Draupadi

CHAPTER XIII

*"A woman does not belong to one man, or even to five.

She belongs to her fire, her silence, her tears, her defiance."*

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We had been accepted.

For the first time in what felt like centuries of exile and humiliation, we stood together in a circle of warmth — my five husbands surrounding me, and I at the center, as though I were both their shield and their flame. Their arms folded around me, each one touching, each one anchoring me to this impossible life we had chosen together.

The barrenness of Khandavaprastha awaited us, a wasteland dressed as a kingdom. But in that moment, even desolation felt like fortune. Their laughter was light, unburdened, the sound of men remembering joy. And I, cradled in their midst, felt something almost like home.

That night, gathered in the main hall, Sahadeva spoke. His voice, quiet yet certain, wove a story — our story.

"The sons of Pandu, born of virtue and suffering, have been bound to the fire-born daughter of Draupada. Their marriage, though unorthodox, was guided by an unseen hand — perhaps the divine himself. Her eyes, wide and fierce, could summon both blood and tenderness. She was fortune and fury, beauty and omen. And with pride, the Pandavas claimed her as their other half."

Silence followed, heavy with the weight of his words. Then Bhima broke it, grinning: "See, elder brother? Even Sahadeva flirts better than you."

Laughter rose, filling the cracks of our strange union, and I smiled — a soft smile, rare and dangerous. For in that moment, I believed we could survive this.

When the hour grew late, I slipped away to my chamber with Yudhishthira, my eldest husband.

He sat upon the bed, a scripture open in his hands, the firelight making his face seem older than it was. I removed my jewelry in silence, the sound of bangles against wood echoing faintly. Then I sat beside him, uncertain. He turned to me, and — to my astonishment — he smiled.

"Are you happy, Kalyani?" he asked. "That we shall have a kingdom of our own?"

"Yes," I whispered. And I meant it.

He nodded, then did something I had never expected: he lowered his head onto my shoulder. The stoic king, the man who held the world as though it were his burden alone, leaned into me.

I froze. Then, slowly, I wrapped my arms around him.

And there, against me, Yudhishthira wept. Not loudly, not theatrically — but with the silence of a man who has carried too much for too long.

Krishna's words echoed in my mind: You never know the weight of someone's sorrow until you hold it in your hands.

And I would hold all of them.

I would hold Bhima when his strength crumbled, and he was nothing but a boy aching for a mother. I would hold Arjuna, reckless and wounded, his fire scorching even him. I would hold Nakula, who hid his fear beneath his laughter, and Sahadeva, who cloaked his tenderness in silence.

Each of them would break, one by one. And in their arms, I too would break. And somehow, in the wreckage of our grief, we would find our solace.

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