Draupadi and Kunti - Mothers and Wives

The palace was empty for the evening. The princes were at council. It was, for once, just the two of them.

Draupadi: "We've never talked about it,"

Draupadi said.

Kunti: "About what?"

Draupadi: "About the day you made me marry all of them."

Kunti's hand, reaching for a cup, stopped mid-motion.

Kunti: "I said what I said before I saw you. 'Share whatever you've brought home.' I didn't know they'd brought a bride."

Draupadi: "And when you found out?"

Kunti: "The words were already spoken. In our tradition, a mother's word is binding. To retract—"

Draupadi: "Would have been embarrassing. Inconvenient. So instead, I was shared. Like a prize. Like that deer Arjuna won at the swayamvara."

Kunti: "It wasn't like that."

Draupadi: "No? Then what was it like? Explain to me how being given to five men without my consent was anything other than what it appeared to be."

Kunti finally met her eyes.

Kunti: "It was a mistake. My mistake. Does that help?"

Draupadi: "It helps me understand you're willing to admit it. That's something."

Kunti: "What would you have had me do? Once the words were spoken?"

Draupadi: "Retract them. Face the embarrassment. Ask me what I wanted."

Kunti: "And if you had said you wanted only Arjuna?"

Draupadi: "Then the others would have found other wives. And I would have had one husband who loved me, instead of five who share me like a feast they take turns eating."

Kunti flinched.

Kunti: "That's harsh."

Draupadi: "The truth often is. I don't hate you. I've tried. In the early years, when I was passed from bed to bed on a schedule, I raged against you. But rage is exhausting. And you've suffered too."

Kunti: "Have I?"

Draupadi: "You lost Karna. You've watched your sons go to war. You've lived in exile. Your mistakes have cost you—not as much as they've cost me, but still. You're not unpunished."

Kunti: "That doesn't excuse what I did."

Draupadi: "No. Nothing excuses it. But understanding doesn't require excusing. I came here tonight to say something I've never said."

Kunti: "What?"

Draupadi: "I forgive you. Not because you deserve it. Because holding the anger is destroying me. Because I need to be free of it if I'm going to survive what's coming."

Kunti's eyes filled.

Kunti: "I don't deserve forgiveness."

Draupadi: "No. But I need to give it. For me, not for you. In return, I want something."

Kunti: "Anything."

Draupadi: "Never tell me what to do again. Never speak for me. Never assume you know what I need or want. From now on, I am my own authority in this family. Not your sons' wife—their equal."

Kunti: "That's not how—"

Draupadi: "That's how it's going to be. Or I take this forgiveness back and we spend the rest of our lives as enemies who share a kitchen."

Kunti considered. The daughter-in-law before her was not the frightened bride who had entered this family years ago. She was something harder. Something that had been forged by mistake and suffering into steel.

Kunti: "Agreed, Your own authority. I'll speak to the boys."

Draupadi: "I'll speak to the boys. You'll stay out of it."

A pause. Then, slowly, Kunti nodded.

Draupadi: "I underestimated you. When you married us. I thought you were just a beautiful girl who could be molded."

Kunti: "Most people think that. It's useful. They underestimate me until it's too late."

Draupadi: "And now?"

Kunti: "Now we're family. Genuinely. Not because tradition forced us together, but because we've chosen to stay. That's different. That's real."

Kunti smiled—the first real smile of the conversation.

Kunti: "Welcome to the family, daughter. Finally."