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His fragile masculinity met her determined femininity/In the twirl of tresses/He felt the twirl of death/In their wildness was the shakti of Draupadi's femininity/ Ready to throttle and pawn his throne to death.
Sure-stepped and mighty,
The Kuru empress traced the way to her camp,
Eyes moist with tears shed,
Sweetened with the feel of blood,
Draupadi still walks with her head held high,
As she returned from Grandsire’s arrow-bed.
Strange were her feelings,
A deep reverence for the old sapling that refused to take sword at humankind’s insult,
Once recoiling in vengeful smother for his act if cowardice,
Panchali has seen in the infirm eyes of Bhisma the bloodied pain of life,
And feeling the sharp tinge of watching one’s motherland crumbling as the ancient Bhisma must have felt,
She feels no more the gruelling hate for Santanu’s son.
In half-way ,
Her proud head discerned a haughty , arrogant figure,
With disgust crouching in her face,
She saw the profane scion of misfortunate kurus approaching the sacred ground of the eldest kuru member,
Equal was the disgust and hate,
When Duryodhana met his brother’s empress ,
She who made him feel the taste of painful earth
Not once, not twice but each time his fragile masculinity met her determined femininity.
But in the brave warrior’s eyes
Was another emotion
Present not in the calm woman’s piercing vision,
It was the deep fear that took the violent shape of arrogance and violence.
He looked , his heart trembling with the unfelt shivers of fear,
Brave Krishna’s fingers twirling the ends of her open, flying tresses.
In the twirl of tresses,
He felt the twirl of death,
In their wildness
Was the wild Shakti of Draupadi’s femininity,
Ready to throttle and pawn his throne to death.
Draupadi smiled in vengeful coil,
For all her reverence for the white-haired wise Bhisma ,
Forgive she cannot this jackal of his grandson,
The one behind this mighty destruction,
He whose very existence was an insulting blow to womankind,
How can she forgive this terrible hound for a man.
The dice hall sprang before both eyes,
But one set of eyes remembered it with poignant pain
And derived the strength of her life-mission from its naked insults.
But the other coiled in fear,
For the hall reminded him of his own adharmic weakness
And made him fear those fire-emitting eyes of Agni’s daughter.
His fragile masculine bravery hurt by his heart’s fear,
Spelt he out in terrible arrogance
And more terrible dread of the sati:
“What do you think , dear sister-in-law,
the fall of Pitamah by that coward husband of yours
signalled the fall of kurus,
No, no, Draupadi- he struggled to hide his growing fear-
Pitamah is not the symbol of the kurus,
I , Draupadi, I ,the mighty crown prince of Dhritarashtra
Surely Dhirtarashtra for surely not of Hastina’s people, mused Draupadi to herself
I, Duryodhana, the iron-armed is the symbol of the mighty kurus.
Blood rose to Draupadi’s mouth,
Wished she to flung herself at this obstinate mould of ego,
But respecting the strength of calmness,
Krishna’s sister smiled stingingly a smile that sent shivers down the warrior’s throat
And said:
“It is Hastinapur’s misfortune that its crown prince mourns not its flagstaff’s fall.”
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Isha is a 18 year old student of English Honors in Christ University. An aspiring poetess, a blundering writer and a hopelessly old school romantic, Isha, decidedly in love with English, Maddhava and all things read more...
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Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Being a writer, Nivedita Louis recognises the struggles of a first-time woman writer and helps many articulate their voice with development, content edits as a publisher.
“I usually write during night”, says author Nivedita Louis during our conversation. Chuckling she continues,” It’s easier then to focus solely on writing. Nivedita Louis is a writer, with varied interests and one of the founders of Her Stories, a feminist publishing house, based in Chennai.
In a candid conversation she shared her journey from small-town Tamil Nadu to becoming a history buff, an award-winning author and now a publisher.
Nivedita was born and raised in a small town in Tamil Nadu. It was for schooling that she first arrived in Chennai. Then known as Madras, she recalls being awed by the city. Her love-story with the city, its people and thus began which continues till date. She credits her perseverance and passion to make a difference to her days as a vocational student among the elite sections of Madras.
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