Draupadi spoke to Arjuna:
O mighty wielder of the bow,
Hero of legends, high and low,
You won me once in sacred rite—
Where was your valor on that night?
When my honor lay cast in a game,
Why did your silence fan the shame?
You, famed for courage, strength, and aim,
Why did you watch and bear the blame?
You called yourselves my five great lords—
Yet none could halt vile Duryodhan's horde.
Why was I alone in that cruel tide,
Stripped of dignity, of voice, of pride?
O Arjuna, answer me now,
Can justice ever allow this wrong?
Arjuna replied:
How can I soothe your burning pain,
O Panchali, queen born to reign?
We were all tied by divine decree,
Even kings must bend to destiny.
In that fateful hall, when you were staked,
Our throats were dry, our spirits ached.
Bound in dharma, bound in grief,
We bore the silence of disbelief.
My arms, though strong, were chained by fate,
My heart burned hot with scorn and hate.
But know this truth, O noble flame—
We were not free to end the game.
Even Bhishma, wise with years,
Sat voiceless, drowning in his tears.
Vidura wept, the elders sighed,
Yet none could halt that wicked tide.
It was not man who held you fast,
But fate that penned that dreadful past.
And when your sari stretched so wide,
It was Krishna who stood by your side.
He clothed you in eternal grace,
Shielded your soul in that dark place.
Had even a thread been stripped away,
The world would’ve ended that very day.
Duryodhana, Dusshasana would have bled
Long before war’s fury spread.
Mahabharata’s flames would’ve risen then—
For what they did, beyond all ken.
Let this tale be forever heard—
Not all silence is void of word.
Sometimes fate must have its say,
Until justice finds its rightful day.
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