The Iron Curfew looked daunting as her carriage crossed it. Yudhistir had told her that it was built of stone, thick enough to withstand the most withering fire and munition attack. A moat encircled the Curfew like a snug necklace. It would have looked beautiful had it not been for the clouds of dust rising from the work going on in the underground tunnels inside the First District. Draupadi had been forced to veil her face even inside the palanquin as she had crossed the digging sites, the tunnel dust stinging her eyes worse than sand.

She stretched out her legs on the soft padding of the palanquin. The Merchant Street in the Second District was less likely to offer a bumpy ride, tempting her to lie down, but she could not forget the etiquette demanded of her. Consort to a Rebel Prince, after all. Princes, she corrected herself.

Draupadi swiped a treacherous tear as she closed her eyes, overwhelmed at the thought. Thoughts that should have been long forgotten, carried her back to the silent screams of the day Arjun had brought her to her new home. Sometimes, certain episodes lie so far outside the boundaries of the imagination that when they occur, one does not even realise they are taking place. So, one does nothing to prevent them. And by the time they have occurred, one is forced to make room for a new, restructured reality. A reality where there is little distinction between a princess and a prostitute, a wife and a thrall. Perhaps that is why she had not protested, or even run away, when Kunti had declared that it would be proper for Draupadi to wed the eldest brother, Yudhistir, and not Arjun. She had stayed, even permitting herself the glimmer of hope that her champion, Arjun, would rise to defend her. So, when Sahadev, the youngest of Kunti’s sons, had told Kunti the next day, that by law Arjun, the winner of the swayamvar, had to marry her, she had suspected it was Arjun who had sent him. But Kunti would have none of it.

Draupadi had viewed the whole incident as some evil enchantment she had heard of in songs, but she soon realised that if were so, the spell was one that could never be broken.

Seven days had passed since she had been brought to her marital home, and for seven days she had remained unmarried, as the men around her debated her fate with their mother. At the end of the week, when Kunti had proposed Draupadi be married to all five brothers, to reconcile law with propriety, Draupadi had laughed aloud. Surely it was a bad joke? As if it such a preposterous thing would ever be allowed. One woman marrying five brothers! Whoever had heard of such a thing? The old matriarch had clearly lost her marbles. But Kunti’s cold, piercing gaze had put all hope to flight.