own whore than any man’s queen.
No man will make a myth of me, Draupadi, they’ll never make a myth of me.
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this is real this is fiction 