It was always the words I said.
It was never the way I said them—

never the way I screamed,
never the way I whispered,
never the way I spoke with eloquence,
sweetness, kindness, or grace.

It was never the way I spoke with wisdom,
or the way I spoke with knowledge.
Never the way I spoke as a woman,
or the way I spoke as a friend.

It was never the way I spoke
with tears in my eyes,
or with a clenched fist.

It was always the words I said—
the words you didn’t want to hear,
the words you refused to hear,
the words you refused to listen to.

Words that would have made you care,
that would have forced you to act,
that would have demanded you
to sacrifice something.

It was never how I said them
that turned you away from me.

It was always the words themselves—
that you refused to believe.

I am not the owner of my words—
not the master of my quotes,
nor the crafter of my stanza,
nor the painter of my verses.

I am simply the extension of the pen—
a vessel of expression, granted the freedom
to speak what aches beneath the skin.

But take away the artist who holds the pen,
or take away the pen itself—and the voice
of the artist, soon becomes the pen instead.
Words find a way to bleed through silence.

No matter how noble your intent,
to silence one’s voice is to sever the
soul’s right to breathe.

And still— they will return,
stronger than before; they will fight
for their word— words that once gave
them armour, and the pen, a weapon.

Not to draw blood—
but to cut through blindness.
A violent expression, yes—
but born of peace, wild but tamed,
structured but never caged.
Because there is freedom in every
word, written or said.

This ink, it runs.
This paper is stained
Tears run free as
I'm stuck in a daze.
I put this pen to paper,
To write the words
This voice can't deliver.
My heart is heavy
With pain and despair.
Can't breathe.
I'm fighting for air.
My mind is spinning
At the speed of light.
This pain in my life
Has clouded my mind.
The thoughts are deafening
Of my life you took away,
But after all my
Heartache,
Someday I'll be okay!

Is it me, or is it my ears,  
That keep hearing sounds so near?  
A pounding, a drilling,  
Like gears that keep spinning.  

I couldn’t stop,  
Nothing could,  
I melt, I break—  
I wish I would.  

With all the juice,  
I freeze, I sneeze.  
With all the germs,  
I ooze, I wheeze.  

Yuck,  
Stuck,  
This *****.  

Who would have thought this would start?  
Truth be told, this is no gold,  
Nor silver, nor bronze—  
Just stories retold.  

Hush—my voice, keep it down,  
It hurts inside, the things I drown.  

Stomp,  
Punch—  
What is this?  
The feelings I have, within.  

Full of rage, full of fire,  
This place no longer feels entire.  

Stop!  
I yell,  
I scream—  
This must not tear between.

(A Modern Draupadi Speaks)


I go by many names —
Draupadi then.
Ananya, Zoya, Meena now.
Or sometimes just, “a girl.”
The one on the screen.
The one they spoke of in whispers.
The one who should’ve stayed quiet,
or stayed home,
or stayed gone.

---

They say —
Look, how late she comes home.
Look, what she’s wearing.
Look how she talks...
Walks...
Laughs too loudly.
Speaks too clearly.
Lives too freely.
And somehow,
it is always her fault
for being seen
at all.

---

Draupadi was traded once —
in a game,
while kings sat still,
watched,
and chose not to speak.
Now, Draupadis are traded every day —
in boardrooms,
in backrooms,
in promises that sound like love,
in silences that sound like safety.

---

They don’t call me Draupadi now.
I walk into courtrooms,
not palaces.
No royal sabha,
just white lights, wooden chairs,
and cold stares.

No one rolls dice anymore.
Now, they roll footage.
Loop my silence on screens.
Zoom into my tears.
Rewind my pain
for ratings.

And still,
no one asks me what I felt.

---

They call me victim,
but not of my own making.
They call me brave,
but only when I remain silent,
when I am invisible
and unspoken.
They don't know that courage,
true courage,
is standing in the storm
and not asking for shelter.

--

They say they respect women.
And they do —
just not enough to believe them.

And when I speak,
they say,
“Why so angry?”

Because I am.
Because I have to beg for justice
with every breath.
Because I still carry my dignity
in a purse zipped tight
in case it’s questioned again.

---

I am not here for pity.
Not here to be saved.
I do not need rescue.
What I need is to be seen.
What I need is not salvation,
but for the world to stop
turning my dignity into a prize,
a coin,
a wager in someone else’s game.

I am not asking for rescue.
Not for cloth from the sky.
Not for gods to intervene.

I want
a place
where no woman needs to prove
she did not deserve
to be destroyed.

---

I was never your sacrifice.
I was never your symbol.
I was never your choice
to make.

And when I speak —
hear me.
Not as a story to tell,
but as a woman to listen.
A woman who was
and is
and always will be.

I am not a myth.
I am the truth
that stands in front of you.
And I am still here.
Because I am not a myth.


©️ Susanta Pattnayak

Flowing across the page.
Everything comes to me at once.
The colors dance upon the paper.
Like a performance on a stage.

The only one in the audience is me.
Observant and thinking about the next step.
I am voiceless.
So I let the dancers speak for me instead.

As a voice for the voiceless.
They understand my heart.

Colors flowing across the page.

The colors dance upon the paper.

The only one in the audience is me.

Watching as it becomes alive.