Draupadi sat in her chamber, unaware of the game that had stolen empires, brothers, and pride. Her thoughts were not with dice or dharma. Then the door opened without announcement.
A servant stood, trembling. "The king… he has called you."
She frowned. "Yudhishthira?"
"No," the man whispered. "Duryodhana."
The words were a crack of thunder.
Her heartbeat slowed. "Why would the son of Dhritarashtra summon me? And where is my husband?"
There was no answer. Only silence.
She rose like rising flame, eyes cold and sharp. "I will not go."
The servant fled.
Then came another. A soldier. More aggressive. He spoke louder. "You have been lost… in a game of dice. Come now, woman, or be dragged."
Draupadi's voice cut like a sword. "I am not property to be won. Go tell the elders: I ask a question—did Yudhishthira lose himself before or after he wagered me?"
The soldier turned pale. "I… I will ask."
He vanished.
In the great sabha, the court waited. The dice lay still. The air was thin.
The soldier returned and repeated Draupadi's question aloud.
The silence was suffocating.
Did Yudhishthira lose himself before or after he wagered Draupadi?
Bhishma's face was stone. "A subtle question," he said. "One only dharma can answer."
Vidura rose, fury burning behind his calm. "She is not a servant. She is not a slave. She is not yours to summon."
But Duryodhana laughed. "Bring her here."
This time, they sent Dushasana.
He burst into her chambers without shame. "Enough!" he roared. "You will come—willing or not!"
She fought. She screamed.
He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her through the halls, past servants and guards, past stunned sages and silent kings, through the marble corridors into the court of men who had forgotten how to be men.
She stood before them, her hair disheveled, her cloth clutched tightly in her fists.
Her voice did not break. It rang like iron.
"Who here will answer me? I ask you again—was I gambled before Yudhishthira lost himself, or after? If he had no self to wager, how could he stake me?"
No one answered.
Not Bhishma.
Not Drona.
Not Kripa.
Not even Yudhishthira.
Duryodhana laughed and slapped his thigh. "Come sit on my lap, Panchali. You belong to us now."
The room turned cold.
Bhima stood. His voice was a storm. "I swear before all—I will break that thigh with my mace. I will drink the blood of Dushasana. I will burn this court if justice sleeps!"
But still, Draupadi received no answer.
Dushasana lunged forward again, laughing like a beast.
He grabbed her cloth and began to pull.
She screamed—not in fear, but in fury. She raised her arms toward the heavens.
"O Govinda! O Madhava! O Krishna! If dharma lives, protect my honor!"
And the court witnessed what it had never seen before.
As Dushasana pulled, the cloth did not end.
Layer upon layer flowed endlessly.
He pulled until his arms ached, until sweat poured from his face, until the pile of fabric lay like a mountain on the marble floor—but Draupadi stood untouched, her dignity shielded by something no man could see.
Krishna had answered.
But the court had not.
When the silence fell again, Draupadi turned to Dhritarashtra. The blind king trembled. "Ask for any boon," he said. "Anything."
"I want my husband free," she said.
"It is done."
"I want my brothers free."
"It is done."
"I want their weapons returned, their dignity restored."
"It is done."
She turned. "I ask nothing for myself."
And then she left that hall, walking over the same cloth that had been meant to strip her.
But Duryodhana was not done.
Another game was proposed.
One more round. Just one.
Thirteen years of exile if they lost again. One of those years must be spent in hiding—undetected. If discovered, the exile would repeat.
Yudhishthira agreed.
The dice rolled.
And the Pandavas lost… again.
They would leave the next morning.
The halls of Hastinapura echoed not with victory—but with shame.
And in that shame, the seeds of war were already growing.