Draupadi

Me piece of earth needs
a Lady.
Not Kali, Saraswathi, Meera,
Mary
but a Draupadi
in a salwar kameez,
dark and trim,
a cross of Smita Patil and Shabna Azmi,
refusing Krishna,
daring Krishna,
shooing men and me,
on the run.
Draupadi,
halting the chariot,
demanding Arjuna to turn back
from manufacturing widows
to appease peace, paramatmans;
littering me piece of earth
with still, saltless tears.
Dialling me piece of earth
with heft and compassion,
under banyans,
for grass to grow,
children to frolic,
no blood.
Draupadi thinks its easy;
maybe not;
me does not know.
Draupadi silent as far horizons.
Sets norms.
Dropping the search,
a drooped, fierce head,
Draupadi
mulches me piece of earth
with dry eyes,
births 8 year old Asifa Bano
and many more.
Draupadi
will not be a twelth woman
in any team,
on me piece of earth.
She bests Bhishma
in a wash of disgust.
Her friend is Sita,
but she is not Sita.
She has the charity of Shabari,
is not Shabari.
Is she where Asifa is?
Where is Draupadi?