Draupadi

CHAPTER XLV

Fate.

A word meaning destiny.

Fate.

A word meaning doom.

                               -Benton James Kessler

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The next day true to his word Arjun kills Jayadrath. But he does not kill him easily. He wrecks havoc on Duryodhan's army and catches Jayadrath only very closely before sunset. Krishna helps him by hiding the sun with his sudharshan chakra. As happy as I am that the man who caused the death of my son is dead, I am worried what we did was unfair. 

I see Krishna sitting on a bench in a distance and run to him. I need to talk to my sakha.

"Krishna" I say breathless and he smiles softly. I sit next to him. "What Draupadi?" he says ever so gently I rush to form the words. "Don't you think--I mean--Isn't this adharma?--you know--the way we fought the war." 

Krishna smiles at me gently and softly and then rubs a hand over my head in a brotherly fashion as if humoring me. "Draupadi, to remove poison one needs poison." 

I look at him, his dark eyes holding the weight of lifetimes, a universe of wisdom condensed into his gaze. His smile is unshaken, a quiet assurance that infuriates and soothes all at once.

"To remove poison, one needs poison," he repeats, his voice low and steady, like a river flowing over jagged stones.

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me. "But... Krishna, where does it end?" My voice trembles. "If we use adharma to fight adharma, what becomes of us? What becomes of dharma itself? Will it ever truly cleanse the poison, or will it just spread in another form?"

He leans back slightly, his hands resting on his lap, his posture relaxed in stark contrast to the storm brewing in my heart. "Draupadi," he says, tilting his head, "you ask questions that have no simple answers. Dharma is not always black and white. It bends, it shifts. Sometimes it demands sacrifice, and sometimes it demands... ingenuity."

"Ingenuity?" I repeat bitterly, my voice rising despite myself. "Is that what we call it now? We hid the sun, Krishna! We played with nature itself. And Jayadrath... yes, he deserved to die, but not like that. Not through trickery."

He watches me, unflinching, his gaze heavy with both compassion and resolve. "And how would you have avenged Abhimanyu?" he asks softly. "Would you have let Jayadrath live? Would you have allowed the very man who blocked your son's escape to walk away untouched, his laughter echoing through the battlefield while your son's blood soaked the earth?"

His words slice through me like a blade. I clutch my saree, my hands trembling as memories of Abhimanyu flood my mind—his bright laughter, his boundless courage, his gentle voice promising Uttara that he would return.

Krishna's voice softens further, like a balm on an open wound. "Draupadi, justice is not always clean. Sometimes, to protect what is good, we must wade through what is terrible. Arjuna made a vow—a vow born of love, pain, and loss. Could you have asked him to break it? Could you have borne his despair if he had failed?"

I shake my head, tears blurring my vision. "No, I couldn't. But... does that make us any better than them, Krishna? Duryodhana and his brothers... they are masters of deceit. Are we not becoming like them?"

Krishna leans closer, his voice a whisper now, as if sharing a secret only meant for me. "The difference, Draupadi, lies in intent. They fight for greed, for power, for their own selfish desires. We fight for the greater good—for a world where dharma can thrive once more. Do not mistake the tools of war for the heart that wields them."

"Draupadi, sakhi, breathe," Krishna says softly, his voice a balm to my frayed soul. He reaches out and drapes an arm over my shoulder, the gesture so familiar, so brotherly, that it unravels the dam inside me. I break, the tears spilling over, unchecked and raw.

"I'm sorry, Govind," I manage through the sobs. My voice is cracked, trembling. "I'm sorry for doubting you. For doubting... everything." My words crumble under the weight of my grief.

Krishna tightens his hold, his hand gentle yet firm, as if grounding me in the storm of my despair. "Shh, my sakhi," he murmurs, his tone steady, soothing. "Oh, my poor Draupadi. How heavy the weight of dharma must feel on your shoulders. But trust me, hmm? Just this once, trust your Govind."

I nod, unable to speak, leaning into the warmth of his presence. He doesn't rush me, doesn't demand anything more than what I can give.

The gods may play their games, but here, under the weight of this war, Krishna is my anchor.

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