novelraw Arc 4 - Dyūta - Chapter 2 - Duryodhana’s Torment and Confession of Envy
Arc 4 - Dyūta - Chapter 2 - Duryodhana’s Torment and Confession of Envy
Vaiśampāyana said:
O King, after witnessing the grandeur of Yudhiṣṭhira’s Rājasūya and learning Duryodhana’s wounded thoughts as they left the sabhā, Śakuni, son of Suvala, devised a path to satisfy his nephew’s burning heart. With words carefully chosen and motives cloaked in concern, he approached King Dhṛtarāṣṭra—wise but blind, seated on his ancestral throne.
The monarch, deprived of sight yet not of judgment, welcomed him. Bowing with reverence, Śakuni addressed the king in a voice soft yet insistent:
"O mighty one, bull among the Bharatas, know that your eldest son, the crown prince Duryodhana, suffers silently. His color has faded; he is pale, gaunt, and sleepless. Though he speaks little, he is consumed by sorrow.
The heart of a prince is a mirror of fire,
It flares unseen, it hides desire.
And though thy son wears kingly grace,
Grief shadows his soul and dims his face.
Why, O king, dost thou not inquire into the nature of this sorrow? Has a father no need to know the storm that rages in his son’s heart—especially when that sorrow arises from the rise of his foes?"
Hearing these words, the blind king stirred in his seat. Concern furrowed his brow, and he turned toward his son, though he could not see his form. His voice, touched with anxious affection, rang through the hall:
"O Duryodhana, my son, what is this affliction that gnaws at thee? Why does your radiance fade? If your trouble may be heard by me, speak it now.
Śakuni tells me you are changed—your face pale, your strength diminished, your heart in unrest. But why?
Is not my vast treasury thine to command?
Are not thy brothers and kin loyal and grand?
The meat of kings, the wine of pride,
The steeds of Sindhu, the arms at thy side—
All these serve thee, O son, as they would serve a god.
You wear the finest silks, sleep on beds of golden frame, surrounded by maidens of exquisite beauty. Palaces and gardens, music and sport—nothing is denied to thee.
Then why, O proud one, dost thou grieve?
What dream has fled? What shadow cleaves?
Speak, O son, and let thy father know—
What sorrow roots thee in silent woe?"
Then Duryodhana, his voice tremulous with emotion and his brow furrowed by envy, spoke to his father, King Dhṛtarāṣṭra, in tones stripped of all royal pride.
"O father," he said, "though I wear fine garments and feast on the richest meat, I feel no joy. My every breath is bitter, for my heart is scorched by jealousy. Day and night I dwell upon the glory of our foes, and each thought burns like poison.
He is a man, I say,
Who breaks the pride of foes and walks away—
Not one who smiles while rivals rise,
And watches helpless with downcast eyes.
Contentment is the ruin of kings, O Bhārata. So too are pride, fear, and mercy. These are the fetters of ambition. He who acts under their sway wins nothing great.
Ever since I beheld the prosperity of Yudhiṣṭhira, no pleasure can reach me. All that I own, all I eat, all I wear—it is tasteless, dull, dead. The wealth and glory of the son of Kuntī stand ever before my eyes, even when he is far from sight.
He supports eighty-eight thousand Snātaka Brāhmaṇas, each with thirty maidservants at his service. A thousand more dine daily in his palace, feasting on golden plates. Kings from every direction brought tribute for his sacrifice—blankets of exquisite make, skins of rare deer, she-elephants and camels by the tens of thousands.
Jewels were heaped like mounds of clay,
Gems flashed brighter than the day.
I have never seen, nor even heard,
Of such wealth gathered by hand or word.
Brāhmaṇas, grown rich with kine, came to offer gifts of millions. Yet they were turned away at the gate, so vast was the crowd. They bore golden kamandalus brimming with ghṛta, yet could not enter. Even the Ocean himself came forth in vessels of white copper, bringing nectars hidden in his depths—purer than the ambrosia of Indra.
And Kṛṣṇa, at the sacrifice’s close, performed the abhisheka of Yudhiṣṭhira. A thousand golden jars, filled with sea water from all directions—east, west, south—were poured upon his crown. Even the unreachable North, where only birds may fly, yielded treasure to Arjuna’s arms.
What magic is this? What fate unfolds?
When Arjuna walks where gods do not,
And kings bow down as merchants might,
And drums resound when Brāhmaṇas sup?
Another marvel, O father—listen well. When a hundred thousand Brāhmaṇas were fed, conches were to be blown each day in triumph. Yet I heard them constantly—again and again—as though the feast never ceased. My body trembled, and my hair stood on end.
The sabhā compound itself glittered with kings who came as mere spectators—bringers of wealth, distributors of food. That gathering looked like the star-filled sky, clear and vast, with monarchs shining like constellations.
His fortune, O father, exceeds all bounds.
Neither Indra, nor Yama, nor Varuṇa himself
Possess such riches, such honor, such sway.
And I—I stand here broken, day by day.
Beholding all this, how can I know peace? My heart burns with every memory. Their wealth mocks my crown. Their splendor belittles my birth. I am parched with envy, and I can bear it no more."
Hearing Duryodhana’s lament, Śakuni, master of guile and games, spoke with confidence sharpened by deceit:
"O prince of the Kuru race, listen carefully. I shall show thee the path by which thou mayest obtain the splendor thou beheldest in Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma. It lies not in battle, but in play.
I am unmatched upon the dice-board.
I know the hour of luck and loss.
Each cast, each stake, each silent sign—
I read them as a sage reads stars.
Yudhiṣṭhira, though noble, is fond of the game. Yet he is no master—his hands are steady, but not cunning. If invited, he will not refuse; he is bound by honor to accept a challenge. Therein lies our path.
Let me be thy player. I will sit for thee. With deception and art, I will win all that he owns—his wealth, his kingdom, his very pride. And when I have done so, O Duryodhana, thou shalt reign over all he once possessed."
Thus assured by Śakuni, Duryodhana’s eyes gleamed like fire flashing in a storm. Without a moment’s delay, he turned to his blind father and said:
“O King, Śakuni—skilled above all in dice—stands ready to win, through play, the wealth of the sons of Pāṇḍu. Grant him thy permission. Let the game be arranged.”
Dhṛtarāṣṭra, hesitant and old, replied with measured voice:
“I do not act without counsel. Kṣattā—Vidura—is wise, and always walks in the light of dharma. Let me first seek his judgment. With clarity and fairness, he will show us the path that is proper for both our house and theirs.”
But Duryodhana, desperate and trembling with the fever of envy, interrupted:
“O father, if thou speak with Vidura, he will surely stop thee! He will pour words of restraint into thy ear, and thou, soft of heart, will yield to him.
But if thou refuse this game—if thou deny me this chance—I will cast away my life! I swear it before thee. I shall take my own life, for I cannot bear this humiliation.
Let Vidura be thy son, then.
Let him carry thy name and throne.
Enjoy the world in peace with him—
For I shall be gone, forever alone."
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Thus overwhelmed by Duryodhana’s anguished pleas, and swayed by the veiled fires of ambition and fear, King Dhṛtarāṣṭra—though wise, and fully aware of the perils of gambling—gave in to his son's desire.
He spoke with grave command to his attendants:
“Let artisans and architects be summoned without delay. Construct a grand hall—vast and wondrous—with a hundred doors and a thousand columns. Let its walls be studded with gems, its floors polished like the face of calm waters, and its entrances inviting. When the work is done, inform me at once.”
And so the king, seeking to appease his restless son, resolved to create the field upon which destiny would unfold.
A hall was ordered not for play,
But for the fall of kings that day.
No cheerful game, no joy, no jest—
But fate concealed in silken vest.
Still, though his heart leaned toward indulgence, Dhṛtarāṣṭra did not act without precedent. As always, he turned to Vidura, his wise brother and minister, for counsel. Yet deep within, the king already knew what must not be done.
Messengers were sent swiftly to summon Vidura. But the moment the son of Vālikhilya heard of the dice hall and its purpose, his heart sank.
"Kali draws near," thought the wise Kṣattā.
"The door to destruction is now unbarred."
Wasting no time, Vidura came before the blind king and bowed at his feet. With eyes full of foreknowledge and a voice heavy with sorrow, he spoke:
“O revered one, I cannot approve this resolution. Let not such a match be arranged. It is not merely a game—it is a seed of ruin. Let not thy sons be divided by dice. It does not befit thee, O king of men, to plant the cause of future discord.”
But Dhṛtarāṣṭra, caught in the web of paternal attachment and fateful delusion, replied:
"O Kṣattā, may the gods be merciful. If their favor rests upon us, no evil shall come of this. Let this match proceed as a friendly challenge. Whether auspicious or ill, whether it brings fortune or ruin, let it unfold—for such is fate, and fate must be fulfilled.
What is written must be lived.
What is destined none can forbid.
Even with Bhīṣma, Droṇa, and thee near,
Let this play begin—we need not fear.
Therefore, prepare a swift chariot. Let steeds as fast as the wind be yoked to it. Ride now to Khaṇḍavaprastha. Go, and summon Yudhiṣṭhira, the righteous, and bring him hither to our court. This is my decision—urge me not to change it. For what unfolds now is ordained by Time itself.”
Hearing these words, Vidura stood silent, his heart pierced with dread. He saw clearly the ruin that approached, the fire hidden beneath the gold. In grief and wisdom, he departed to seek Bhīṣma, guardian of the House of Kuru.
The blind king saw not the fall,
Though the ground cracked beneath the hall.
And the wise, though helpless to turn the tide,
Bore witness to Dharma cast aside.
Janamejaya said:
“O foremost among the learned, O master of the Vedas and teller of sacred history, tell me—how did that disastrous game of dice unfold?
Through that cruel play, the sons of Pāṇḍu,
My grandsires noble and true,
Were plunged into sorrow and ignominy—
Their fortunes wrecked by deceitful fate.
Who among the kings gathered in that hall? Who approved of the match, and who opposed it? O sinless one, recount to me in full that ancient sorrow, which in truth was the beginning of the world’s destruction.”
Thus questioned by Janamejaya, the disciple of Kṛṣṇa-Dvaipāyana, endowed with great energy and sacred knowledge, began again to recite all that had taken place.
O great king, O scion of the Bharata race, if thou wouldst hear, then listen carefully as I recount again that fateful episode in full.
Having taken counsel with Vidura, and having heard the warnings of wisdom, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, son of Ambikā, once more summoned Duryodhana to his chamber. There, alone with his son, he spoke in tones both paternal and troubled:
“O son of Gāndhārī, abandon this path. Have nothing to do with the game of dice. Vidura has spoken against it, and rightly so. Possessed of vast wisdom, he never advises me wrongly. His mind is pure, his intellect vast.
In Vidura’s words I see my safety,
As one sees shelter beneath a sacred tree.
He knows what Vṛhaspati taught to Indra,
The truths of dharma, polity, and fate.
Just as the wise Uddhava is revered among the Vrṣṇis, so is Vidura regarded among the Kurus. Listen to him, my son, for his words guard our lineage.
Dice, though draped in courtesy, conceal the seeds of discord. And discord, once sown, tears a kingdom from within. Turn away, O son—turn away from this game.
I have given you, as a father must—
Land, name, and throne in rightful trust.
You rule vast wealth, your fame is spread,
Then why, O child, hangs grief upon thy head?
You are wise, educated in every śāstra, raised with affection under this roof. As the eldest of your brothers, the kingdom is yours to enjoy and rule. You wear the finest garments, eat food fit for kings, and dwell in palaces that gleam with gold.
O mighty-armed one, you shine in court
Like Indra among the heavenly sort.
Then why this gloom? What unseen pain
Has cast its shadow on thy reign?”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus pressed by his father, Duryodhana, overcome by grief and humiliation, spoke at last—his voice thick with emotion, his words laced with bitterness.
“O king, I am a wretch—unworthy of the food I eat and the silks I wear—for I live daily under the shadow of my enemy’s prosperity. It is said that only he is truly a man who cannot bear to see his rivals rise in glory. Then what am I?
My hands hold gold, my plate is full—
Yet all is dust, tasteless and dull.
For while I eat, I see in flame
The rise of those who mock my name.
This hollow grandeur of mine gives me no joy. How strong must my life-force be, father, that I still breathe while all the earth bows to Yudhiṣṭhira! I, the eldest of the house of Kuru, have become a mere witness to the sovereignty of my foes.
The Nipas, the Chitrakas, the Kukkuras, the Karaskaras, the Lauha-janghas—all these once-proud kings dwell now in Yudhiṣṭhira’s palace, reduced to servants. And the wealth of his mansion surpasses all: the Himālaya, the ocean, and every shore-bearing land that yields jewels—all pale before the treasure I saw there.
The world poured tribute at his feet,
Jewels burned like fire in heaps.
And I—his elder—stood there still,
Appointed to receive at will.
Yes, he honored me, set me to receive the wealth of nations. My arms ached with the weight of gems—so many that even when I paused, the bearers waited patiently for me to begin again.
Maya, the Asura architect, brought water from Lake Vindu and forged from it a crystal floor. It gleamed like a lotus-lake—and I, fool that I was, mistook it for water. Lifting my robes to cross, I was mocked by Bhīma, who laughed as if I had lost my wits at the sight of wealth.
I burn to this day for that laugh.
If power were mine, Bhīma would fall.
But now, if I were to strike him,
I would meet Śiśupāla’s fate before all.
Yet the shame did not end there. Later I approached a real lake, thinking it false, and fell in fully clothed. Once more Bhīma and Arjuna laughed—Draupadī too joined in, her voice bright with cruel amusement. Their laughter haunts me, O king.
Soaked and humiliated, I was brought new garments by the palace servants—at Yudhiṣṭhira’s command. Each kindness was a dagger.
Worse still, I walked toward what seemed a doorway and struck my head upon solid stone. Nakula and Sahadeva ran to support me, full of false concern. Sahadeva smiled and said, ‘This is the door, O king. You must go this way.’ Bhīma mocked, saying, ‘Indeed, son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, this is the true path.’
Their words were laced with honeyed scorn.
Their smiles masked thorns of pride.
Each moment in that hall, O father,
Was like a thousand wounds inside.
And the gems I saw there—I had never heard even their names! They blinded the eyes with beauty, shamed the mind with envy. And it is for this, O king, that my heart burns so. I am not at peace. I am not whole. I am consumed by the fire of what I saw, and what I suffered.”
Then Duryodhana, his mind still captive to the spectacle he had witnessed, continued to pour forth his burning heart before Dhṛtarāṣṭra:
“O king, hear now of the most wondrous tributes brought to Yudhiṣṭhira—gifts gathered from the corners of the earth, borne by kings and tribes of every kind. As I beheld these riches, wave upon wave, my reason fled—I scarcely knew who I was. My breath faltered, my limbs trembled.
Such was the wealth of the son of Dharma,
That kings came like rivers into ocean’s arms,
Bearing treasures of forest and forge,
Of beast and gem, of sea and star.
From Kāmboja came rich offerings: countless skins of rarest beasts, blankets woven from the softest furs—rodents, hares, and wildcats—each cloth inlaid with golden thread, each texture finer than silk spun in the moonlight.
He gave three hundred horses of the Titteti and Kalmāṣa breeds, swift-limbed and high-nosed like parrots—creatures born of mountain wind. With them came three hundred camels and an equal number of sleek she-asses, fattened on olives and pilusha fruits.
Brāhmaṇas by the hundreds of thousands, caretakers of cows and learned in sacred rites, waited at the gates—bearing with them three hundred million in tribute. But so great was the crowd that even they were turned away.
With golden kamandalus filled with ghṛta,
With gifts of kine, cloth, and prayer,
They stood denied before the door—
Such was the fullness of that rare air.
Then came the Śūdra kings from coastal lands, bearing a hundred thousand maidens of the Karpāsika country—slender-waisted, long-haired, radiant with golden ornaments. They brought too the skins of the Ranku deer, so rare that even Brāhmaṇas accepted them.
Tribes unknown to me—the Vairamas, Paradas, Tungas, Kitavas—all came. Some tilled fields blessed only by rain, others lived on the sea’s edge, some in far-off forests and unseen islands. All arrived with gifts: goats and kine, asses and camels, fragrant vegetables and wild honey, soft blankets and shining jewels.
Bhagadatta, mighty sovereign of Pragjyotiṣa and ruler of the Mlecchas, came too. At the head of Yavana warriors, he stood with horses that ran like the wind, waiting at the gate—but he too was denied. He left behind gleaming swords with ivory hilts and hilts inlaid with diamonds and gems of every hue.
And others came—tribes strange and wild,
With eyes on their foreheads or only one limb.
Cannibals, Aśmakas, Romakas, and Niṣādas,
All bore their treasures, and all were turned away.
Ten thousand asses, vast and powerful, were brought—beasts of diverse hues, with black-striped necks, massive frames, and speed unmatched. They were bred on the coasts of Vankhu, famed across the earth for grace and might.
Their hooves beat like thunder, their hides shone like fire,
And yet they too stood outside, denied by that hall’s desire.
O father, I had not dreamed such wealth existed in this world. And to know that it was my cousin—he whom I mock, he whom I hate—who received it all while I stood as witness, helpless... That, O king, is a pain beyond all else.”
And Duryodhana, still captive to memory and scorched by envy, continued speaking before Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his heart heavy with awe and bitterness:
“O father, hear further of the treasures I saw—wealth brought from every quarter of the earth, given to Yudhiṣṭhira, the son of Dharma, by kings who came in endless procession.
Gold and silver by the mountain-load were poured into his hands. Those who brought the greatest tribute—laden with jewels, weapons, and wealth—were granted audience. Others, no less earnest, waited at the gates, their gifts unacknowledged in the tide of riches.
Among them were people of a single leg, bearing wild horses of strange and splendid hue—red as cochineal dye, white as Himalayan snow, rainbow-colored, cloud-grey at dusk, and some whose skins shimmered in patterns never seen before. All were swift as thought itself.
Their hooves made no sound,
Their eyes flashed with wind-born pride.
They ran like dreams fleeing sleep,
And their speed mocked the mind.
These wondrous beings also gave purest gold, heavy and untainted. And I saw multitudes of Cīnas, Śakas, Uddras, Vrṣṇis, Hārahūṇas, and other tribes of dusky complexion from the snowy Himālayas. Nīpas, coastal peoples, and forest-dwelling clans too came in droves.
All stood at the palace gates—unseen, uncalled—for the hall of Yudhiṣṭhira could not contain the ocean that flowed toward him.
From the land of Bālhika came ten thousand asses—black-necked, noble-limbed, able to run two hundred miles in a day. Of varied form, strong in flank and fine of hide, their skin soft as cloud-wool, they were famed across the world. With them came blankets of wool from the east, deer-skins of Ranku, garments of jute, and textiles woven from the silk of insects—some colored like lotus petals, others dyed in hues unknown to mortal looms.
Clothes smooth as starlight,
Blankets soft as whispered prayers,
Sheep-skins by the thousand,
And blades of western steel glared.
Battle-axes sharp as judgment, swords with jeweled hilts, curved scimitars, hatchets forged beyond the setting sun—all were brought as offerings. The Bālhikas also gifted perfumes rare and potent, and gems that glowed like hidden stars—rubies, emeralds, sapphires without number.
Yet even these treasures were not enough for passage—many waited still, shut out by the tide of greater gifts.
Then came the Śakas, Tukhāras, Tukhātas, Kankas, and Romakas—tribes strange and far, some bearing horns upon their heads. They brought elephants vast as hills and ten thousand horses—fierce, untamed, and richly adorned. They brought gold not by the chest, but by the million.
Yet they too waited, unadmitted.
From the East came sovereigns bearing marvels: carpets of woven moonlight, carriages carved with vines, beds adorned with ivory and flame-tinted silk. Armors inlaid with jewels, bows both long and short, arrows that sang like wind, swords of meteoric edge, and elephant trappings adorned in tiger-skin and gold.
Chariots gleamed like fire on wheels,
Their steeds draped in striped gold and steel.
The kings themselves bowed low with pride—
And only then were they ushered inside.
This, O father, was the glory of Yudhiṣṭhira’s Rājasūya. This was the wealth I saw—and I tell you, it has unmade me.”