October 19, 2015.

Draupadi, Sita, moon and me crunching dried leaves on Link Road, autumned from parent trees. Draupadi and Sita make Mahabharata and Ramayana. Sipping fresh, morning tea at Murari Dairy Farm, Draupadi and Sita discussed writing Mahabharata and Ramayana, their versions which may not be Vyasa or Valmiki. Not being schooled ever, they had contracted Arun Kolatkar to put them down in English verse for a US and UK audience, fearing a ban in India. Ayodhya to Kurukshetra. From their Hindi to Arun English; no high caste Sanskrit. After ages, they were having chai with maska biscuits. In our times, Rama never allowed me out, said Sita. Today, I admit, Rama and me never got along together; he said, me kept silent; they told me not to disagree with God; my best friend has always been Draupadi; she objected to every god and goddess, when I gave up on living; no Krishna aid; some say Kismat; she was the first dissenter, Sita said. We women are a offering to men; shaadi mein beti ko dan dethe hain; purush ko nahin, Sita reminded me in Hindi. Me was silent, Sita passed on the aalaap to Draupadi elaborating into a dhrut tal. Disrobed, my kismet. UN mediator, Krishna, my kismet. Never spotted commas and alphabets of compassion that morning when Dushasana tugged at my saree. I did protest, the show could have been avoided if I had been warned by an all-knowing Krishna a day ahead. But Krishna did not; nor my five husbands. Given a chance, our Mahabharata and Ramayana could have been a different scaling; our epic imaginings would have been a hallelujah to living, not killing. We were not given a 10 per cent chance. We took it. We never cursed. We were hurt. Scooped souls. Draupadi ordered a second round of tea with samosas from a thrilled Murari. Mooned off. Their country, India and Bharat, did not snatch the dhoti of an old man in 1948. They put two bullets. Murdered Kaburgi, Dabholkar, Pansare. Lynched a Mohammed. The male telling is still on. Female hurt is on. An ancient guilt, not quick to go.