The thin fabric falls off my shoulder, and honour is lost before it touches the ground. Mine, that of my parents, my husbands, my kingdom, my clan and maybe the Gods' I worship. All is lost, yet not a muscle moves; a few drops of moisture roll down on a cheek. I stand there, broken, defeated and humiliated.

I am no ordinary woman; I am the one born of fire, the wife of the greatest warriors, the empress of the nation, and the sister of the mightiest God and yet other than a curse, I have nothing to avenge my honour.

I turn to my father; if my honour was attached to my clothes and hair, why can't I be the one to protect it? My husbands, who vowed to love and protect me, your dharma kept you from lifting your bow or your mace; what kept you from rolling one in my direction? The God, the great one who promised to pay the debt in my hour of need, you, too, failed me. Yet the story gets told again and again. It is the tale of the victory of truth over falsehood, right over wrong and good and evil.

No one sees me; no one sees my hands tied behind my back. I am nothing but a pawn moved from one square to another as the grand saga unfolds.

My daughters in the future who listen to my tale on their grandmother's lap, read about me in books, or perhaps discuss my contribution to the great epic. Remember this – your honour is yours to keep and to defend. You are the queen, the king in the game of chess that is your life.