Draupadi takes leave of Kunti and departs for the forest

Draupadi was ready. The dice game was over, her husbands were defeated, and the terms were set: thirteen years of exile, the last year in concealment. She stood at the threshold of the palace, about to trade its halls for the desolate forest. But first, she turned back inside. In extreme grief, Krishna — Draupadi — went to the famous Pritha, Kunti, the mother of her husbands. The other ladies of the household were there too. Draupadi took her leave from them all. She paid her respects. She showed homage to each, as each deserved. It was the formal, devastating etiquette of a queen departing not on a journey, but into ruin. As she completed these rites, great lamentations broke out through the inner quarters of the Pandavas. The sound of women weeping filled the rooms. Kunti was extremely miserable, seeing Draupadi about to leave. Her voice was choked with grief, but she formed the words a daughter-in-law needed to hear. “O child! Do not grieve because of this great calamity that has befallen you,” she began. She acknowledged what Draupadi already knew: her good character, her conduct, her understanding of the dharma for women. “I need not instruct you about the duties towards your husbands.” Then she offered a stark observation. “The Kurus in the assembly hall are fortunate that they have not been burnt down by your rage.” It was a recognition of the fire that lived in Draupadi, the cosmic fury that had been contained only by her will and her husbands’ plight. She gave a blessing: “Blessed by my thoughts about you, travel on a route that has no difficulties. The minds of good women are not distorted by what is inevitable. You are protected by the dharma of your superiors and you will swiftly obtain prosperity.” Finally, she gave an instruction, a mother’s practical worry amidst the cosmic disaster. “When you live in the forest, always keep an eye on my son, Sahadeva, so that his mind does not sink under this great calamity that has come.” Sahadeva, the youngest, the wisest, who knew the future but was bound by fate not to change it. The queen replied, “So shall it be.” Then she went out. Her hair, which had been seized and loosened in the assembly, was still undone. She wore a single garment, the one she had clutched around herself after being disrobed, now stained with blood from her monthly season and marked with her flowing tears. She crossed the threshold of the inner quarters, leaving the world of women and safety behind, and stepped onto the path to the forest.