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.