Draupadi in the Dice Hall - The Unanswered Question

They dragged her by her hair. Dushasana's grip was iron, and the court was silent, watching.

Draupadi fell to the floor, then rose. Her sari was bloodstained—she was in her monthly period, normally a time of seclusion. They had violated even that privacy.

Draupadi: "I have a question,"

The laughter died.

The Court: "A question? The slave has a question?"

Draupadi: "I am not a slave yet. That's precisely my question. When Yudhishthira staked me, he had already lost himself. A man who has lost himself is enslaved. An enslaved man owns nothing—not his weapons, not his kingdom, not his wife. So I ask the learned men of this court: how can a slave stake what he does not own?"

Silence.

Draupadi: "It's a simple question. Grandfather, you know dharma. Tell me: was the stake valid?"

Bhishma looked at the floor.

The Court: "The law is subtle. I cannot say with certainty..."

Draupadi: "Cannot say? Or will not say? Guru, you taught my husbands. You taught them dharma along with weapons. Is this dharma? Can a slave gamble a free woman?"

Drona said nothing.

The Court: "Vidura? You alone spoke against this game. Speak now. Tell them the truth."

Draupadi: "The truth is that this stake was illegal, A man who has lost himself cannot stake another. Draupadi's question is valid, and none here can answer it because the answer shames us all."

Draupadi: "Then I am free? King, your advisor says the stake was illegal. Release me."

The Court: "She's a slave! Won fair in the game—"

Draupadi: "There was nothing fair about this game! Loaded dice. A master gambler against a man who barely knows the rules. And now you claim fairness? Where is the fairness when a queen is dragged by her hair? Where is fairness when I'm brought before this court in my blood-stained cloth? Where is fairness in any of this?"

The Court: "Enough, She's a woman with five husbands. What respect does she deserve?"

Draupadi turned to him.

Draupadi: "I chose to marry as I was told. My choices were constrained by duty and destiny. But you—you sit beside the throne that enslaved you first. Duryodhana bought your loyalty with a kingdom. Which of us is the true slave, Karna?"

Karna's face darkened but he said nothing.

The Court: "I ask again. Was the stake legal? Can any of you look me in the eye and say it was?"

No one spoke.

Draupadi: "Then I curse you. All of you who watched in silence. Who knew the wrong and said nothing. When this family burns—and it will burn—remember this moment. Remember that you could have stopped it. That a single voice of truth could have prevented everything that follows. And you stayed silent."

She looked at her husbands—five men sitting motionless, bound by some dharma she could not understand.

Draupadi: "And you, My lords. My husbands. Remember that when I called, you did not answer. When I needed you, you did not move. Whatever love I had for you dies here, in this court. What remains is something else—alliance, necessity, survival. But love? Love died with your silence."

The court remained frozen.

Finally, Dhritarashtra spoke—moved, perhaps, by fear of her curse.

The Court: "Draupadi asks her boons. Three wishes, for the insult done to her."

She asked for her husbands' freedom. Their weapons. Their dignity.

She did not ask for herself. Her own freedom was in her question, still unanswered, hanging over the court like a sword that would fall when the time was right.

Thirteen years later, when the war came, she would remember their silence. And she would show them what silence costs.