Draupadi

CHAPTER VI

I wanted to remember everything I had learned before my svayamvar.

It was the day before the event, and Govind—my sakha, my dearest friend—still hadn't arrived. The longer I waited, the more anxious I became.

For the past week, I had been engrossed in dharma, poring over scriptures, preparing for the life ahead. Yet, despite all my efforts, a single thought tormented me—what if Arjun, the man I had already accepted as mine, did not come to my svayamvar? How could I possibly bear to belong to another?

"Don't worry," Dhri's voice cut through my thoughts.

"Huh?" I blinked, shaken from my reverie.

"I said, don't worry," he repeated, his smile gentle, knowing.

I stared at him, momentarily surprised. How had he sensed my unease?

"You were fiddling with your hair," Dhri said, eyes warm with understanding. "You always do that when you're anxious or scared."

Only then did I realize my fingers had unconsciously found the ends of my hair, twisting them as they often did when my mind was unsettled.

My hair. It was the part of me I cherished most, the one thing that felt entirely my own. Long, dark, and lustrous—it was my pride, my identity.

Shaking off my nerves, I glanced at Dhri. As always, he was impeccably composed, his short hair neatly in place, his attire flawless. He wore a deep blue today, a color that suited him. My brother was undeniably handsome—if only he would smile more.

A sudden thought crossed my mind. "When do you plan to marry, Dhri?" I asked, my curiosity genuine.

Dhri looked momentarily startled, then chuckled. "I'm a man with a mission, Drau. Marriage would only distract me from my purpose."

I tilted my head. "Do you never imagine having a family of your own?"

He gave me an incredulous look before replying, "Seeing you happily married, with children of your own, will be enough for me."

Something in his tone made it clear he wished to drop the subject, and so I let it go. But later—when the world had turned cruel and unrecognizable—I would realize his choice had spared him a certain kind of pain.

Just then, my father entered the room, followed closely by Krishna.

Oh, Krishna, I thought, my heart swelling at the sight of him.

I greeted my father first, falling at his feet. He was always busy, always consumed by matters of state, and his presence in my chamber was rare.

He blessed me, pressed a kiss to my forehead, and then—to my great surprise—wrapped me in a tight embrace.

Shikhandhi, who had entered moments after him, smiled at the scene. But Krishna, ever the mischief-maker, grinned.

"O warrior king Draupad, getting emotional now, are we?" he teased.

I rolled my eyes, but he was right. My father was not a man of sentiment, and yet, as I looked up at him, I saw the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes.

Dhri chuckled. "Look what you did, Drau. You made Father sentimental."

We all laughed, the warmth of the moment wrapping around us like a comforting shawl.

But in the years to come, my father would weep for me many times over.

And this, I knew not yet—was only the beginning.

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