Draupadi Mehra wasn’t loud. But people listened when she spoke.
She wore sarees like armor and carried her words with care—measured, deliberate, like someone who knew silence too well.
She trusted five boys. Protest partners. Late-night samosa debates. Family, almost.
Until they used her voice in a campus documentary.
Clipped. Twisted. Political. Without consent.
She watched it alone—her face, her words—turned into noise she never agreed to make.
When she confronted them, they shrugged.
“We thought you’d be okay.”
But she wasn’t.
Whispers followed.
“Too dramatic.”
“Too political.”
The college told her to let it go.
That night, she sat with the red saree she wore in the video. It felt like betrayal and memory.
Still, she wore it.
At the next seminar, she stood—uninvited, voice trembling.
“You all saw it. And you said nothing.
Like the court of Hastinapur, you watched.
But I won’t be stripped silently.”
No applause. No forgiveness.
But this time, Draupadi didn’t cry.
She didn’t wait for justice.
She became it.
