Bhima and Draupadi - The Vow

She was still shaking. Hours after the court had dispersed, hours after the laughter had died, Draupadi sat alone in a dark room, her hair loose—the hair Dushasana had dragged her by.

Bhima didn't knock. He simply appeared in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light.

Bhima: "I've come to make you a promise."

She didn't look up.

Bhima: "Promises are cheap. Your brother promised to protect me. Where was that protection?"

Draupadi: "I'm not Yudhishthira. I don't make promises I can't keep."

Bhima: "You stood in that hall. You did nothing."

Draupadi: "I was bound by—"

Bhima: "By what? Rules? Honor? The same rules and honor that let them gamble me like property? I called for help. I called each of you by name. And you all sat there."

Bhima crossed the room and knelt before her. His eyes were wet—something she had never seen.

Draupadi: "I am sorry. That will never be enough. So I offer something more."

Bhima: "What could you possibly offer that would—"

Draupadi: "Dushasana's blood. On my hands. In my mouth. I will drink it in front of the gods and men, and I will not rest until it's done."

Draupadi finally looked at him. His face was a mask of controlled rage—the most terrifying thing she had ever seen precisely because it was controlled.

Bhima: "You would do that? Kill him in such a way?"

Draupadi: "I will tear his chest open with my bare hands. I will take the arms that touched you and break them into pieces. And then— —I will drink. So that everyone who watches knows what happens to those who touch you."

Bhima: "That's monstrous."

Draupadi: "Yes."

Bhima: "It violates every rule of combat."

Draupadi: "Yes."

Bhima: "It will make you a pariah. A demon in human form."

Draupadi: "I don't care. I care about you. I care that you know, right now, in this darkness, that Dushasana is already dead. He just doesn't know it yet. Every day he breathes is borrowed time. Every night he sleeps is a stay of execution. And when the moment comes, I will make it slow. I will make it memorable. I will make it art."

Bhima: "Art."

Draupadi: "The art of vengeance. The only art worth making after what they did."

Draupadi was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, she spoke.

Draupadi: "And Duryodhana? He gave the orders. He exposed me. He laughed loudest."

Bhima: "Duryodhana is Yudhishthira's to claim. But I will be there when he falls. And I will be the one who breaks him. His thigh—the thigh he slapped to invite you to sit—I will shatter it. I will stand over him as he screams. And I will remind him of this day."

Draupadi: "These are terrible vows."

Bhima: "Terrible vows for terrible men. Would you have me promise something gentle? Would that honor what you suffered?"

Draupadi: "No. No. Honor what I suffered. Make them pay. Make them remember. Make the world know that touching me has consequences that outlast death."

Bhima: "Then it's done. I swear before you, before the gods, before whatever witnesses exist in this darkness: they will die screaming. And your hair will not be bound until their blood washes it."

Draupadi's hands went to her loose hair—the hair she had refused to tie since the humiliation.

Draupadi: "This is my vow too, then. Unbound until justice. However long it takes."

Bhima: "However long it takes."

They sat together in the darkness—not as husband and wife, but as conspirators. Two people bound by grief, united by rage, waiting for the day when patience would finally end and violence could begin.

It would be thirteen years.

They would wait every moment.