A woman dragged to court by her hair,
on her red tide —
torn and insulted — hey you,
look at her, and wipe your tears.
Was it blood or silence that spilled over her destiny,
chained her soul to the weight,
left to pain all alone?
Her five souls stayed mute —
for whose sake?
Whose verdict was her fate?
Whose vengeance was her life?
Who takes the blame for her pain?
Whose ego made her scars?
Men chose.
Men fought.
Men gambled.
But —
who was stripped?
Who got hurt?
Who bore the injustice?
She — Draupadi —
her tears, her strength, her wisdom —
shook the whole world like a storm.
Her rage, her wounds, her curse —
set fire to Kurukshetra.
She was the fire never meant to be unlit .
She was the mind that housed the might.
She got struck by fate,
but strengthened by faith.
Her face — as beautiful as the ocean,
her eyes — shining like pearls,
her hair — like the waves;
with unfathomable strength.
Echoing her power across generations,
praising her alluring soul —
isn't this the time to unleash the Draupadi in you?
This poem is not just about Draupadi — it is about every woman who has been silenced, stripped of dignity, and yet stood unbroken.
It’s a voice for those who burn quietly, who fight battles behind closed eyes, who carry rage as resilience.
