The air smelled of rain and gunpowder. Someone took a knife to the sky. Gashed it in three places to bleed out shades of orange. Can she strut still when dragged by hair? Let’s watch. Vacant piercings don’t jingle when ears are pulled. Chafed noses quietly weep. Chapped lips barely move past quivering now. Those eyes stained with insomnia today, yesterday made do with kohl. That skin pressing against a modest drape today, yesterday had the heavens clad. Today she’s chaste. Or may yesterday just be feigning. No soothsayers to tempt our boys. None whatsoever to lure their fathers. The mothers know agency needs earning. If only she learnt to be respectful — she wouldn’t have mattered so much. She shouldn’t have.
What takes over a daughter to abuse a father? What woman curses family? Afterall, white hairs grow on respect. And open hair invites wrenching. Why was she angry when she could have been sad? That way she could be held or cradled. That way she would be not hard to look at. That way she might have made some sense. Anything but heard. Now, apologies sound sweet. And reckoning sweeter. The die was cast amongst men. No virtues gambled. No retrospection indebted. A man’s kin insulted must inherit some reaping for once. We’re only raised right if we’re never wrong. Her words eclipse reason like they once did grace. Her questions are for the sky. It doesn’t matter: Whose was she to be wagered? Whose was she to be won? Her father’s burden? Her husbands’ loss? Her foe’s exploit? What is the cost of pawned will? What does a woman mean? It only matters: she’s here and we’re here and pity’s too rich for us.
Sorries seldom set examples. Crowds know better than one. Men have gathered to watch. King lacks words for reason. Blind before the sounds of his boys laughing. Indifferent to his queen’s reticence. Arbiters of justice don’t meddle with damnation. Cowards look down to pose with scorn. Clamoring’s too intimate for public. No protests for a woman howling. Just as long as it’s not at men. Or their mothers. Or fathers. What must men do to cleanse our daughters? What must men do to then teach our sons? What must men do then for their mother’s innocence? What must men do then for their father’s ashes? What must men do then for the temples of their gods? Let’s disrobe her now.
we’ve been running the same script for centuries and just changed the backdrop. remarkable as always, damn. thank you for writing this
an amazing read as always.
what was really really good was how the title has "Panchali" and not Draupadii. she is the "daughter of" Panchal, a subjugation, a secondary in the chain, subservient. she's the daughter of the land. that's her position. love that can easily be tied down to the contemporary magnified grief of the rulling party about "the complete staggering state of the misguided children." we are the children of the state first, then an individual with a mind tethered to a lynched body.
this also reminds me of how body politics often involve the female body as a warzone (the simple act of invasion becoming a phallic stand-in) during any geopolitical hazard (like this recent democratic protest was confounded as).
i love how you could mythologise the entire thing without diluting the two.
i will insufferably, however, dwell on the patriarchal positioning. i loved how you simply wrote "abuse a father" and not "her" father. this simple linguistic altercation paved the way to universalising how a "daughter" position remains transfixed as a daughter in this social structure: her "honour" is the honour of the land. in fact, every man's a father unless they reach too close to what's between her legs: then he just becomes a groom. the line "why was she angry, when she could have been sad?" is also very economic: rage cannot be profited in, sadness is very saleable because it promotes inaction, and that's very "misguided" innit.
i know there's a lot more to say about it, but lines like this ("What does a woman mean? It only matters: she’s here and we’re here and pity’s too rich for us.") really makes one think of the sheer payout humanity requires to do whatever they have done: through history and myths.
you're v cool, pls don't go bald. love ya