Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 4 - Dyūta - Chapter 3 - The World Bows to Yudhiṣṭhira

And Duryodhana, his gaze still turned inward to that dazzling past, continued speaking with bitterness sharpened by awe. His voice trembled with the weight of what he had seen.

“O sinless one,” he said to his father, “listen yet again to what I witnessed—the unimaginable tribute laid before Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, by the kings of the earth.

From the banks of the Sailodā—where it flows pure and swift between Mount Meru and Mandara—and beneath the cool shade of the Kīcaka bamboos, came the Khaśas, the Ekasanas, the Arhas, the Pradaras, the Dīrghaveṇus, the Parādas, and the Tanganas. With them they brought heaps upon heaps of gold, measured in droṇas, not dug by man, but raised from the earth by ants—those ancient mines of fire-born wealth.

Ant-gold from secret places drawn,

Weighed in jars before the dawn.

Their tribute gleamed like sunlit flame,

Yet still they waited, denied acclaim.

Mountain tribes of great strength also came, bearing rare chāmaras—some black as night’s shadow, others white as moonbeams on snow. They brought wild honey from Himavat’s sacred flowers, from Mishali campaka, and garlands woven from blooms that grow in the land of the Northern Kurus. With herbs and plants drawn from even the heights of Kailāsa, they stood at the gates with bowed heads—denied entry to the overflowing sabhā.

And I saw the fearsome Kirātas, hunters of the wild—armed with cruel weapons, clad in animal skins, fierce in gaze, hardened by the slopes of the northern Himavat. They dwelt beyond the sunrise, in the land of Karūṣa by the sea, and on both flanks of the Lohitya mountains.

They came with fragrant aloes and sandal,

Gold and bird-skins, black and bright.

Ten thousand maidens followed behind—

Wild-eyed daughters of starlit night.

They brought beasts and birds from remote and unknown lands, gold mined from mountain caves, perfumes rare and thick as morning mist. And yet—like so many others—they stood waiting at the gate.

With them also came the Kairātas, Dāradās, Dārvas, Sūras, Vaiāmakas, Audumvaras, Durvibhāgas, Kumāras, and the Vahlīkas. From Kashmir and the land of the Ghorakas, from the Hansa-kāyaṇas, the Śivis, and the Trigartas; from Yaudheyas, Kaikeyas, and Madra; from Amvaṣṭhas, Kaukuras, and Tārkṣyas; from Vastrapas, Palhavas, Vāṣaṭāyas, Maulikas, Kṣudrakas, and Mālavas; from Pauṇḍras, Kukkurās, Śākas, Aṅgas, Vaṅgas, Puṇḍras, Śānāvatyas, and the Gayās—

Kṣatriyas proud and well-born,

Trained in war and clan-bound sworn,

Came in hundreds, came in thousands—

Yet all bowed to Yudhiṣṭhira’s summons.

From the east came the Vaṅgas, Kaliṅgas, Magadhas, and Tāmraliptas; the Supūṇḍrakas, Dauvalikas, Sāgarakas, Patrorṇas, and Śaiśavas. Even the Karna-pravarṇas, uncountable in number, stood at the gate seeking entry.

But the gatekeepers, on orders from the king, said: “Only those who bring rich tribute may pass.”

And so the kings of those distant lands gave what they could not withhold—thousands of elephants, mighty and golden-girdled, tusked like the ploughshare, adorned with fine blankets the color of the lotus.

Their trumpets shook the palace ground,

Their hides were silk, their tread was sound.

They bore no war, they bore no rage—

But homage to the Pandava sage.

O father, this was the world I saw—the world, bound and brought in offering, to Yudhiṣṭhira. And I, who once walked with pride as heir to the Kuru throne, stood only as witness.

My heart cannot endure the memory.”

And Duryodhana, breathless with memory, continued his confession—each word a wound, each vision a burden upon his pride:

“O king, still more came—bringing gifts of such wonder that even the gods might gaze in awe. They brought elephants, black as thunderclouds and musty with ancient strength, raised on the misty banks of Lake Kāmyaka. Armored in iron and gold, patient and powerful, these beasts stood like mountains before the gates, waiting permission to enter.

These lords of war, these beasts of stone,

From secret lakes and wilds unknown,

Though mighty, bowed before his gate—

Their keepers hushed, resigned to wait.

And when their tributes were laid down—gems, arms, and beasts—the gates were opened. Kings of every region, illustrious and humble, entered that celestial sabhā.

Chitraratha, the Gandharva king and friend of Indra, gave four hundred horses swift as thought. Tumvuru the bard, his voice like heaven’s music, offered a hundred steeds the color of mango leaves, adorned with golden trappings.

From the Mleccha realms came the king of the Śukāras, bringing hundreds of elephants—massive, tusked, and stately. King Virāṭa of Matsya offered two thousand elephants, each decked with gold, and King Vasudāna of Pāñśu came with twenty-six more, along with two thousand horses, their strength matched only by their beauty.

They came in youth, in fire, in pride—

Gilded and great, unwearied stride.

Their breath was thunder, their tread was flame,

And all they bore bore Yudhiṣṭhira’s name.

And Yajñasena—Drupada, king of the Pāñcālas and father of Draupadī—gave unto the Pāṇḍavas his entire kingdom. Fourteen thousand serving-women, ten thousand serving-men with their families, hundreds of elephants, and twenty-six war-cars yoked to beasts—all poured forth as tribute for the Rājasūya.

Then came Kṛṣṇa, Vāsudeva of the Vr̥ṣṇi clan—soul of Arjuna, just as Arjuna is his own. To honor Arjuna and glorify the sacrifice, Kṛṣṇa gave fourteen thousand elephants—mighty, tusked, and adorned in silver and red.

For what Arjuna wills, Kṛṣṇa fulfills.

Heaven itself he would abandon

For his friend. And Arjuna too,

Would give his life for Vāsudeva.

The kings of Chola and Pāṇḍya brought untold wealth: golden jars filled with sandal from Malaya’s hills, fragrant aloes from the Darddura ranges, radiant gems, and cloth inlaid with gold threads so fine they shimmered like sunlight on water. Yet even they—despite all splendor—were made to wait outside.

From the island realm of Siṃhala came lapis lazuli, blue as the ocean’s soul, and pearls in gleaming heaps, and blankets made for the backs of royal elephants.

At the gates stood men of dusky skin, their eyes rimmed red like copper flame, clothed in gem-studded silks. Their presence, strange and splendid, only added to the multitude waiting outside.

And there were Brāhmaṇas and Kṣatriyas—defeated, yet reverent—Vaisyas bearing goods and Śūdras offering service. Not out of fear, but from love and admiration, they came bearing tribute.

Even the Mlecchas, those outside the pale,

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Drawn not by conquest, but by heart—

Came with gifts, with praise, with awe—

And stood in silence, bound by dharma’s law.

Men from every land, of every class—noble and base, gentle and fierce, good, indifferent, low—all came. In that moment, O king, Yudhiṣṭhira’s palace became the world itself.

A world within four shining walls,

Where kings bowed low and virtue called.

Where gifts flowed like a sacred tide—

And I, though crowned, stood lost inside.

O father, how can I bear this? How can I smile when I have witnessed this splendor, while knowing it is not mine?”

And Duryodhana, his eyes dark with grief and his voice low with shame, spoke to Dhṛtarāṣṭra in anguished confession:

“O father, when I beheld the kings of the world laying such treasures before our enemies—the sons of Pāṇḍu—I wished for death. My soul recoiled within me, and my spirit, torn by envy, yearned to end this torment.

Let me tell thee now of their servants—not warriors or kings, but those countless lives for whom Yudhiṣṭhira provides food, clothing, and dignity.

There are one hundred thousand billion mounted elephants and horsemen in his command, a hundred million chariots, and countless foot soldiers—more than the mind can count.

In one place, grain is measured and weighed;

In another, pots boil with spice and flame.

Elsewhere, the food is served with care—

And everywhere, the music of joy proclaims.

O king, in the entire mansion of Yudhiṣṭhira, among all men of every varṇa, I saw not one without food, not one without drink, not one lacking in ornament. His generosity flowed like a sacred river, reaching even the least and the lowliest.

Eighty-eight thousand Snātaka Brāhmaṇas—learned householders in the sacred path—are supported by Yudhiṣṭhira, and to each he has given thirty serving-girls. These Brāhmaṇas, content and honored, raise their voices daily in silent prayer for the destruction of his enemies.

Their chants rise like wind through sacred flame,

Calling heaven’s gaze to Yudhiṣṭhira’s name.

And Dharma listens, for they pray not in fear—

But in gratitude, love, and reverent cheer.

Ten thousand more—ascetics, their vīrya drawn inward, radiant with austerity—dine each day on golden plates, their nourishment drawn not from greed but from the righteous king’s hospitality.

And, O king—hear this, and understand the heart of that house: Draupadī, the noble Yājñasenī, eats not a morsel until she has first ensured that all others have eaten—every guest, every servant, even the deformed and the dwarfs.

She walks the hall with careful eyes,

Her hunger veiled in duty’s guise.

Her meal begins when all are fed—

She serves until her limbs have bled.

Such is the house of Dharma’s son.

Only two powers do not send tribute to Yudhiṣṭhira—The Pāñcālas, bound to him in marriage through Draupadī, and the Vr̥ṣṇis and Āndhakas, bound to him in love through Vāsudeva Kṛṣṇa. All others, friend and stranger, high and low, bring their offerings in reverence.

O father, I have seen a world not merely ruled, but sheltered.

And I, heir to the Kuru name,

Stand hollow, trembling, lost in shame.”

And Duryodhana, his voice slow with wonder and pain, spoke once more—each word a wound, each memory an agony he could not cast aside.

“O king, those sovereigns whom the world reveres—men of truth, bound by vows, adorned with virtue, learned in the Vedas, wise in sacrifice, luminous in fame, modest in conduct, and firm in dharma—these kings, crowned and consecrated, all came to serve and honor Yudhiṣṭhira.

Those who ruled yet bowed in grace,

Crowned with fame, yet knew their place.

Priests of fire and lords of earth,

All hailed the son of Dharma’s birth.

And I saw with my own eyes herds of wild kine—thousands upon thousands—brought as gifts by kings from distant lands, each cow accompanied by vessels of white copper for milking, destined to be given away to the Brāhmaṇas by Yudhiṣṭhira in sacred offering.

At the culmination of the great sacrifice, when it was time for the royal bathing (abhisheka), many kings, purified by sacred rites, came forward joyfully bearing golden jars of water in their own hands.

With gleaming urns they came to pour,

The oceans' gift, from hill and shore.

In solemn ranks they moved in grace,

To bathe the ruler of this race.

King Vahlika brought a chariot adorned in pure gold. Sudakṣiṇa of Kāmbhoja yoked to it four white horses of celestial breed. Sunītha, strong and steadfast, fixed the chariot’s lower pole. Śiśupāla, ruler of Cedi—though a rival—raised the flagstaff with his own hands.

The king of the South stood ready with the golden mail. The lord of Magadha held garlands and the sacred head-gear. Vasudāna brought forth an elephant, sixty years old, majestic and massive. The king of Matsya laid out the side-fittings of the car, encased in radiant gold.

Ekalavya of Nishāda brought sandals for the king’s feet. The king of Avanti carried rare waters for the final bath. Chekitāna bore the royal quiver. The king of Kāśī presented the bow. Śalya, mighty and noble, came with a sword whose hilt and strap glittered with inlaid gold.

From every realm, from every side,

Each king fulfilled a sacred pride.

No service small, no gift too great—

For they had come to honor fate.

Then came the sages, great in penance and wisdom—Dhaumya and Vyāsa, Nārada, and Devala the son of Asita. They gathered with joy and gravity before the king. And with mantras echoing through the heavens, they sprinkled him with consecrated waters.

Like the Seven Ṛṣis approaching Indra in his celestial court, the seers came forth to crown the mortal king of dharma.

Their voices rose in sacred song,

The Vedas breathed where they belong.

Their chants, like rivers, cleansed the air—

And dharma stood enthroned with care.

Sātyaki, ever victorious, held the royal umbrella aloft. Dhanañjaya, son of Indra, and Bhīma, son of the wind, stood on either side, shading Yudhiṣṭhira with fans. The twins, Nakula and Sahadeva, held a pair of white chāmaras in their hands, their eyes shining with love and loyalty.

There stood the sons of Pāṇḍu—five,

As winds that guard the flame alive.

And at their heart sat Dharma crowned,

While all the world knelt on the ground.

O father, I saw all this. I saw the kings of the world give up pride, I saw sages bow in joy, I saw my foes bathed in the glory of heaven—and I, though noble-born, though raised to rule—was but a shadow watching the light.”

And Duryodhana, still speaking with a voice trembling from the weight of envy and awe, continued before Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his words darkened by the shadow of despair.

“O father, even the Ocean himself, ancient and endless, came bearing in a sling the mighty conch of Varuṇa—fashioned by Viśvakarman, the celestial smith, with a thousand niṣkas of gold. In a former kalpa, Prajāpati had gifted that very conch to Indra, lord of the heavens. And it was with that radiant, thunder-voiced conch that Kṛṣṇa, Hari Himself, bathed Yudhiṣṭhira at the end of the Rājasūya.

Born of ocean’s breath and flame,

It bore the weight of Varuṇa’s name.

Bathed in gold and ancient lore,

It sang as gods had sung before.

When I beheld that sacred conch, gleaming with divine glory, my senses failed me—I swooned and fell, overcome by the vision.

Men may travel to the Eastern ocean or sail to the Southern seas; the Western waters may be reached. But the Northern Sea, O king—that distant, unapproachable shore—none reach save birds that ride the winds. Yet even from there, the sons of Pāṇḍu summoned tribute, for I heard, with my own ears, the booming of conches brought from the Northern Sea resound within Yudhiṣṭhira’s hall, a hundred blown at once—portents of triumph, omens of sacred rejoicing.

A storm of sound shook air and stone,

And every king felt not his own.

My hair stood bristling on my skin—

And dread and awe warred deep within.

Some among the assembled kings, frail in strength, collapsed as the divine blast overwhelmed them. And then, O king—Dṛṣṭadyumna and Sātyaki, the sons of Pāṇḍu, and Keśava, that eightfold brilliance of warriors—beheld the fall of princes and my own distress, and laughed aloud, their mirth like sharpened daggers to my soul.

Then Vibhatsu, the son of Indra, ever generous, rose and gladdened the sages. With a heart full of joy, Arjuna gave to the foremost Brāhmaṇas five hundred bulls, each crowned with horns sheathed in gold.

And Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Kuntī, having completed the Rājasūya sacrifice in glory, stood radiant like Harishchandra of old. So vast was his prosperity, O king, that even the ancient sovereigns—Rantideva, Nabhāga, Jāvanāśva, Manu the progenitor, Pṛthu son of Vena, Bhagīratha, Yayāti, and even Nahusha—could not compare.

What Manu dreamed, what Yayāti knew,

What Pṛthu ruled and Bhagiratha drew—

In Yudhiṣṭhira was gathered all,

As heaven touched earth in royal hall.

And seeing such fortune blazing in the house of Pāṇḍu, father, I say with truth—I find no joy in life. What good is breath when one’s own hands are bound by weakness, and the riches of the world are claimed by others?

A yoke fastened by a blind man, O king, soon loosens of its own accord. Such, indeed, is our plight. While the younger grow in power and brightness, the elder wither in silence.

Their fame ascends like morning sun,

While we decay, our days undone.

In thought I seek for peace and light—

But find instead this endless night.

Therefore, O Bharata, this sorrow consumes me. I am hollowed by grief, disfigured by envy, and broken by the brilliance of my foes.”

Then Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the blind monarch of Kuru’s house, sighing deeply, spoke with affection and restrained urgency to his eldest son.

“O Duryodhana, thou art my firstborn, sprung from my eldest queen, and thus heir to both my name and my care. Why then dost thou allow this poison of envy to fester within thy heart?

Jealousy, my son, is a slow death—those consumed by it suffer without fire, bleed without wound. He that is jealous withers inwardly, even amidst gold and glory. Yudhiṣṭhira, thy cousin, knows not deceit. His wealth rivals thine; his friends are thy friends; he bears no ill-will toward thee. Why, then, this seething unrest?

When hearts are pure and bonds are true,

What loss is thine if others too

Rise in fame and fortune’s light—

Must brother’s joy become thy blight?

O son of the Bharatas, in allies and reputation, you are equals. Why then let folly drive you to covet what is not yours by right?

Abandon this hunger for what your brother has earned. If it is the yajña and the glory it brings that you desire, let the priests arrange for you the great sacrifice known as Saptatantu. The kings of the earth will gather for you, too, and bear tribute with respect and honor. That path remains open to you—honorably, without transgression.

Coveting the prosperity of others, O child, is the lowest instinct of man. True nobility lies in contentment, in walking steadfastly upon one’s own path, in protecting what has been righteously gained.

The wise find joy in what they own,

In dharma’s shade their seeds are sown.

They seek not fruit on others’ tree,

For self-earned bliss alone makes free.

The truly great are those who remain calm in misfortune, who act without arrogance, who labor silently but never cease to strive. Humble, wakeful, and ever faithful to their dharma—they are the ones to whom prosperity bows.

The sons of Pāṇḍu, O king, are like your own arms. Shall a man sever his own limbs out of jealousy? Would you destroy what is thine by blood for the glitter of gold?

Fall not into the pit of internal strife for the sake of your brothers' wealth. There is no virtue in wounding kin. The sages who are your elders are also theirs. The lineage you guard is also theirs to honor.

Let sacrifice be your delight,

Give freely in the holy rite.

Rejoice in pleasures rightly won,

And seek not ruin for a throne.

Therefore, my son, I beseech you—be not jealous of the sons of Kuntī. Your wealth is ample, your kingdom secure. Enjoy what is yours in peace. Let not this fire within you burn the house we all dwell in.”