Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 4 - Dyūta - Chapter 10 - A Second Game? Exile at stake

Janamejaya said:

“O venerable sage, what did the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra feel,

When they came to know that the sons of Pāṇḍu had departed

From Hastināpura, carrying with them their wealth and jewels,

Sanctioned by the blind king's own command?”

Vaiśampāyana said:

O King, when the Kauravas learned that the Pāṇḍavas had been honorably sent away, endowed with riches and dignity by the old king himself, the arrogant Dussāsana could not contain his rage. Swiftly he made his way to his elder brother Duryodhana, his face clouded with grievance, and spoke with grief:

“That which we seized through toil and guile,

Our sire has cast away like dust!

All that wealth, all that power,

He has returned to our foes unjust!”

Duryodhana, consumed by pride, conferred at once with Karṇa and Śakuni, the son of Suvala. Enraged and envious, the three conspirators approached King Dhṛtarāṣṭra in secret, speaking to him in soft and persuasive tones—cloaking venom in reason.

Then Duryodhana said:

“Hast thou not heard, O king of men,

The words of Bṛhaspati to mighty Indra?

‘Those who use fraud and ruthless force

Must be destroyed by every means.’

Now hear, O Father, what I propose:

With the wealth they took, let us bribe the kings,

Then let us once more summon the dice—

And bind the sons of Pāṇḍu in exile’s strings.

They are like serpents full of rage,

Encircling us with deadly aim.

Already they prepare for war—

Their wrath burns like a sacred flame.

Arjuna strings his Gāṇḍīva bow,

His breath like fire, his glance like death.

Bhīma mounts his chariot armed,

His mace whirls wide with thunderous breath.

Nakula bears his shining sword,

Sahadeva his shield in hand.

Even the just Yudhiṣṭhira’s gaze

Reveals the wrath he tries to withstand.

Shall we not act before they strike?

Let us once more tempt them to the game.

If they are vanquished, they shall go

To the forest cloaked in exile’s shame.

Twelve years in woods, the thirteenth concealed—

If found, again shall they disappear.

Let Sakuni guide the dice once more—

And victory shall again be near.”

Blinded by ambition and deaf to righteousness, Duryodhana laid before his father this treacherous plan. The old king, swayed by affection and folly, replied:

“So be it, let them return—

Recall the sons of Kuntī at once.

Let the dice be cast again,

That fate may seal their fortune hence.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Hearing these fateful words, the wise and the virtuous among the court—Drona, Somadatta, Vālhika, Gautama, Kr̥pa, Aśvatthāmā, Bhūriśravās, and even the mighty Bhīṣma—rose in alarm. With Vidura, their voices joined in protest, their counsel firm and solemn.

“Let not the game be played again,

Let peace prevail, let hatred cease!

Do not summon war through dice—

O king, let there be peace! Let there be peace!”

But Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his heart ensnared by the love of his son and the blindness of desire, ignored the voices of wisdom and dharma. Heeded not the tears of Draupadī, nor the oaths of Bhīma, nor the portents of doom.

Thus, in defiance of counsel and conscience, the king of the Kurus once more summoned the sons of Pāṇḍu to the hall of dice.

O King, it was then—when the dice had summoned doom once more, and the cries of protest had been swallowed by the silence of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s will—that the virtuous queen, Gāndhārī, stricken by sorrow and bound by a mother’s anguished love, stepped forward to speak. Her voice trembled with restrained pain, but her words bore the force of truth.

She said:

“O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, when our son Duryodhana was born,

The wise Vidura, knower of dharma, had spoken with foresight—

‘This child cries like a jackal, ominous and wild.

Cast him away, for he shall bring ruin to this line.’

Yet bound by blind affection, you spared him then.

And now, behold, the hour of ruin is nigh.”

Gāndhārī continued, her eyes veiled by her vow but her vision sharpened by wisdom. “O King of the Kurus,” she said, “heed now the warnings that were once ignored. In that moment of birth, when omens cried aloud, the course of fate had already begun to flow—yet you turned away.”

“Know this, O Lord of the Bharatas—those who are led by immature minds into wicked counsel become instruments of their own downfall. It is not wise to place a burning brand into a house of straw, nor to break a levee when the waters still sleep. Why provoke the sons of Pṛthā, who seek no quarrel, who are peaceful and strong in virtue?”

“O Ajamīḍha, thou rememberest well

The stories of dharma, the wisdom of old—

Yet thy heart is turned by paternal bonds,

While ruin walks in thy very household.”

With firm conviction she spoke again: “The scriptures, O King, cannot guide the heart that has turned crooked. The young who refuse to heed the old are like ships without rudders, certain to founder in the storm. Let thy sons follow thee in dharma—do not let them perish through folly. For the sake of the lineage, for the sake of peace, abandon this one son, Duryodhana. You could not do so before, but now the time has come. Let not the house of Kuru fall to ashes through thy silence.”

“Prosperity born of crooked means

Is like a tree scorched at its root—

It cannot endure nor bear sweet fruit,

And vanishes with the winds of fate.

But that which dharma gently sows

Blossoms through each generation.

Let peace prevail; let wisdom lead.

Let not love become damnation.”

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So spoke Gāndhārī, a woman of deep foresight and fierce virtue, offering her husband the final opportunity to avert the approaching storm.

But Dhṛtarāṣṭra, sunk in helplessness and bound by the love he could not temper with wisdom, replied with a voice weary and resigned:

“If doom is to come, let it come.

I cannot prevent what must be.

Let fate unfold as my sons desire—

I am powerless against this sea.”

Then, turning from his queen’s righteous counsel, he added with finality, “Let the sons of Pāṇḍu be summoned once more. Let them return. And let the game be played again.”

Then, O king, the royal messenger, swift as wind and obedient to the will of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, overtook Yudhiṣṭhira, the son of Kuntī, who had already departed a great distance with his brothers and Draupadī. Bowing respectfully, the messenger conveyed his words with solemnity:

“Thus saith thy father-like uncle,

O scion of Bharata's race:

The hall awaits thy presence now,

Come forth once more to cast the dice.”

Hearing this summons, the righteous Yudhiṣṭhira paused. His brow furrowed with the weight of fate, he replied with a voice resigned yet resolute:

“The fruit of each act—be it joy or woe—

Is measured not by effort alone,

But by the hand of the Ordainer,

Who governs the world from realms unknown.

This command I cannot shun,

Though ruin lies in its wake.

A king must bow to duty’s weight,

Though his heart may surely break.”

Then, Vaiśampāyana said, although Yudhiṣṭhira knew full well the crooked heart of Śakuni and the danger of the game, he returned. For, like Rāma lured by the illusion of a golden deer, even wise men falter when the web of daiva—fate—has closed around them. Thus, the sons of Pāṇḍu, bound by dharma and fate alike, retraced their steps, their hearts heavy but their faces calm, returning to the assembly of kings where their ruin was being staged once more.

Men marked by fate, though wise and bold,

Must walk the path that time unfolds.

Though warned by signs and inner fire,

They yield—drawn forth by fate's desire.

Yudhiṣṭhira and his brothers entered the gambling hall once again, to the silent sorrow of their friends and the secret glee of their foes. They took their seats in the hall that had already witnessed the destruction of righteousness, and there, Śakuni, master of deceit and dice, addressed the eldest Pāṇḍava:

“The wealth once lost has been returned—

Let that be. Now hear what’s next.

There lies before us a mighty stake,

A vow for men who dare and test.

If you defeat us,” Śakuni continued, “then we shall go to the forest, clad in deer-skins, to dwell there for twelve long years. The thirteenth year, we shall pass hidden in a city, unrecognized. If found out, we return to exile for another twelve years.”

“And if you, O Yudhiṣṭhira, are defeated,” he said with a sly smile, “then you and your brothers—along with Draupadī—must accept the same: twelve years in the forest, and a thirteenth year incognito. If discovered, then exile begins anew.”

“On the thirteenth year, if unmarked we stand,

Then sovereignty shall return to our hand.

But if found out, the forest calls once more—

Another twelve years behind its door.

So come, O king, noble in name and fame,

Take up the dice, and stake your claim.”

At Śakuni’s proposal, an uneasy murmur rose in the hall. The elders, princes, and wise men present—knowing the doom veiled in the gambler’s smile—lifted their arms in anguish and exclaimed with voices trembling in foreboding:

“Alas! Shame upon the friends of Duryodhana—

They see the cliff and yet urge him on.

Why do they not restrain the fool,

Or warn the king of his ruin to come?

Whether he sees or knows or feels—

O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, blind in more than sight—

It is your task to pierce the veil,

And tell your son what’s wrong and right!”

But Dhṛtarāṣṭra remained silent, caught between affection and fear. And though the hall echoed with the warnings of noble hearts, no hand could stay the wheel of fate now set in motion.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Yudhiṣṭhira, though wise and burdened with the knowledge of the doom that loomed ahead, once more accepted the fatal call of the dice. Shame, virtue, and the weight of kṣātra-dharma compelled him, and so he sat down again to play. His hands trembled not, but his heart was heavy.

“When dharma binds the noble heart,

Though ruin waits, they do their part.

Not for gain, nor blinded pride—

But for the path where duty lies.”

Yudhiṣṭhira said, his voice steady yet sorrowful,

“How can I, a kṣatriya and king, decline a summons to the dice when issued in the assembly? Bound as I am by my station and its codes, I must play, even if ruin be the stake.”

Śakuni, ever cunning and smooth-tongued, smiled and replied,

“We have staked wealth—cattle, horses, elephants, and gold; we have gambled away gems, slaves, and treasures beyond measure. Let that be set aside now. Let us make a single wager. If we are defeated, we shall go to the forest for twelve years and pass the thirteenth unrecognised in some inhabited region. But if you are defeated, then the sons of Pāṇḍu—along with Kṛṣṇā—must accept the same fate. Let exile be the stake, and fate be the judge.”

“Twelve years in wild and wind and flame,

The thirteenth cloaked in hidden name.

Found out, the cycle starts once more—

A test of fate, with dharma’s core.”

O King, that solemn and fateful condition—once uttered—hung heavy in the air. But Yudhiṣṭhira, resolved and unmoved, accepted without hesitation. The dice were cast once again.

And Śakuni, with practiced deceit, rolled them with a smile. Then, turning to the son of Dharma, he declared:

“Lo, I have won.”

And with those words, the fate of the Pāṇḍavas was sealed.

Then, O king, the noble sons of Pṛthā—vanquished by fate and bound by their vow—began to prepare for their exile into the forest. One by one, in solemn order, those great warriors cast off their royal garments, removing the ornaments of kingship as if shedding the glory of the world. In place of silk and gold, they wrapped themselves in mṛga-carma—the coarse hides of deer, signifying renunciation and suffering. From rulers of men, they became silent wanderers, garbed in tapas and sorrow.

As they stood in that assembly, humbled in appearance but unbroken in spirit, Dussāsana, son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, intoxicated with triumph and blind to righteousness, laughed aloud and cried:

“The sovereignty of king Duryodhana begins!

The sons of Pāṇḍu are fallen, shorn of kin.

Behold them now, once radiant stars—

Cast down by fate, marked by scars!

Our goal is gained, by path or scheme;

Today we reign—no more a dream.

They mocked our might in prosperous days,

But now they walk the forest ways.

Let them strip their robes of heavenly thread,

Let deer-skins hang where silk once spread.

Let their pride fall like shattered stone—

These kings, now crushed, dethroned, alone!”

Dussāsana’s words, bitter as poison and loud as thunder, struck the court with the echo of adharma. He continued, his heart swollen with cruelty:

“They who once claimed, ‘None equal us,’

Must now in shame bow low to dust.

Like hollow grains of sesame,

They wear the shell, but naught within to be.

Though dressed like sages, heads held high,

They are but broken, void inside.

Once hailed as princes strong and wise,

They now wear skins as sacrifice.

And thou, O Yājñasenī, princess of pride,

What joy is thine, what tears to hide?

Behold thy lords in rags and pain,

Stripped of kingdom, wealth, and reign!

Choose a husband from this royal crowd,

These Kauravas, of wealth endowed.

Why cling to men in forest bound,

Whose fame is lost, whose fate is drowned?

Elect a lord from us, fair dame,

Before this doom consumes thy name.

For sesame pressed without its seed

Yields no oil—nor do they feed

Thy hope or glory any more.

Thy husbands’ strength is lost, their war

Is done. They walk as hollow men—

Forsake them now, not if but when!”

Thus spoke Dussāsana, pouring scorn like oil upon the flame of defeat. Yet even as the words rang bitter and cruel in the hall, the sons of Pāṇḍu bore them in silence, wrapped not only in bark and hide—but in the mantle of dharma.

Thus did Duḥśāsana, the arrogant son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, utter words of unbearable cruelty in the hearing of the Pāṇḍavas. His tongue, venomous with pride, struck like a whip upon the hearts of the exiled princes. Hearing such vile mockery, Bhīmasena—mighty-limbed and lion-hearted—could no longer contain the storm within.

He rose from silence like a lion from slumber, his voice thunderous, his eyes blazing like fire, and approaching Duḥśāsana like a mountain of wrath upon a trembling jackal, he cried:

“Wicked and vile, thy words are fit

For those who dwell in sin and pit.

Art thou so bold to boast this day,

A jackal yelping in a lion’s way?

Shielded by Gandhāra’s cunning art,

Thou strik’st with words to wound our heart.

But mark me well, thou beast in guise—

In battle, I shall pluck thine eyes.

These who follow thy crooked path,

I’ll send them too to Yama’s wrath.

Their sons and sires shall fall in shame—

Consumed by war, devoured by flame!”

Yet, O king, bound by dharma and unable to act in haste or rage, Bhīma, though dressed in deer-skin and humiliated, stood like fire smouldering beneath ash. And Duḥśāsana, casting off all shame, danced in derision before the court and mocked the mighty Bhīma, crying aloud—“O cow! O cow!”

Then Bhīma, trembling with fury, his soul burning like the sun at noon, growled:

“Thou dog of war, thou devil's kin,

Think’st thou this game thy rightful win?

He who wins by crooked dice

Must pay with blood, must pay the price.

Let me not ascend to heaven’s gate

If I forget thy jeers of hate.

With open chest and shattered breath,

I’ll drink thy blood to seal thy death!”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

As the sons of Pāṇḍu turned to leave the cursed hall of dice, the wicked Duryodhana, giddy with triumph, mocked them further. With cruel mimicry, he strutted and imitated the leonine gait of Bhīma, turning laughter into blades.

But Bhīma, halting in his step, turned his gaze upon him and spoke with teeth clenched and spirit unshaken:

“Think not, O fool, that this jest makes thee tall—

I shall break thy pride, and strike thee to fall.

In battle’s roar, I’ll split thy frame,

And all thy mirth shall turn to shame!”

Then, suppressing his seething rage, he followed the path of Yudhiṣṭhira, but not before he declared aloud, in the very assembly of the Kauravas:

“This oath I make before all men—

Before these kings and courts again.

I’ll slay Duryodhana with my mace,

And plant my foot upon his face!

Arjuna shall strike down proud Karṇa,

Sahadeva shall crush gambler Śakuni.

And Duḥśāsana—the vile, the base—

I’ll slay him, and his blood shall grace

My lips, O kings, in lion's thirst—

He mocked our queen, and he shall be cursed!”

Hearing these words, thunderous and fateful, Arjuna turned to his brother and said calmly:

“O Bhīma, great-hearted and strong in vow,

The worthy speak not rashly now.

Let time bear witness to our might—

The fourteenth year shall bring the fight.”

And Bhīma answered:

“So be it, Arjuna. The earth shall drink—

From Karṇa’s breast, from Sakuni’s brink,

From Duryodhana’s shattered frame,

From Duḥśāsana’s veins—all drenched in flame!”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus were the vows of vengeance spoken—sacred oaths sworn not in pride, but in the name of Dharma betrayed. And the gods in heaven trembled, for they knew—when Bhīma vowed, Death listened.

Then spoke Arjuna, son of Pāṇḍu, dark-hued and fire-eyed, his voice like a bowstring drawn in wrath. The hall echoed with his vow, uttered not in boast, but in dharma-bound purpose to fulfill the will of his brother Bhīma.

“O Bhīma, lion among men,

Thy words strike deep, they burn within.

I vow by Dharma and by flame—

Karṇa shall fall, and lose his name.

For harsh his tongue and cruel his heart,

In battle I’ll tear his soul apart.

And all who stand with him shall die—

Beneath my shafts, like stars they’ll lie.

The Himavat may shift its side,

The sun forget his daily ride,

The moon forsake her cooling grace—

But this my vow shall not efface.

If Duryodhana, in the fourteenth year,

Returns us not our kingdom dear,

Then wrath shall rise in righteous tide—

And all his hosts be swept aside!”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

As the son of Kuntī finished his fiery oath, Sahadeva, son of Mādrī, raised his hand like a serpent coiling to strike. His eyes, crimson with fury, fixed upon Śakuni of Gāndhāra, and his breath came hard with restrained fire.

“O gambler foul, O serpent's kin,

Thy mocking tongue shall pay for sin.

Think not that fortune makes thee high—

Thy bones shall in the dust soon lie.

We are not broken—we endure.

But mark me now, of this be sure:

Before the moon has circled round

Thirteen times, I’ll strike thee down!

Arm thyself, O son of dice,

For war shall come, not games of vice.

Let Fate prepare thy funeral pyre—

My arrows shall fulfill our ire!”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then Nakula, resplendent like the god of love, raised his voice, solemn and fierce, his anger sharpened by Draupadī’s insult and the dishonour done in the court of dice.

“Ye sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, doomed and blind,

Who scorn both justice and the kind,

For thy cruel words at that cursed game,

I vow to erase thy very name.

For Draupadī’s tears and Yudhiṣṭhira’s pain,

For the robes of deer and the gambler’s chain—

I shall make the earth drink deep thy gore,

Till Dhṛtarāṣṭra's line breathes no more!

Let Fate prepare, let Dharma see—

My sword shall set the kingdom free!”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Thus did those tigers among men—Arjuna, Sahadeva, and Nakula—each raise their right arm and swear a vow before the sun and the winds. Bound by virtue and blazing with wrath, they pledged to Yudhiṣṭhira their undying resolve.

Having made their solemn declarations, they strode together like storm clouds drawn to war, and approached the blind king Dhṛtarāṣṭra with burning hearts and unshaken minds.