On his centenary, a look at how injustice and suffering were constant themes in Somnath Hore’s works What I draw is the unfolding of my being — which in my case is inscribed as ‘wounds’. — Somnath Hore Draupadi is a lonely old woman. The world marvelled at her tribulations and moved on, the storytellers killed her off once her narrative had served its purpose. But she seems to have one friend left, as she sits on the ground, supporting her head, supporting a lifetime of pain, on a thin bronze arm. There is someone who is faithfully recording her exhaustion.