novelraw Arc 4 - Dyūta - Chapter 6 - The Evils Of Gambling
Arc 4 - Dyūta - Chapter 6 - The Evils Of Gambling
Then Vidura, son of the sage Vyāsa, righteous and far-seeing, rose again amidst the silent hall, filled with princes and elders. His voice, calm but grave as thunder before a storm, addressed the gathered sons of Santanu—warning them yet once more of the path they blindly trod.
“Gambling is the root of ruin;
It cuts the bonds of kin and kin.
It turns the brother into foe,
And bathes the house in fatal sin.
It gives birth to bitter hate,
To fire that feeds on royal fate.
This path you tread, devised in greed—
Will sow destruction’s swiftest seed.”
He turned to Dhṛtarāṣṭra, seated aloft yet blind to consequence, and to the assembled Kuru elders who sat motionless like trees in drought.
“Behold your son, O King—Duryodhana, the intoxicated! In this frenzy of deceit, he shatters his own fortune. Like an enraged bull destroying his own horns, he drives prosperity from the kingdom. This act, this pleasure you revel in—watching the sons of Pāṇḍu being drawn into the net of dice—will not bring glory. It will bring war. And war, O Bharatas, is the gateway to annihilation.”
“The foolish man who, blind to truth,
Trusts the hands of one unwise in youth,
Is like one drifting on the sea
In a boat where a child holds mastery.
So fares Duryodhana—craving gain,
Unmindful of the coming pain.
And thou, O King, rejoice in this?
What madness lurks in fleeting bliss?”
Then Vidura's voice grew firm, like a teacher to errant pupils. He faced the sons of Śantanu, their line crowned with glory but veiled by pride.
“Ye Kauravas, descendents of Pratīpa—do you not see the fire that rises from this game? Do not follow the wretch who lights the flame. If Yudhiṣṭhira, the steadfast Ajātaśatru, is provoked, and if Bhīma, Arjuna, and the twins release their wrath, who then shall protect this house? Who shall contain their tempest?”
“When wrathful Vrikodara roars,
And Arjuna lifts his bow once more,
When wrath enflames the noble sons—
No force on earth their fury shuns.
Not Indra’s host nor Varuṇa’s tide
Can stand when Dharma’s lions stride.
Beware, O Kauravas, beware—
The path ahead is dark with snare.”
Vidura now turned his gaze directly toward Dhṛtarāṣṭra once more.
“You are a mine of wealth, O King. If riches are what you seek, they may be earned through dharma—not deceit. Why covet the riches of your nephews when you can win what is more precious—their love and loyalty? Claim the Pāṇḍavas themselves, not their possessions. Win their trust, not their humiliation.”
“A king need not from gambling earn
What righteous rule alone can turn.
Why steal the pearls from kin and crown,
When Dharma's path leads to renown?”
Then, pointing to Śakuni, the prince of Gandhāra, Vidura declared:
“This hill-born chief, in games well-versed,
With tricks and wiles his hand is cursed.
Send him back to where he came—
And save your house from war and shame.”
And with that, Vidura stood silent again, like a flame of truth amidst a gathering storm.
Thus admonished by Vidura, that wise counselor and seer of consequences, Duryodhana—burning with wrath, pride, and resentment—rose up in the midst of the court and turned upon him a torrent of rebuke. His voice, sharp as a serpent’s hiss, was heavy with contempt.
“O Kṣattā,” said he, “thou sing’st the praise
Of those who seek to steal our days.
Forever dost thou mock our fame,
And magnify the Pāṇḍavas’ name.
We know thy heart, thou callous seer—
It doth not lie with us, but near
To those whose fall thou wouldst prevent—
Our foes, whose cause thou dost lament!”
His words stung the air, his eyes flashed with fire. He accused Vidura of treachery, of biting the hand that fed him.
“He serves one master but loves another—
Such a man is no true brother.
Like the serpent warmed upon the breast,
Or the cat that smiles while plotting death,
Thou drinkest from our golden bowl—
Yet curse the house that made thee whole!
Thrusting aside all restraint, he bared his grievance with rage and venom. He accused Vidura of mocking them as children, of secretly hoping for their ruin, and of praising their rivals in public and in private.
“Thou flauntest wisdom to disgrace,
Pretending truth with cunning face.
Yet every word betrays thy hate—
A tongue that lashes with a traitor’s weight.
Harsh thy counsel, bitter thy breath,
Cold as betrayal and sharp as death.
Thou preachest peace, yet stir unrest—
Our deeds thou thwartest with eager zest.”
He likened Vidura’s loyalty to that of an unfaithful wife and warned him against meddling in royal affairs.
“Be not so bold, O parasite—
This court is not thy place to fight.
Go, learn from those of hoary age
Who speak with balance, not with rage.
Stay not where thou art not revered,
Where words of scorn are only feared.
Be silent now, thy wisdom still—
For none here bend to thy will.”
Then, suddenly invoking fate and divine ordination, Duryodhana attempted to absolve himself of blame.
“There is but one Controller high—
He moves the stars across the sky.
If I am drawn toward ruin’s flame,
The gods, not I, must bear the blame.
Like water rushing to its end,
I flow where destiny doth send.
If I feed the snake or strike the wall,
It is by fate I rise or fall.”
With these twisted words, he sought to sanctify his defiance and cloak his ambition in fatalism.
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“He who would force another’s hand
Shall find no peace, no place to stand.
A friendly word may still be heard—
But not the tyrant’s chastening word.
Camphor burns with sudden might—
None can save it from its plight.
And he who doth a serpent shield,
Shall by its fang be made to yield.”
Then, with a final sneer that cut like a poisoned blade, he dismissed Vidura altogether:
“So go thy way, O man of guile—
We need not bear thy bitter smile.
A wife, though garlanded with gold,
Will leave her lord if love grows cold.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus did Duryodhana, intoxicated by his seeming fortune at dice and blind to the storm he was calling down upon his house, insult the noblest of counselors. And Vidura, heart heavy with sorrow but calm in dignity, turned away in silence.
Thus having suffered the insults of Duryodhana, the wise and steadfast Vidura, unshaken in virtue, turned toward the blind monarch. His voice was calm, but every word cut through the fog of delusion like a beam of light through darkness. No longer offering counsel in hope, he spoke now in departure, delivering a last lesson in dharma before withdrawing.
“O king,” he said, “thou art lord of the land,
But not of truth, nor of wisdom’s hand.
A monarch may strike whom he first protects—
Thus runs the course of kings, in cruel pretext.
Tell me then, as one who sits in witness,
Is it righteous to cast away the blameless?
To abandon one’s servant for speaking plain—
Is this the dharma of royal reign?”
Then, turning to Duryodhana with piercing gaze:
“Thou deemest thyself wise and grown,
And me, thy elder, as yet unknown.
But mark this, prince of brittle heart—
He is the child who plays false part:
First calling one friend, then casting blame—
That is the mark of childish shame.”
He did not flatter. He likened Duryodhana to the wicked and unreformable.
“The evil-hearted walk not straight—
As a wanton wife will cheat her fate.
Instruction to such is bitter and vain,
Like a young bride given an old man’s name.
Go then, seek those who please thy ear—
The feeble, the foolish, the flatterers near.
But know this truth, eternal and deep:
The soundest words are hardest to keep.”
And then he spoke the essence of loyal wisdom—counsel not born of fear, but of fidelity to what is right.
“He is no friend who praises wrong
And cheers thee on with pleasing song.
A true ally speaks bitter truth—
Though it be sharp, he hides no proof.
Drink, O king, the draught called Grace—
Bitter, pungent, hard to face.
Humility is that healing wine
The wise imbibe, the fools decline.”
With his final lines, Vidura declared his loyalty not to flattery, but to righteousness. And with dignity, he bid farewell.
“I seek no gain, nor fear thy wrath,
I walk but dharma’s ancient path.
To thee and thine I wish no ill—
Let Brahmanas bless me as they will.
But hear this lesson ere I part—
Anger not those with poisoned heart.
The snake whose glance can burn the air—
Must not be stirred by thoughtless dare.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Having thus spoken with gravity and grace, Vidura bowed to the court, turned his back on adharma, and departed the hall of dice. The assembly sat stunned, pierced by the echo of his words. But blinded by pride, none rose to follow him.
Then the vile Sakuni, ever ready with the dice, smiling with the cruelty of a jackal among lambs, turned again toward Yudhishthira, who sat burdened by his vow and entangled in the net of Destiny. With mockery veiled as inquiry, the prince of Gandhāra spoke:
“O Yudhishthira, son of Dharma,
Thou hast lost gold and gems in karma.
But if there yet remaineth more—
Hidden treasures or secret store,
Reveal to us what else thou keepest,
For surely thy hoard is vast and deepest!”
To this, the weary but unyielding king replied, his voice tinged with despair but devoid of fear:
“O son of Suvala, thou askest me yet again,
Of riches, as if I were not already slain.
But know, O gambler, that my wealth is great,
And if thou desirest, I shall stake that fate.
Let tens of thousands, and millions be flung—
Let crores and countless sums be sung.
Stake billions and trillions and numbers more,
For my treasury, like my anguish, hath no shore.
If thy heart is eager, roll the dice once more.
Let chance determine what lies in store.”
So said Yudhishthira, bound by satya-vrata, the vow of truth and honor, his reason dimmed by the subtle poison of fate. And Sakuni, cunning in deceit and emboldened by the silence of the elders, cast the ivory once more. With wicked glee in his eyes, he cried aloud:
“Lo! I have won!”
Thus fell yet another measure of the Pandava’s glory, swallowed by the shadow cast from Duryodhana’s twisted ambition and Sakuni’s loaded dice.
Then Yudhishthira, whose brow was furrowed not by anger but by the unbearable weight of dharma and destiny, continued to cast his wealth into the yawning pit of deceit. With trembling restraint, he spoke again, his voice solemn as a bell tolling doom.
“O son of Suvala, hear me now—
I have cattle in herds beyond all count,
Horses swift as the wind that roams the plain,
Goats and sheep and milk-rich kine
That graze from Parnāśā’s woods to Sindhu’s line.
This living wealth I stake with thee,
Though my heart grows heavy, I must not flee.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
At once, Sakuni, ever crouched like a serpent in play, seized the dice. Twisting fate with foul means hidden from mortal sight, he flung them down and declared without shame:
“Lo! I have won!”
And Yudhishthira, ever obedient to the law of the game, pressed on—though each word was like a shard driven into his chest.
“I have yet my city, my kingdom, and lands—
All that lies under my sovereign hands.
The wealth of my subjects, all their store,
All save the Brahmanas—sacred and pure—
I stake before thee, O king of guile,
Let deceit now take yet another mile.”
Again, Sakuni cast the dice, again his voice rang:
“Lo! I have won!”
And now, with honor fraying, and the hall stunned to silence, Yudhishthira raised his eyes and spoke again, pointing toward his glorious brothers.
“These princes here—gem-garlanded, mighty-armed,
With earrings that gleam and Nishkas that charm—
Heroes by deed, lion-like by birth,
Are my wealth, my crown, my very earth.
Them I stake now, O gambler vile—
Accept if thou darest, with thy cunning smile.”
Sakuni laughed, his voice thin as poison, and cast his loaded dice. With treacherous confidence he spoke:
“Lo! I have won them.”
The air grew thick with dread as the eldest Pāṇḍava, his hands trembling like dry leaves in wind, turned his gaze to Nakula, the youngest of the twins.
“This Nakula here—my brother, my own—
With mighty arms and shoulders like stone,
His neck like a lion’s, his eyes fierce-red,
A prince of grace, whom Kunti has bred—
He is my stake, my blood, my name.
If fate so wills, I stake him in this game.”
And Sakuni, ever ready, ever vile, replied with chilling glee:
“O Yudhishthira, Nakula is dear to thee—
Yet now he stands beneath our tree.
He is ours. The dice have declared—
What more have you, what can be spared?”
Without pause, Sakuni flung the dice once more upon the board, and like thunder from a cloud of sin, his voice fell over the silent hall:
“Lo! He hath been won.”
Then Yudhishthira, trembling not from fear but from the weight of fate and folly, turned his sorrowful gaze upon Sahadeva, the youngest jewel of the Pāṇḍavas, son of Madri and guardian of wisdom.
“This Sahadeva, just in speech,
Learned, firm, and far from reach—
Though his worth none could repay,
I stake him in this wretched play.
O Sakuni, take what must be lost,
Though he, to me, is beyond all cost.”
Sakuni, ever eager, like a vulture circling over wounded prey, seized the dice, and by treachery, cast them down.
“Lo! I have won,” he declared,
His voice sharp as the gambler’s snare.
Then, twisting the knife further into fraternal wounds, Sakuni goaded him once more:
“Behold, O king, both sons of Madri are mine—
Bright as stars but lost in time.
Yet thou seemest to guard with thy heart’s might
Bhīmasena and Dhananjaya, heroes of the fight.”
Yudhishthira said, his voice rising like thunder before the rain:
“Wretch! Thou wouldst sow disunion and spite,
Among brothers forged in Dharma’s light.
Thou speakest like one bereft of grace,
Who spits poison in a sacred place.”
And Sakuni, mocking humility with serpentine words, replied:
“O king, intoxication blinds the wise—
A gamester’s speech, none should prize.
Forgive me if I stray in jest,
I bow to thee who art the best.”
Then Yudhishthira, breathing deeply, named the next jewel of his lineage—Arjuna, the wielder of celestial weapons, slayer of foes, and beloved of gods.
“He who is as a bridge across the sea of war,
Whose arms like lightning wield the bow,
Whose fame resounds from shore to shore—
This Arjuna, faultless, bright as snow—
Though his soul shines, unstained, unshaken,
I stake him now, though my heart is broken.”
Again the dice were cast. Again deceit was crowned.
“Lo! I have won!” cried Sakuni,
As shadows deepened in the Kuru court.
With cruel delight, Sakuni turned once more, his voice filled with venom veiled in jest:
“This ambidextrous son of might,
This bowman skilled in Dharma’s fight—
He is mine. Now stake again,
For still one more remains in chain.
Let Bhīmasena be thy stake,
And see how fate his bonds will make.”
The hall grew colder with every breath. Silence fell like fog on the heads of kings and sages seated there. And the fire of ruin crept closer, as Yudhishthira now stood upon the edge of the last bond that held him to strength and hope.
With each cast of the dice, the hall of Hastināpura darkened—its very pillars trembling beneath the weight of adharma. Yet Yudhishṭhira, bound by the spell of vice and destiny, prepared to stake what remained of his own soul.
Then he spoke, his voice heavy with sorrow but firm in resolve:
“O King,” said Yudhishṭhira, “though Bhīmasena is undeserving of being made a stake,
Still will I wager him, though my very heart shall break.
He is our leader, fierce in war,
Like Indra armed with the thunderbolt’s roar.
With leonine neck and arched brows keen,
Whose sidelong glance strikes fear unseen—
Who cannot suffer insult or wrong,
Whose mighty arms are broad and strong,
The peerless wielder of the iron mace,
Who crushes foes in swift embrace—
Him I now place upon the line,
Though sin and sorrow now entwine.”
Sakuni, grinning with cruel delight, once more cast the dice with deceitful hand and said, “Lo, I have won!”
Thus had the mighty Bhīma, of dreadful wrath and unequalled strength, been claimed by fraud—his valor chained by the throw of weighted dice.
Then Sakuni, like a jackal circling a fallen lion, taunted the Pāṇḍava king once more.
“O son of Kuntī, thy wealth is gone—thy horses, thy elephants, thy warriors,
And now thy brothers, heroes all, are mine.
Speak! What remains in thy keeping still?
What treasure lies unplayed, untaken?”
Yudhishṭhira said:
“I remain,” he answered, calm as a man walking to his own pyre.
“I, eldest among my brothers, beloved of them all,
Am yet unwon.
Let me be thy next stake.
If I lose, I shall abide the fate of the fallen.”
Then Sakuni, whose mind was bent on ruin, cast the loaded dice once more.
“Lo! I have won,” he cried,
And all the earth seemed to sigh beneath his words.
Thus was the king Yudhishṭhira himself lost—first of the Kurus, guardian of Dharma, now prisoner of illusion.
And Sakuni, master of deceit, turned once more to the stricken monarch, his voice a mockery of concern.
“Thou hast given thyself into bondage,” he said,
“Yet wealth remains still with thee, O king.
How canst thou offer thyself when possessions remain unlost?
Surely this wager is tainted—this fall, impure.”
And then, to the gathered assembly of kings and chieftains, Sakuni proclaimed his victory, naming each Pāṇḍava fallen—one by one, staked and taken.
Then he turned to Yudhishṭhira, and with a serpent’s smile, said:
“One stake yet remains.
That which is dearest to thy heart still sits beside thee—
Unclaimed, unplayed, and fairer than all.
Stake her—Kṛṣṇā, the princess of Pāñcāla.
By her, win thy freedom back.”
The air grew thick with silence. The dice lay still. And in that moment, the Kuru court stood at the edge of a terrible precipice.
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, gripped by the fetters of fate and folly, spoke once more—his voice low, but resolute:
“With Draupadī as my stake—
She who is neither too tall nor short,
Neither gaunt nor plump—
Of blue-black curls and lotus gaze,
I now enter the game, O son of Suvala.
Her eyes are like autumn lotuses, her fragrance like their bloom,
As Lakṣmī delights in the lotus, so dwells beauty in her form.
In symmetry, in virtue, in grace she equals Śrī herself.
She is sweet in speech, soft in heart, and adorned with every art.
First to rise and last to rest,
She tends all—man and beast—without complaint or rest.
When her face is kissed by toil,
It shines like jasmine, glistening with dew.
Her lips are red, her body smooth, her form like the wasp-waisted apsarā.
This slender beauty of Pāñcāla’s line—this wife of the five sons of Pāṇḍu—
I stake her now, though grief drowns my reason.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
As these words passed from Yudhiṣṭhira’s lips, the hall fell into a stunned and shameful silence.
From every side came gasps—“Fie! Fie!”—cries of despair from the elders and sages gathered there. A wave of sorrow surged through the sabhā. The hearts of the noble trembled.
Bhīṣma, son of Gaṅgā, and Droṇa, born of Bharadvāja, sat motionless, their garments damp with sweat. Kr̥pa, wise and ancient, lowered his head in anguish. Vidura, stricken with despair, buried his face in his hands. He sat like a serpent coiled in sorrow, hissing softly with each breath—lost in dark thoughts he dared not speak aloud.
But amidst this sea of shame, one man beamed with cruel joy.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra, blinded in body and in mind, leaned forward eagerly and asked again and again, “Hath the stake been won? Hath the stake been won?” He could not hide the elation curling in his heart.
Karna, with Duḥśāsana at his side, laughed aloud—a harsh, hollow sound. Yet tears glimmered in the eyes of many others present, for they saw dharma itself bound and shackled before them.
And Sakuni, son of Suvala, flushed with triumph and intoxicated with deceit, rose and declared:
“Thou hast staked what was dearest to thee—
And lo! I have won!”
So saying, he seized the dice with trembling fingers and claimed his victory.