The summons

Draupadi stood in the inner chamber.

Not waiting.

Not resting.

Held.

Outside, the game had ended.

Inside, its language had not yet entered.

---

The first messenger

He stopped at the threshold.

Did not cross.

“Queen,” he said.

The word still held.

“You are called.”

She looked at him.

Not hard.

Not soft.

“By whom?”

He hesitated.

“By the king.”

“Which one?”

He swallowed.

“The one who has won.”

A pause.

“And what has been won?”

He lowered his gaze.

“I do not know.”

She studied him a moment longer.

“You came to call me without knowing what I am called as.”

He said nothing.

“That is not your fault.”

A breath.

“Go back.”

He looked up, uncertain.

“Ask what was lost before I am summoned as what was won.”

Relief crossed his face before he could stop it.

He bowed.

Left quickly.

---

What she becomes

The women in the chamber watched her.

She changed.

Not in form.

In edge.

“They will come again.”

No one asked.

“This time without asking.”

Silence.

“Do not answer.”

A tremor passed through the room.

Not through her.

“They will take your words and carry them out of this room as proof.”

She turned.

Fully now.

“Stand behind me.”

No softness left.

---

The second arrival

He entered without pause.

Without address.

Without asking.

“You were called,” he said.

“I was not answered.”

He smiled.

Careless.

“You were won.”

The air shifted.

She turned.

Slowly.

“Say that again.”

“You were won.”

Silence.

“By whom?”

Annoyance now.

“By the one who holds the dice.”

“And who held me before that?”

No answer.

She stepped closer.

“Ask him.”

He did not.

“You will come.”

“No.”

Flat.

---

The names she carries

He reached.

She raised her hand.

Not to stop him.

To stop the others.

“Stay.”

They did.

“Do not hold me.”

A breath.

“If you do, they will say I was defended.”

Her voice did not rise.

“They must say I was taken.”

Silence.

She stood as she was.

---

Draupadī.

Not moved.

---

Pāñcālī.

Not reduced.

---

Yajñasenī.

Not explained.

---

Nityayuvanī.

Untarnished

---

The crossing

His hand closed on her arm.

She did not pull away.

She did not yield.

She turned once.

“Do not follow.”

A pause.

“Remember.”

---

The threshold

He pulled.

She crossed.

Not dragged.

Not led.

Taken.

The corridor opened.

Voices ahead.

Behind, the room held.

---

The name

From somewhere…

Not in the chamber.

Not in the hall.

A voice.

“Kṛṣṇā.”

She did not turn.

She did not need to.

---

What remains

She spoke as one woman.

She stood as many.

And when they named her…

They did not know what they had named.