Draupadi

CHAPTER XX

"The cruelest betrayals are not the ones shouted in battle, but the ones whispered within the walls of love."

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He stood before me like a boy who had broken his own toy, clutching the back of his head as though he could hold together the fragments of his mistake. His voice trembled, threadbare.
"Her brothers wish for her to stay here, and I... I married her as I married you, did I not?"

The words sliced through me. Not the marriage alone — no, I had known men and kingdoms to take wives as they pleased — but the shattering disregard for the vows we had once spoken beneath sacred fire. Promises made before gods, desecrated now with careless ease.

I steadied my breath, though my voice was edged in steel.
"Have you forgotten your vows, Husband?"

The word Husband left my mouth heavy with bitterness, tasting more like ash than belonging. Without meeting his eyes, I lifted the aarthi plate with practiced composure and walked away, spine straight, head high — dignity was the last armor I had left.

In my chamber, I dismissed the maids with a flick of my hand. Alone before the mirror, I studied the woman who looked back at me: queen, mother, wife... yet beneath all those veils, a woman betrayed. My reflection was calm, but behind it raged an ocean. The thought of sharing his heart, his laughter, his presence — not in some distant tale but here, within my very walls — was a cruelty I could scarcely swallow. Promises, I thought, are only glass — beautiful, fragile, and so easily shattered.

It was then she came. Subhadra.

Not in royal silks, but in the plain garb of a milkmaid. A deliberate simplicity. She bowed deeply, her voice soft but unwavering.
"I seek your blessings. Am I not your sakha's sister? I place all I have in your hands. If it must be so, I will remain here as your maid. I swear, I will never stand between you and Dhananjaya. I did not mean to wound you — I was swept away by love."

Her words fell sweet and sorrowful at once, and against my will, they touched something raw in me. I saw her not as rival, but reflection — another woman tangled in the snares of love and duty, trapped in the same web of men and vows and dharma.

I sighed, my voice softer, shaded with ache.
"My anger is not yours to bear, Subhadra. It is him who has failed me. My wound is not you — it is broken vows."

Tears welled in her doe-like eyes as she bent lower.
"Please accept me."

For a moment I stared at her, this girl who could have been my sister, my mirror, my fate in another form. And then I breathed out the heaviness and gave her what peace I could.
"Very well, Subhadra."

Her relief was visible, and in that fragile moment, there was no enmity — only two women learning to endure the choices of men.

Arjuna I forgave, too — though it took him on his knees, forehead pressed to my lap, voice breaking in apology. And forgiveness is sometimes less a gift than a necessity. But my anger did not die. It shifted. It found a new face.

Krishna.

Later, I handed him a sweet I had made with my own hands. Its scent was warm with milk and sugar, but my words curdled it bitter.

"Did it please you, Krishna, to place your sister in my husband's arms?"

He choked on the delicacy, coughing until I pushed a glass of water toward him. My gaze was sharp as a blade, watching him squirm.

"Sakhi—"

"Do not call me that now," I cut him, the syllable cracking. "You set me in this storm."

His eyes flickered — regret, defiance, a thousand emotions in that godlike face. "I only urged Arjuna to follow his heart. And Draupadi, from their union will come a warrior the world cannot do without. Your hurt is real, but history asks more of us than comfort."

I shook my head, my voice breaking into a whisper.
"Then you will stand by her side now, not mine?"

His voice gentled, soft as rain. "She is my sister... but you, Draupadi, are my heart's companion. Dharma itself could not tear our bond apart."

My lips curved — half smile, half surrender. The storm between us broke just enough for breath.

"You still cannot make sweets as well as I," he teased, light flashing back into his eyes.

I gasped, feigning outrage. "How dare you insult my cooking?"

And just like that, with laughter pressing against tears, we were back to being what we had always been — two souls too entangled to part, even when wounded.

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