Those Who Watched Draupadi’s Shame
If you wish to flee, then flee far, beyond the chaos of justice, for standing tall is harder than bending to silence. Escape glitters, tempting— while in Kurukshetra I remain, alone, Duryodhana, reciting rules, instincts, while vultures with ancient eyes negotiate in shadows, trading dignity for gain. Go, if you must— mask your guilty face with a god’s stolen robe. Among broken men and word-weavers you will find a kingdom of hollow sermons, where shame, fear, disgust burn to ash. There the eloquence of righteousness sings in honeyed tones, draped in dharma’s rhetoric. But I—Duryodhana— I will fall upon the battlefield, in the sacred slaughter ground, where truth itself was bartered. And those who sat, blind, mute, while Draupadi’s garment was torn before their gaze— it is by their hands I shall be slain. For I am Duryodhana, who once stripped the gods bare.