novelraw Arc 4 - Dyūta - Chapter 5 - The Game Begins
Arc 4 - Dyūta - Chapter 5 - The Game Begins
When he reached Hastināpura, Yudhiṣṭhira first paid homage to Dhṛtarāṣṭra. Then he greeted Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Kṛpa, Karṇa, and Aśvatthāman. With warmth and respect, he embraced each noble, as dharma demanded.
Then he turned to Somadatta, Śalya, Duryodhana, and Śakuni—the architect of deceit. And all the other kings assembled there, he approached with courteous speech and kingly grace.
Yet beneath the harmony of greetings,
The seeds of sorrow had been sown.
For what was offered as sport—
Would soon tear apart the house of Bhārata.
Then the righteous Yudhiṣṭhira, surrounded by his brothers like Indra by the Maruts, made his way to Duḥśāsana, strong of arm and fierce in loyalty to Duryodhana. He greeted him and all the other Kuru princes in turn—Jayadratha, and every noble born of that ancient race.
With royal grace and bearing, the son of Dharma, blazing with inner radiance, entered the inner palace of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the blind monarch whose wisdom served as his sight. There, like the full moon entering a sky of stars, Yudhiṣṭhira was received by the Kurus with reverence and joy.
He beheld Queen Gāndhārī, ever devoted to her lord and veiled in austere virtue, seated amidst her daughters-in-law, even as Rohiṇī sits encircled by the stars of the firmament. Yudhiṣṭhira bowed low before her. In return, Gāndhārī blessed him with gentle words and silent prayers drawn from the well of her restrained sorrow.
Then the king approached Dhṛtarāṣṭra himself, bowing with humility. The old monarch, smelling the crown of his head in loving welcome, did the same for Bhīma, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva—those lions of the Kuru line, mighty and radiant.
The palace shone that day with the joy of reunion,
As sons and uncles embraced, and love—for a moment—
Was permitted to bloom in that house shadowed by fate.
All the assembled Kurus rejoiced at the arrival of the sons of Pāṇḍu. Dhṛtarāṣṭra, in gracious hospitality, ordered that chambers of great splendor—adorned with gems, soft beds, and perfumes—be assigned to the brothers.
Thereafter, the women of the royal household, led by Duśśalā, came to greet them. As Draupadī entered among them, radiant in beauty and serenity, her presence struck like lightning in a clouded sky. The daughters-in-law of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, though clad in finery, paled at her unmatched grace and the silent majesty of her bearing. Envy touched their hearts like frost.
After pleasantries and courtesies, the Pāṇḍavas performed their daily rituals. They exercised their mighty limbs, as warriors do each dawn. Then they bathed and anointed their bodies with fragrant sandal paste, its scent wafting through the palace like sacred incense.
To invoke auspiciousness, they honored learned Brahmanas with gifts, who in turn pronounced Vedic benedictions that filled the air like chanted hymns at dawn.
After this, they took food prepared with care and richness, suited to kings and heroes. Then, in chambers glowing with opulence, they rested for the night.
Fair maidens skilled in music and dance,
Played soft melodies upon their instruments—
And lulled to dreams by art and pleasure,
The sons of Pāṇḍu slept as lions in golden caves.
The night passed in peace and delight. With the coming of dawn, bards and singers awakened the princes with songs of valor and ancient glory. They rose, performed their morning devotions, and clothed themselves in bright garments.
Then, with calm hearts and royal bearing, they entered the great sabhā—the assembly hall raised by Dhṛtarāṣṭra—where the match of dice awaited.
And there, assembled and waiting, were the men of dice.
Then the sons of Pṛthā, with Yudhiṣṭhira at their head, entered that resplendent hall built by Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s will and Sakuni’s plot. Gleaming with columns of crystal and gold, the assembly hall stood like Indra’s own court—dazzling in brilliance, yet dark in destiny.
As they entered, the sons of Dharma approached the assembled kings with humility and grace. Each was saluted as per age and station. Those who were elders, they worshipped; to equals, they bowed with affection. With due decorum, they took their seats—seats spread with fine carpets, adorned with silken threads and studded with gems.
When the Pandavas had settled, and the court was filled, Sakuni—the son of Suvala, dark-eyed and wily—rose to address Yudhiṣṭhira.
“O King,” said he, smiling slightly,
“The court is full, the princes gathered.
All await your presence for the match.
Let the dice be cast, the rules declared.”
But Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, did not respond lightly. His eyes were calm, but his brow was troubled. He answered in the presence of all:
“Deceitful gambling is a sin.
It lacks all valor, all virtue’s kin.
What glory lies in a cunning throw,
When strength of arms is cast so low?”
He continued in steady voice:
“There is no Kṣatriya prowess in gambling, O Sakuni. It is a sport of deceit, not of dharma. It is not honored like battle, nor praised like yajña. Why then do you praise it so? What pride can there be in vanquishing another through trickery? Only the deluded rejoice in such skill. O son of Suvala, do not defeat us like a coward by means of deception.”
But Sakuni, master of dice and design, gave a cunning reply, wrapping peril in polished words.
“The true player knows the throw,
The mark, the art, the rise and blow.
To stake, to risk, to sometimes fall—
Is that not the way of fate for all?”
He added with a gleam in his eye:
"It is the very risk of loss that defines the nature of the game. That is why gambling is said to carry fault, and also thrill. Let us begin, O King. Do not hesitate. Do not fear. Let the stakes be fixed. Let us play!”
Still, Yudhiṣṭhira hesitated, his thoughts turning to the sacred voice of sages. With conviction, he replied:
“That noble Ṛṣi Devala, son of Asita, who instructs us always in what leads to heaven, hell, or the middle path, has declared gambling to be a sinful art—especially when it is laced with deceit. There is righteousness in winning a war with valor, not with treachery. But gambling—especially with dice rigged in secrecy—is no honor for a king.
Even in enmity, let dharma remain,
For conquest through vice brings only pain.
Wealth by fraud is a fleeting ghost—
It haunts the victor more than the lost.”
He turned to Sakuni once more, his words firm:
“I will not, O Sakuni, stake the wealth with which we serve the Brahmanas and uphold our duties. That fortune is not meant to feed the fire of deceit. Even enemies should not be vanquished through desperate and dishonorable stakes. I do not crave wealth or pleasure bought by guile. Let truth be my guide.”
“Let cunning not steal what arms have won,
Nor dice unseat the noble son.
In war, let honor draw the line—
For crooked play shall not be mine.”
Yet even as he spoke thus, Fate—unseen and irresistible—tightened its noose. And the die of destiny was already trembling in Sakuni’s hand.
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Then Sakuni, son of Suvala, master of deceit and eloquence, replied to Yudhishthira with cunning words polished by reason, though shaded by unrighteous intent.
“O Yudhishthira,” he said, “in all contests, the motive is to win. One man of noble birth races another not from hatred, but from desire to prove his swiftness. A learned scholar debates another, not to shame him, but to assert the superiority of his knowledge. Is that truly dishonorable?
So too, one skilled at dice seeks to outplay the unskilled—this is the nature of contest. The strong test themselves against the weak, the trained against the untrained. All contests are driven by abhiprāya—intent—and that intent is victory.
To conquer is the breath of sport,
The wise, the swift, the skilled consort.
In every contest hearts aspire—
To touch the sun, to climb, not tire.
Therefore, O son of Dharma, if you believe my motives to be unclean or unjust, and if fear touches your heart, then withdraw from the match. For none shall blame you.”
But Yudhishthira, the son of Kunti and Dharma, bound by honor and vow, did not retreat.
“I do not withdraw when summoned,” he said. “That is my dharma. That has ever been my vow. I shall not waver now. And besides, who can escape fate? We all move under the shadow of Time and Destiny. The will of Daiva governs all.
But tell me this—who in this assembly shall play with me? Who here can match my stakes in wealth and splendor? Let the match begin, but let it be fair.”
Then Duryodhana, with eyes alight and purpose hidden, spoke with forceful voice:
“O King,” he said, “for my sake Sakuni shall play. I shall provide the wealth, the gold, the gems, and all manner of treasure for staking. It is I who risk, and he who casts.”
At this, Yudhishthira, who knew well the ancient codes and rules of play, objected gently, though firmly.
“To gamble for thyself by another’s hand,
Is not a rule that dharma would stand.
But if such be thy stubborn will,
Let the play begin, let the dice fulfill.”
Thus, though his heart whispered caution, and the winds of fate stirred unease in the air, Yudhishthira consented.
And so the dice were summoned, and the match was about to begin—an act simple in appearance, but terrible in consequence, as all the stars above bore silent witness.
When the fateful play began, all the assembled kings—mighty and radiant like blazing fires—took their seats within that glittering hall of dice. At their head sat Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his sightless gaze turned inward, his heart swayed by affection for his son and the force of destiny.
Behind him, in solemn silence, sat Bhīṣma, ever truthful and stern; Droṇa, the preceptor of kings; Kṛpa, ever wise and sharp of speech; and Vidura, that high-souled knower of dharma, with sorrow clouding his noble face. Their hearts were heavy, for they foresaw what others could not.
The kings, broad-shouldered like lions, radiant with royal splendor, seated themselves in twos and threes upon elevated thrones adorned with silk and gold. The crystal-arched sabhā gleamed with their brilliance, like the heavens studded with constellations gathered for a celestial conclave.
Like gods in council high they sat,
Warriors bold with royal gait.
The air was still, the dice were cast—
And fate stood silent at the gate.
Then the friendly match commenced.
Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, with composure and grace, addressed his opponent:
“This wealth of mine, O prince, behold—
From ocean’s churning, ages old.
Pearls of light, by golden thread,
In sacrifice and rite they’re spread.
This shall I stake—pure treasure bright.
What matchest thou for gems so white?”
Duryodhana, whose voice was calm though his heart burned with envy, answered with a dismissive flourish:
“My wealth is vast, yet vain am I not.
Stake thou what pleases; I covet no lot.
Play the cast, let victory show—
If fate is with thee, then thou shalt know.”
Then Sakuni, the cunning prince of Gāndhāra, well-versed in every trick of the dice, took them in his hand. With a smile thin as a blade, he rolled the pieces upon the board.
And as the ivory cubes clattered and fell, he cried aloud:
“Lo, I have won!”
Thus did the match begin—not with swords, but with dice. Yet each throw struck deeper than a spear, and each loss drew the Pāṇḍava king closer to the edge of ruin, while the eyes of the elders turned away, powerless before fate.
Stung by the outcome of the first round, Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, who had never before been defeated, raised his voice with quiet resolve. Though wronged, he held fast to his vow and spoke with dignity—not with rage, but with a sorrow-laden defiance.
“Thou hast won by deceitful hands,
But be not proud of hollow gains.
We shall not cease with token strands—
My wealth flows deep as river rains.
I own bright jars of golden weight,
A thousand niṣkas sealed in clay.
With silver, gems, and gold innate—
All these, O king, I now shall play.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus challenged, Śakuni, master of the dice and knower of crooked ways, cast again. His fingers moved like wind across the board, and with a callous smile he declared, "Lo, I have won!"
Yudhiṣṭhira, still undeterred, turned now to the prize that had borne him with pride from Indraprastha—the royal chariot of the Pāṇḍavas, a marvel known throughout the lands.
“This car of mine, O gambler king,
Whose wheels resound like ocean tide,
With tiger-skin and golden ring—
By eight moon-white steeds is it supplied.
Adorned with flags and tinkling bells,
It rides like thought, untouched by mud.
No beast on earth escapes its spells—
It shall I stake, with iron blood.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
With a flick of his wrist, Śakuni rolled the dice once more. And though the silence of the elders thickened around him like fog, he looked to Yudhiṣṭhira and said again, "Lo, I have won!"
But still the righteous king did not withdraw. The fire of dharma burned within him, even as fate pulled him toward ruin.
“A hundred thousand maids I keep,
Young, adorned with gems and scent.
Their gold-bound wrists in silence weep,
In dance and song their lives are spent.
They serve the gods and holy men,
With grace and art in duty steeped.
This wealth I stake, O gambler—then
Let this too from my hands be reaped.”
Thus Yudhiṣṭhira, steadfast and doomed, placed beauty, service, and splendor upon the altar of dice—each throw a funeral bell tolling for dharma.
Again and again, with heart heavy but vow unshaken, Yudhiṣṭhira continued to place all he possessed into the jaws of fate. The sound of dice echoed through the hall—dry, relentless—like the ticking of time itself before a fall.
Śakuni, ever poised, tossed the ivory cubes and with his smile lined in cruelty declared, “Lo, I have won!”
“Skilled are my men who serve with grace,
With silken robes and steady pace.
Ear-ringed youth with wisdom's shine—
Attendants tireless, sure, and fine.
These, O king, I now do stake,
As Dharma bends but shall not break.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Without pause, Śakuni laughed and cast the dice. With hands swift as deceit and heart cold as stone, he called aloud, “Lo, I have won!”
Undaunted, Yudhiṣṭhira raised the stakes once more.
“Behold my elephants, a thousand strong,
With lotus marks and trunks so long.
Girdled in gold, with thunder’s tread,
They bear the banners kingdoms dread.
Eight she-elephants each doth lead,
Majestic beasts of mighty breed.
These I stake, with solemn grace—
Let fate now judge my house and race.”
And once again, the dice clattered. Once again, Śakuni, hiding crookedness beneath calm, replied, “Lo, I have won!”
Still Yudhiṣṭhira did not retreat.
“As many cars as elephants roll,
With golden poles and warriors bold.
Each man earns coins though war be still,
Their skill and courage match their will.
With steeds well-trained, with banners raised,
Let these be staked, as gods be praised.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Śakuni's fingers moved with practiced guile. He cast the dice and with that same poisoned tongue repeated, “Lo, I have won!”
Yet the fire of his resolve did not flicker. Yudhiṣṭhira spoke once more:
“The steeds of Tittiri’s noble breed,
The Kalmasha swift, and Gandharva’s steed—
Which Chitraratha gave in peace
To Arjuna once his arms did cease.
Bejeweled and proud, like winds they race—
Let these now meet thy fated face.”
Once again, the hall held its breath. And once again, “Lo, I have won!” echoed like a mantra of doom.
Still Yudhiṣṭhira endured.
“Ten thousand chariots I hold true,
With finest beasts to bear them through.
And warriors sixty thousand strong,
Broad-chested, brave, they march in song.
On milk they thrive and rice so white—
Let this be staked in fate’s long night.”
The dice fell. The verdict came. “Lo, I have won!” Śakuni cried again, ever relentless.
“I hold four hundred Nidis rare,
Encased in iron, copper fair.
Each worth five draunikas of gold—
Jatarūpa’s finest, bright and bold.
Jewels peerless, wealth profound—
With these now let our stakes be bound.”
The son of Suvala rolled the dice with deceit carved into every toss. And with cruel certainty, he said again to the eldest Pāṇḍava: “Lo, I have won!”
Thus did the mountain of Yudhiṣṭhira’s prosperity crumble, grain by grain, gem by gem, beneath the grinding stone of fate and human folly.
As the fatal dice game continued—its end certain to bring disaster upon Yudhiṣṭhira—the wise Vidura, who dispelled doubts like the sun chases away darkness, rose and addressed Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his voice stern yet filled with grief.
“O king of the Bhārata race,” he said, “hear me now. My words may wound the ear, but they are like medicine to one fevered with delusion—bitter, perhaps, but meant to heal. You may find them unpleasant, yet they are true, and spoken for your good, not for gain.”
“When Duryodhana was born, O king,
The jackal's cry was heard to ring.
Discord was born with that son’s breath,
Ordained to bring the house to death.
That howl of omen, sharp and cold,
Proclaimed the ruin still untold.
Know now, O blind in love and sight—
That cry was fate; that fate is night.”
Vidura’s eyes narrowed with clarity, his voice edged with fierce compassion.
“There is a jackal dwelling in your palace, O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, clothed in princely robes. His name is Duryodhana, and he walks the path of ruin. Yet in your folly, you see him not. You mistake poison for nectar. He is the fire that will consume your line.”
Vidura then invoked a lesson of old:
“They who gather honey in mountain caves,
Entranced by gain their caution braves—
They seek the gold in the bee’s domain,
Yet see not the cliff that ends their gain.
One slip, one breath, and they are gone—
Like Duryodhana, driven and drawn
By madness masked as cunning play—
Blind to the fall, he courts decay.”
“O king,” Vidura continued, “he has turned mighty warriors into enemies. He does not see the peril before him. Remember the Bhojas—who cast out Kamsa for the sake of their people. United, the Yādavas abandoned him, and after Kṛṣṇa slew the tyrant, joy returned to their tribe for a hundred years.”
He looked toward Dhṛtarāṣṭra with eyes that pleaded as much as they warned.
“Buy the peacocks—noble and bright—
Not the crow that croaks in night.
Choose the tigers, fierce and true,
Not the jackal that howls for ruin due.
For a family, one life may end.
For a village, families bend.
For the land, a village dies.
For the soul, the whole world lies.”
And then, Vidura quoted the sage Kavya, the omniscient Śukra—who once implored the Asuras to abandon Jambha at birth, knowing he would destroy them all.
“Once, a foolish king brought into his home birds of wonder—creatures that vomited gold. But tempted by greed, he slew them all, thinking only of their treasures, not of their source. Thus he destroyed both present joy and future wealth.”
“Blinded by gold, the king destroyed
The golden birds, and thus employed
His own hand in loss and death—
Gaining wealth, yet losing breath.
O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, tempt not fate—
The Pāṇḍavas are no birds of bait.
Like trees that bloom with sacred fire,
Pluck not the roots that gods admire.”
Vidura’s voice softened for a moment, yet his warning only grew more terrible in weight.
“They are no flames that you can fan—
Nor shadows bested by mortal man.
You scorch their base, yet they will rise—
And burn the night with dharma’s eyes.
Seek not the path to Yama’s hall—
Where sons and kings together fall.
For who shall face the sons of Prithā,
Joined in arms, like gods with Śrī?”
He concluded, turning to the silent Dhṛtarāṣṭra:
“Even the mighty Indra, king of the Devas, flanked by his celestial hosts, would think twice before raising arms against these lions of Dharma. What, then, can you hope to gain by feeding envy and wrath in your own blood? Desist, O king, before ruin becomes your legacy.”