novelraw Arc 4 - Dyūta - Chapter 4 - Plotting of Śakuni and Duryodhana
Arc 4 - Dyūta - Chapter 4 - Plotting of Śakuni and Duryodhana
Hearing his father’s words, gentle in counsel but heavy with restraint, the son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, burning with envy, pride, and restlessness, replied with veiled sarcasm and fierce conviction.
Duryodhana said:
“He who has only heard of scriptures but not grasped their essence
Is like a spoon tasting soup—it touches, but never senses.
Thou knowest the words of sages, O king, yet still thou confoundest me.
Are we not bound like twin boats moored together on a stormy shore?
Is it care for me that veils thy caution,
Or dost thou, in thy wisdom, harbor secret sympathy for them?
Thy delays have doomed thy kin, thy allies, thy sons—
For when the time demands action, you counsel patience and dreams of the future!”
He continued, passion mounting with each word:
“A king who follows another’s lead is like a blind man led by the lame—
He trips, and all who follow stumble.
You speak of righteousness while the world changes beneath us.
But Bṛhaspati, preceptor of the gods, has taught that rājadharma
—the law of kings—
Is not the same as that of common men.
The crown weighs heavy on the brow
Not with virtue’s chains but fate’s demand.
A king must grasp what lies before,
Though dharma tremble in his hand.
Let not success be fettered by sentiment.
Victory is the true dharma of a Kṣatriya.
Let the means be righteous or not—if it secures the throne, what fault lies in it?”
Thus did the misguided prince declare that the end justifies the means. In his hunger for the Pāṇḍavas' fortune, he invoked ancient deeds of deception as justification.
Duryodhana pressed on:
“Indra, king of the gods, once gave a false pledge to Namuci—
And then struck off his head in peacetime.
Even heaven follows such usage when foes are involved.
So why should I be bound by gentler codes?
The peaceful Brahmana, immobile in his hut,
And the passive king content with what he has—
Both are swallowed by the world,
Like frogs devoured by snakes beneath the earth.
Foes do not come with horn or hue,
He is your foe who rivals you.
And if you let him rise unchecked,
His fire will burn your roots, direct.
Who is a friend? Who is a foe? It is not form but intent that decides.
He who causes pain is an enemy, even if garbed in kinship.
And one who rivals me in fortune, glory, and strength—
Such a one must not be allowed to flourish.”
And then, driven by deep-seated discontent, he gave voice to what lay rotting in his heart:
“Discontent is the mother of greatness.
He who craves growth must never settle.
Wealth, once earned, may be plundered—so what good is peace?
Let me rise, let me wrest their glory,
Or fall in battle chasing it!
Like termites at the tree’s deep root,
A foe ignored will steal your fruit.
Let not their banner rise unchecked—
For soon it casts a longer shade.”
O King Janamejaya, such were the rash words spoken by Duryodhana, whose vision was clouded by jealousy and whose ears were closed to dharma. He mistook force for wisdom, and treachery for courage. And thus, the seed of destruction was sown.
Sakuni, the cunning prince of Gāndhāra, saw Duryodhana’s rising anguish like a fire fed by envy. With folded hands and a crooked smile, he stepped forward and spoke in confident tone:
“O foremost among victorious men,
I shall seize that shining gem—
The fortune of Yudhishthira bright,
With skill in dice, I’ll win this fight.
My bow is betting, sharp and sly,
My arrows dice that never lie.
The board shall be my conquering car,
And fate shall drive us near and far.”
Thus spoke Sakuni, well-versed in deceit, offering to Duryodhana a bloodless war cloaked in the innocence of a game. In the court of the Kuru king, the shadows of calamity lengthened, unnoticed by those blinded by desire.
Then Duryodhana, intoxicated by the scheme, turned to his father Dhṛtarāṣṭra and said:
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“This son of Gāndhāra, master of dice,
Shall rob the sons of Kunti’s prize.
Grant him leave, O mighty king—
Let chance decide what fate will bring.”
But the aged Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his vision dark though his mind still sharp, answered cautiously:
“Let me consult the noble Vidura,
Wise in dharma, just and pure.
With him I’ll speak, for he doth know
What paths are right, and where to go.”
Even in that moment, the blind monarch, torn between love for his sons and fear of dharma’s wrath, sought counsel from Vidura. But Duryodhana, who trusted not the virtuous heart, interjected quickly.
“Vidura loves the sons of light,
His counsel veers from Kuru’s right.
He’ll lead thee far from this intent,
And make thy royal will relent.
He serves their cause and not our own—
In him, no triumph shall be sown.
The wise act not through borrowed breath,
But carve their path in life or death.
What need have I of counsel now,
When wrath burns deep beneath my brow?
The one who shuns all risk and dread,
Is like an insect, rain-flooded, dead.”
These harsh and impetuous words, uttered in fire and impatience, struck Dhṛtarāṣṭra like thunder. The old king, bound by love and doubt, replied with restrained wisdom:
“O son, to strive with those so strong,
Is like embracing sword and song.
The clash will echo steel on steel—
A wound no prudent heart would feel.
The fruit of war is death and dust,
The cost of envy is broken trust.
Let not desire draw blades so sharp—
Lest fate entwine us in its harp.”
But Duryodhana, unmoved, pressed on:
“Dice is no war, it sheds no blood,
It drowns no field in crimson flood.
The wise of old devised this play—
A subtle path to seize the day.
Let hall be built, and summons made,
Let Kunti’s sons be gently swayed.
If we prevail, then wealth shall flow—
If not, at least we tried our blow.”
Thus, the crooked seed of fate was sown. Gambling, which the wise call a subtle weapon, was chosen as the path. The hall of deceit would soon rise—a palace gleaming like Indra’s own, but concealing within it the ruin of a dynasty.
Then Dhṛtarāṣṭra, old in years but wavering in resolve, heaved a heavy sigh. Though his heart recoiled from the crooked scheme born of envy and deceit, he found himself powerless before his son’s fierce determination and the grip of fate. At last, bowing to destiny, he spoke:
“Thy words do not bring me peace,
They do not offer righteous ease.
Yet do as thou must, O my son,
Though regret shall come when deeds are done.
Such counsel dark, though clothed in cheer,
Shall bring no good in any year.
What Vidura foresaw draws nigh—
The Kṣatriyas doomed by fate to die.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Having thus spoken, Dhṛtarāṣṭra—clouded in reason and swept by the currents of fate—yielded his will to the tide of his son’s ambition. Though his tongue voiced reluctance, his actions betrayed consent. The blind monarch, governed more by weakness than wisdom, gave his command aloud:
“Let a great assembly hall be built—resplendent as the heavens, adorned with crystal arches and crowned with gold. Let it shine with lapis lazuli, silver pillars, and a thousand mighty columns. Its floors shall gleam with inlaid gems and polished stones; its walls shall reflect a hundred hues. Let it cover two full miles in length and breadth, with a hundred gates to welcome the princes of earth. Let no time be lost!”
At his word, thousands of skilled artisans and architects from all quarters, masters in their craft, began to work with tireless hands and devoted hearts. With marvelous speed, they raised a palace like the famed halls of Amarāvatī, a place to dazzle the senses and deceive the eye.
Soon, the palace stood completed—an abode of luxury and illusion, where marble kissed gold, and gem-studded drapery swayed above silk-carpeted floors. The walls shone like morning mist turned to crystal; the light played tricks, revealing depths where there were none.
The artificers came before the king, bowing low, and declared:
“O King, the sabhā thou commanded is ready. It gleams like a dream in daylight. Every gem, every tapestry, every chamber sings of splendour. Now let thy wish unfold.”
Then Dhṛtarāṣṭra, still held in fate’s sway, summoned Vidura, the wise and faithful minister. Hiding his anxiety beneath royal command, he said:
“Go, O Vidura, to Khaṇḍavaprastha’s gate,
And summon Yudhiṣṭhira, wise and great.
Let him come with brothers five,
To where our golden halls now thrive.
Let him behold this palace vast,
With beds and gems and treasures cast.
And in the bonds of friendly grace,
Let dice decide each rival’s place.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus the invitation was issued—not in sincerity, but in scheme. Behind its silken words lay snares of destruction, hidden beneath jeweled floors and gilded speech. The house was built; the game was set. And dharma itself now stood on the edge of a loaded board.
Then King Dhṛtarāṣṭra, having discerned the dark desires of his son and surrendering to what he believed to be the hand of Fate, gave consent to the perilous course already set in motion. Though his conscience whispered otherwise, the old monarch, swayed by fear, blindness, and attachment, chose silence over resistance.
But Vidura, the wise and steadfast son of a noble line—truthful, far-seeing, and ever devoted to dharma—did not remain quiet. His heart, clear as the summer sky, foresaw the storm that was soon to descend.
“O King,” said Vidura, “I do not approve—
This path leads not to peace, but woe.
Turn back thy thoughts, restrain thy hand,
Or ruin shall sweep across this land.
Thy sons, once torn by dice and greed,
Will fall to wrath, to spite, to need.
When unity breaks, all kin shall bleed—
This match, I fear, will sow that seed.”
Thus did the noble Vidura counsel restraint, but Dhṛtarāṣṭra—blinded not only in sight but now also in judgment—replied with the resignation of one who had surrendered to destiny:
“O Vidura, if Fate be kind,
Then no sorrow shall cloud my mind.
All beings move by heaven's design—
Their steps are steered by will divine.
Free will is but a passing shade;
Our lives are lines the gods have made.
If this be doom, let doom be faced—
Go now, and summon Kunti’s son with haste.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
And so, the king, claiming surrender to the unseen, commanded Vidura—his wisest guide—to travel to Khaṇḍavaprastha and bring Yudhiṣṭhira to the sabhā. The die had not yet been cast, but the first steps toward ruin had already been taken.
Thus instructed—though his heart resisted—Vidura, the righteous counsellor, departed from Hastināpura. Yoking to his chariot steeds of noble blood, swift and steady, he journeyed with quiet mind yet heavy spirit toward the realm of the sons of Pāṇḍu.
His path was clear, but not his heart.
Traversing roads lined with flowering trees and bustling villages, Vidura at last reached Indraprastha, the shining capital of Yudhiṣṭhira. The city stood radiant like Amarāvatī, and its towers glittered like the peaks of Meru under the sun.
There, he beheld the palace—adorned with banners, resonant with hymns, and filled with the fragrance of dharma. Entering its spacious halls, sanctified by sages and frequented by wise Brāhmaṇas, Vidura approached the eldest son of Kuntī, seated like Dharma incarnate.
Seeing Vidura, Yudhiṣṭhira rose at once and greeted him with reverence. With joined palms and a gaze full of warmth, the virtuous monarch spoke:
“O Kṣattā, thou who art like a father to us,
I see a shadow upon thy brow.
Is all well in Hastināpura?
Are the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra obedient to their father?
Is the old king content, and do the people serve him in peace?”
To this, Vidura replied with careful restraint:
“The king, thy uncle, is well.
His sons dwell around him,
And he reigns like mighty Indra amidst loyal chiefs.
His palace stands tall—newly raised, adorned with gems—
And he desires thee to behold it.
O son of Dharma, I bring his invitation.
Come, with thy brothers, to Hastināpura.
View that crystal-arched hall, and there,
Let a friendly game of dice be played.
Many lords have gathered already.
Gamblers and masters of dice await within.
Let thy answer be spoken, and let the king’s will be fulfilled.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus did Vidura deliver the message—his words composed, though his soul trembled beneath the surface. And though wrapped in politeness, his speech carried within it the scent of danger—like a flower concealing the fang of a serpent.
When Vidura, wise and sorrowful, conveyed Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s message, Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, answered with restraint and foresight:
“O Kṣattā, if we sit to gamble, surely it shall breed quarrel.
Who, knowing the danger, would walk willingly into that snare?
Yet we are obedient to thy counsel—
Tell us, therefore, what thou deemest best for our welfare.”
Vidura, grieved at heart but bound by duty, replied with a heavy voice:
“I know, O King, that gambling is the seed of misery,
A path steeped in deceit and ruin.
I sought to dissuade thy uncle—but the old lion is swayed by his son.
The command, however, is his. Knowing all this, do what wisdom would approve.”
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, ever truthful and unwilling to suspect, asked:
“Besides the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, who else awaits at this match?
Speak, O Vidura—who are the men we must face, staking our wealth,
Hundreds upon hundreds of treasures amassed?”
Vidura said:
“There, O King, thou shalt face Śakuni of Gāndhāra—
A master of dice, skilled in deception and quick of hand.
With him are Vivingati, Citrarṣena, Satyavrata, Purumitra, and Jaya—
All men desperate in play and seasoned in guile.”
Yudhiṣṭhira listened, and with a long breath replied:
“These are no honest rivals but men sharpened in trickery.
Yet this whole world moves at the will of its unseen Maker,
Bound by destiny, not by the will of men.
I do not desire to gamble at Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s bidding.
A father’s command is meant for his child’s well-being—
And thou, O Vidura, art to us as a father.
Speak, then—what is truly right for us?
Yet, if Śakuni calls me forth in the sabhā—if I am challenged—
I shall not refuse. For that is my vow, unbroken since youth:
Never to deny a summons to contest, be it with arms or dice.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus having declared his mind, the righteous king commanded his attendants to make ready for the journey to Hastināpura. Chariots were yoked, elephants adorned, and the royal standards raised. The princes and queens, with Draupadī at their center, prepared for departure.
“Like a blazing meteor drawn by unseen forces,
Fate tugs the soul upon its path—
And man, though crowned with wisdom,
Walks the road his destiny lays.”
So said Yudhiṣṭhira, the son of Dharma, as he departed from Indraprastha, joined by Kṣattā Vidura and surrounded by kinsmen and priests. He rode upon the celestial car once gifted by the king of Bāhlīka, its wheels shining like suns, his raiment regal and his mind subdued.
Brahmanas chanted benedictions as they walked before him. Warriors and nobles followed behind. And thus the Pāṇḍava king, radiant as a fire fed with clarified butter, left his city—called by his elder, yet drawn by the unseen hand of Kāla.