Draupadi and Krishna - Why Did You Come Late?

They sat by the river, away from the others. Draupadi had been waiting years to ask this question.

Draupadi: "You came late."

Krishna: "I did."

Draupadi: "In the dice hall. When they dragged me in. When Dushasana pulled my sari. You came late—so late that I had already called for you, screamed for you, and given up."

Krishna: "Yes."

Draupadi: "Why?"

Krishna was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was different—older, sadder.

Krishna: "I was in Dwaraka. Fighting a war. By the time your call reached me—and it did reach me, Draupadi, I heard you—the moment was already unfolding."

Draupadi: "You're a god. You can be anywhere."

Krishna: "I can be many places. I cannot prevent all things. Would you have preferred that I arrived in time, stopped the humiliation, and the court learned nothing?"

Draupadi: "Yes! Absolutely yes!"

Krishna: "Then Bhishma would never have known his own cowardice. Drona would never have faced his failure. Your husbands would never have understood what their silence cost. The war would have been postponed, not prevented—and the next crisis might have found you even more unprotected."

Draupadi: "You're saying my suffering was educational?"

Krishna: "I'm saying your suffering revealed. It revealed the corruption of that court, the cowardice of its elders, the impotence of your husbands' dharma. Without that revelation, they could have continued pretending. With it, everything changed."

Draupadi: "It changed me. Broke me."

Krishna: "Did it break you? Or did it forge you? The Draupadi who entered that court was a queen who believed in the system. The Draupadi who emerged was something else. A force. A cause. The beating heart of a war that will reshape the world."

Draupadi: "I didn't ask to be a cause."

Krishna: "No one does. Causes are made of people who wanted normal lives and had them torn away. You didn't choose this path. But you're walking it. And you're walking it with a fire that would never have existed without that day."

Draupadi: "So you let me suffer to make me stronger?"

Krishna: "I didn't let you suffer. I heard your call and I came. The sari that extended infinitely—that was my response. I couldn't prevent the grabbing, but I could prevent the exposure. I couldn't stop the humiliation, but I could ensure it didn't become destruction."

Draupadi: "That's not enough."

Krishna: "No. It's never enough. The divine response is never enough for the mortal who suffers. We do what we can within the constraints of karma, dharma, the choices of all beings involved. Sometimes we're too late. Sometimes we can only soften, not prevent."

Draupadi: "Then what's the point of praying to you?"

Krishna: "The point is connection. You called, and I heard. Even if I couldn't prevent, I knew. I shared. Your pain was not invisible to the cosmos. It mattered. It will continue to matter for thousands of years, as people tell your story and learn from it."

Draupadi: "Cold comfort."

Krishna: "The only comfort available. The universe doesn't promise happiness. It promises witness. You were seen, Draupadi. In your worst moment, you were seen by one who loves you. That's what I offer. Not rescue—presence."

Draupadi was silent. The river flowed past, uncaring.

Krishna: "I'm still angry,"

she finally said.

Draupadi: "Be angry. Anger at injustice is sacred. But let the anger drive you forward, not backward. The past is fixed. The future is not."

Krishna: "And you? You'll be there for the future?"

Draupadi: "I'll be there. On battlefields, in councils, in moments of despair. Not always preventing—but always present. That's the promise I can make."

Krishna: "It's not the promise I wanted."

Draupadi: "It's the promise that's real. The gods you imagine would be more convenient. The gods that exist are more honest. I'm sorry for the gap between them."

Krishna: "I don't forgive you."

Draupadi: "I don't ask you to. I just ask you to keep calling. Even when I'm late. Even when the answer isn't what you wanted. Keep calling. That's how we stay connected. That's how this works."

Draupadi squeezed his hand once, then released it.

Krishna: "I'll keep calling. But I'm also going to keep being angry."

Draupadi: "I wouldn't expect anything less. That anger is part of why I love you."

They sat together as the sun set—a god and a woman, bound by grief and purpose, neither fully satisfied with the other, both unable to let go.