When people talk about the Mahabharata, they speak of war, dharma, politics, Krishna’s wisdom, and Arjuna’s bow. They speak of the clash between cousins, the strategy, and the betrayal. What they often forget, or rather choose to forget: the women.
The women who stood at the centre of it all, who were traded and even silenced, humiliated, sacrificed, and manipulated, not from personal choices but rather for the greed of men and the greed of kingdoms. Women were dismissed; their consent doesn’t seem to either exist or matter. They were used to protect pride and to make appearances. When they dare raise their voices, they are either punished or ignored. Their suffering, pain were dismissed as just their duty. Their rage, reframed as drama. They were either revered as goddesses or erased as inconvenient. No middle ground.
Make no mistake—these women were not weak. They were strategic, sharp, and far more emotionally intelligent than the men who surrounded them. They carried the emotional debris of decisions they didn’t make. And through it all, they endured. Not quietly, not blindly. But with a strength that still reverberates through time, because while men fought for the throne, it was the women who bore the consequences, with their bodies, children, silence, and their reputation.
Draupadi
Draupadi was never meant to live a quiet life. Born from fire itself, she carried a force within her that made comfort impossible and silence unnatural. Despite her divine start to life, her story was written by the weakness of men around her. She was not defeated in war, nor cursed by fate. She was gambled away, like property, in a court filled with kings, elders, and warriors who prided themselves on righteousness. Not one hand was raised in her defence when she was dragged into the centre of that assembly, humiliated and mocked in full view. Her five husbands sat silent, and the gods too stayed distant.
Drupadi, the fierce woman, didn’t let her gaze fall. She stood there, wounded, furious, completely alone, doing one thing that no one expected-She spoke, questioned, and refused to break as she remembered every insult, every silence, and every act of betrayal dressed as tradition. Those memories shaped her as the woman Drupadi was. It became the fire behind every step that led to war, because, for all the scriptures say about dharma and cosmic balance, the war did not begin with politics. It began the day Draupadi was dishonoured, and no one moved to stop it.
Kunti
Kunti started as a girl who was handed a divine chant before she understood what power meant. She called a god, bore his son, and was left holding a child she couldn’t keep. That was her first lesson: strength would always demand sacrifice. And from there, she built herself around that idea.
She didn’t lead armies or give grand speeches, but the war wouldn’t have happened without her. Every major turn in the Mahabharata has its shadow behind it. She made decisions that looked like tradition on the surface, but underneath were loaded with strategy. She wasn’t just a mother; she was an architect.
She raised the Pandavas not just to survive, but to rule. She taught them values that were supposed to keep them grounded, but also prepared them to challenge an empire. She made her sons promise unity when they found a shared wife. She told Yudhishthir to go claim what was his, even when peace would’ve meant less destruction. She stayed behind the scenes, but nothing moved without her knowing.
Her silence about Karna-her firstborn, wasn’t just a personal secret. It shaped the whole war. She could’ve stopped the bloodshed, but she chose not to. When she finally told Karna the truth, it wasn’t a confession; it was a political move, a last attempt to break Duryodhana’s side.
People often see her as just the mother of the Pandavas, but she was more than just that; she was one of the key reasons the Mahabharata became Mahabharata.
Gandhari
blindfolded herself not for love, but as a form of protest—no one had asked for her consent when she was married off to a blind king, so she chose to deny the world its gaze. She gave birth to a hundred sons, raised them with fierce loyalty, and when they all fell in war, she didn’t collapse—she turned to Krishna and cursed him, knowing exactly who he was and what that meant.
Satyavati
began her life as a fisherwoman but transformed into a queen who changed the course of a kingdom. She demanded that Bhishma give up his claim to the throne to secure her bloodline’s future, setting into motion the events that would one day explode into war.
Subhadra
Krishna’s sister and Arjuna’s wife were left behind as her son Abhimanyu was sent into battle unprepared. She lost him before he became a man, and yet remained silent in her grief, holding together what little was left of a family broken by war.
Uttara
Abhimanyu’s young wife lost her husband before she could build a life with him. Still pregnant, she carried her son Parikshit into a world where nearly every man had died, becoming the final link to continue the Pandava legacy.
These women didn’t preach war, but were forced into it; they didn’t fight the battle, they faced the consequences of the aftermath.
Has Anything Changed?
Thousands of years have passed since the Mahabharata was written. Cultures have evolved. Societies have modernised. Women can now vote, work, lead, and speak freely—at least on paper.
But the question remains: has anything truly changed?
Draupadi’s humiliation was public. So is the trolling and harassment women face online today. Kunti's silence was strategic. Today, women are still expected to stay silent “for the sake of the family.” Gandhari’s grief turned into a curse. Today’s grieving mothers still fight for justice in courtrooms and streets. Satyavati's ambition was framed as manipulative. Today, successful women are still called “too aggressive” or “calculating.” The method has changed. The patterns have not.
Control still exists-just hidden under new names. It’s in the workplace where men interrupt, talk over, and take credit. It’s in homes, where “discipline” masks emotional abuse. It’s in marriages where decisions are made without asking. It’s in institutions where survivors of violence are disbelieved and asked what they were wearing.
The root of much abuse is not strength, but Insecurity dressed up as dominance. When women rise—when they lead, question, correct, or outperform, some men feel the ground shift beneath them, and rather than evolving, they choose control, joke, mock, intimidate, and violate. They don’t know how to coexist with equality; they need to dominate it. So when a woman speaks out, she’s labelled emotional. When she’s firm, she’s arrogant. When she’s successful, she’s either lucky or manipulative. The same traits praised in men are punished in women.
The Story Has Always Been Bigger Than the War
The Mahabharata was never just about who won the throne. It was about who paid for it. The women in that story didn’t burn in funeral pyres-they burned in shame, silence, and grief. They endured decisions made by others, then they carried the wounds no one else saw, and yet, they were never weak.. They were the foundation, and their stories still hold a mirror to the world we live in today.
Because every time a woman is silenced, the dice game repeats. Every time a woman’s worth is debated, the court reopens. And every time a woman fights back, she carries Draupadi’s fire in her.
The battle didn’t end at Kurukshetra; it just changed form. Today, it lives in workplaces, households, on screens, and with laws. The control is more polished now, but the intent is the same. Still, women aren’t waiting. They’re not asking, softening, or staying quiet to keep anyone comfortable. Like Draupadi and Gandhari, they remember, like Kunti and Satyavati, they calculate. They endure-but not in silence. No divine hand will set things right. No one’s looking away this time. Because now, women aren’t just part of the story. They’re the ones writing it.