without the loss of blood on either side.
One skilled at dice is able to win battles
by other means—the dice will be my arrows,
the marks on them my bow, and the dice cloth
the chariot carrying me to victory!”
“I will give careful thought to your proposal,”
said the king, “but on such crucial matters
I always seek the advice of Vidura.”
“Vidura is bound to disapprove,”
retorted Duryodhana. “He will advise
that you refuse to send the invitation
and if you do refuse, I’ll kill myself!”
To placate his son, and because he himself
liked the prospect of the gaming match—
though he well knew where gambling could lead—
Dhritarashtra ordered that work begin
on building an ornate assembly hall
to accommodate the dice game. Then he sent
for Vidura.
When he was told the plan,
Vidura knew this was a fatal step
toward catastrophe. He knew that, now,
the age of Kali was at hand, the age
when dharma is enfeebled, when virtue
struggles to overcome evil. He saw
that his brother was more than half persuaded,
and warned him, “This proposed gaming match
will lead to conflict. I cannot approve.”
“But,” replied Dhritarashtra, “it will take place
in my presence, and before the elders,
so nothing evil will occur. I feel
this dice game must have been ordained by fate.”
Even so, the king sent for Duryodhana.
“Vidura does not approve the plan
and I am inclined to follow his advice
since his counsel is always for my good.
You should give up this idea. Why are you
so unhappy, when you have every luxury?
You’re my eldest son, born of my senior wife.
You have the finest clothes, the choicest food,
the swiftest horses, jewels, lovely women—
the best of everything. The sons of Kunti
have their half of the kingdom; we have ours.
Surely that should be enough for you?
One who hates suffers the pangs of hell.
Jealousy brings only misery.”
“Father, listen,” said Duryodhana,
“you and I are like two boats, fastened
one to the other. My interests should be yours.
Or do you really not want me to flourish?
Discontent and jealousy are good
for a kshatriya. Contentment weakens
the ambitious striving which can bring success;
so does fear, and so does limp compassion.
In pursuit of prosperity, any means,
any means at all, are justified.
Think of Indra, who cut off Namuchi’s head
even though he had promised not to kill him.
An enemy is one whose interests,
like the Pandavas’, run counter to one’s own.
Peaceful coexistence with an enemy
is the way of fools and cowards. As things are,
I do not know if I am strong enough
to defeat the Pandavas. I have to know.”
His voice rose, “You must listen to me, Father,
I want their kingdom for myself, I want
the Pandavas destroyed—is it too much
for you to give assent, when Shakuni
has such a simple plan? I know you feel
as I do, but you cannot bring yourself
to own it. If you won’t do this for me
I swear I’ll kill myself! Then you can have
your saintly Pandavas—you can forget
you ever had a son called Duryodhana!”
Finally, the blind king was worn down
by Duryodhana’s vehemence and threats—
as a sand dune, soft and shifting in its nature,
is eroded by the waves that break on it.
Besides, he loved his son. Without consulting
his ministers as he was prone to do,
he called for Vidura, and ordered him
to carry an invitation with all speed
to Indraprastha: “Come, my dearest nephews,
honor Hastinapura with a visit.
A splendid gaming hall is being built
where you will be well entertained at dice.”
Vidura was horrified. He knew
this course, conceived in malice and deceit,
would bring disaster to the Bharatas.
He pleaded with the king to reconsider,
“Remember the story of the mountaineer
climbing in search of honey, clambering up
dangerous heights, lusting for the prize
without a thought for how he would return
to solid earth. That’s Duryodhana.”
But Dhritarashtra, deaf as well as blind,
was adamant. “Dice-playing is a noble
pastime among kshatriyas. No harm
need come of it. And if it does, then fate,
which shapes our lives whatever we may do,
will have its way. Fortune will be bestowed
where the gods decide.”
With deep foreboding,
Vidura set out for Indraprastha.
Arrived at his nephew’s court, Vidura
was received with joy and every honor.
“But, wise Vidura,” said Yudhishthira,
“you look forlorn. I hope nothing is wrong
at Hastinapura, that the king is well,
that his noble sons obey him?” Heart sinking
and with a grim expression, Vidura
conveyed Dhritarashtra’s invitation.
Yudhishthira was most dismayed. “I know
the Vedas speak of a dice game following
an imperial consecration. But if I
and the Kauravas play dice together,
we may quarrel—as happens over dice.”
“I know,” said Vidura. “King Dhritarashtra
has built a hall, and many practiced gamblers,
cheats and tricksters, are assembled there.
I tried to stop it. Gambling brings disaster.
But the king, devoted to his son,
insisted that I bring this invitation.”
“Who will be there? Who will play against me?”
“The skillful Shakuni will play against you.”
And Vidura named other men, notorious
for their sharp practice in the game of dice.
Yudhishthira said, “I understand. A trap
is waiting for me. And yet it is my duty
to fall in with the wishes of my uncle.
If I’m not directly challenged, I’ll not play.
If I am, then I am honor bound,
and bound by my own vow not to refuse
a challenge. But what man is there who is not
subject to the blinding power of fate
that dazzles us, depriving us of reason?
What will happen is what time ordains.”
17.
THE DICE GAME
Yudhishthira, along with his entourage—
his brothers, wife, servants, many brahmins—
arrived at Hastinapura, and was welcomed
by blind Dhritarashtra and his queen.
The women of the court were not best pleased
by the sight of Draupadi’s priceless jewels.
The next day, Yudhishthira and his brothers
were taken to the newly built pavilion.
The whole court had assembled for the game—
gamblers, court officials, nobles, princes.
There was an air of nervous expectation,
though the king described it as “a friendly match,
for the pleasure and amusement of our guests.”
“Welcome to all present—let play commence!”
cried Duryodhana with false bonhomie.
“Shakuni will play on my behalf;
I put my entire wealth at his disposal.”
“Gambling by proxy,” said Yudhishthira,
“seems contrary to honorable practice.
However, if you insist, I shall accept.
Gambling is not a noble pastime,
unlike honest victory in war.
There is no kshatriya valor in it.
Dicing involves deceit—Shakuni,
I exhort you not to win by trickery.”
“When a Vedic scholar competes with one
who has no Vedic knowledge, it is deceit,
though no one calls it so,” said Shakuni.
“In any sport involving competition,
the effort to defeat one’s adversary
could be called ignoble, though it never is.
In playing dice, the stronger player tries
to defeat the weaker—that is the game.
If you are afraid, refuse the challenge.”
“I have vowed never to refuse a challenge,”
said the Pandava. “Let the game begin.
We all are in the hands of destiny.”
Yudhishthira was the first to name his stake—
“This pearl necklace, richly worked with gold”—
matched by Shakuni. He cast his dice.
Shakuni cast, his supple hands flashing
like lightning. He smiled slightly, “I have won.”
Yudhishthira protested, “You confused me
with a trick. But very well, Shakuni,
let us continue. My store of gold:
a hundred finely fashioned silver jars,
each containing one thousand gold pieces.”
He threw his dice.
So did clever Shakuni:
“I have won.”
Yudhishthira grew angry.
“My beautiful and swift royal chariot,
the one that brought us here—it stands outside
hung with bells, furnished with tiger skins—
drawn by eight noble purebred horses
white as moonbeams, all this is my stake.”
Again he threw, closing his eyes until
he heard Shakuni’s voice,
“Look, I have won.”
It was as if the world shrank to a script
Yudhishthira must follow. He could not see
how Shakuni was managing to win,
he could not track the other’s sinuous moves.
He was consumed by furious desire,
a rage to triumph over his tormenter
and recoup his losses. Nothing else mattered.
“I have a thousand rutting elephants,
well trained, powerful, huge as monsoon clouds;
fit for a king, each one a fearless fighter
with terrible tusks, caparisoned in gold.”
“Look, I have won.”
“A hundred thousand slave girls,
beautiful and finely dressed, accomplished
in all the courtly arts, especially dancing
and singing, used to waiting on celestials,
brahmins, kings—I stake them all.” He threw.
“Look, I have won.” Shakuni’s silken voice
was steady, not a trace of exultation.
Dhritarashtra, though, was feverish,
agog to know each new development,
asking repeatedly, “Has my son won?”
“I have thousands of serving men, well trained
in all the domestic skills, indoors and out.”
“All these, I have won,” smiled Shakuni.
“Thousands of fine horses, and the same number
of warriors, well trained, well kitted-out,
each with a thousand coins as monthly pay
whether he fights or not. All this I stake.”
Shakuni performed his graceful throw
effortlessly. “Look, I have won it all.”
“Celestial horses, pretty as partridges,
given to Arjuna by the gandharvas.
I stake them.”
Shakuni murmured, “I have won.”
“Innumerable chariots, sturdy carts
and their handlers. I hereby stake them all!”
“Won,” said Shakuni.
“Four hundred chests
bursting with pure gold!” cried Yudhishthira.
“I have won them all,” said Shakuni.
The heat was rising in the assembly hall.
Yudhishthira’s four brothers had turned ashen.
Duryodhana was shaking with excitement.
Vidura approached the king quietly:
“O wise king, I beg you—reconsider
what you have set in train. Do you remember
when Duryodhana was born he cried aloud
like a jackal, an ill-omened howling
that echoed through the palace; echoes still.
I urged you then to sacrifice your son—
one son, for the sake of the whole family.
I told you he was sure to bring destruction
to the Bharatas. You would not listen.
Now, see what he is doing.
“Don’t let your son
bring ruin to the blameless Pandavas.
Let the ambidextrous archer, Arjuna,
remove him, for the good of the Bharatas.
I see you in raptures every time he wins.
But really—he is losing. The consequence
of this, for all of us, will be unspeakable.
And to what end are you allowing it?
“There is a story of a foolish hunter
who captured forest birds which spat pure gold
and kept them in his house. He became rich
but, not content with what the birds produced,
he cut them open and, for instant gain,
destroyed the birds on which he could have lived
forever. You have enormous wealth yourself,
far more than you can use. Better to keep
the friendship of the virtuous Pandavas
than to win all they own.”
Duryodhana,
overhearing, sneered at Vidura,
“You’ve always been partial to the Pandavas.
And yet you stay around here, like a cat
scratching spitefully at those who feed it.
You should get lost, old man, we do not need
your gloomy notions.” Vidura replied,
“It is never hard to find a toady
who tells you what you want to hear. Far harder
to find an impartial, honest truth-teller.”
Meanwhile, Yudhishthira had staked, and lost,
the vast contents of his treasury,
his palaces, lands, his great assembly hall,
the heaven-inspired city of Indraprastha,
his entire kingdom. Each time he threw,
although he well knew the odds were against him,
he hoped, against reason, for a miracle.
Glassy-eyed, he sat in slumped silence.
“Have you nothing more?” murmured Shakuni.
“Surely your luck will turn—you could win back
everything you’ve lost.”
The Pandavas,
silenced by respect for protocol,
willed Yudhishthira to walk away.
But in a voice not like his own at all,
as if half drunk, or mesmerized, he said,
“My brother Nakula, who is wealth to me,
my young lion with the mighty arms,
I stake him now.” A disbelieving gasp
ran through the hall. Shakuni, impassive,
threw his dice.
“Look, I have won Nakula.”
“My brother Sahadeva, wise and just,
learned in the matters of this world;
even though the last thing he deserves
is to be staked like this—I stake him now.”
“Look, I have won your brother Sahadeva.
It seems these youngest two are dispensable,
unlike your brothers Arjuna and Bhima.”
“Wretch!” cried Yudhishthira, face drained of blood,
“Never try to put a knife blade between us.
The five of us are of one heart and soul.
He that is the world’s greatest warrior,
victorious over every enemy,
the prince who is the hero of the world,
my brother Arjuna—I stake him now!”
“Look, I have won him too,” Shakuni smiled.
“Why not stake the last wealth you have left?”
“The strongest mace-bearer that ever lived,
my great-souled prince, massive as a bull,
fearless in war, kindest of sons and brothers,
who would spend his last ounce of strength for us—
how little he deserves this. I stake Bhima.”
“Look, I have won!”
The horrified spectators
might have thought that now that the four brothers
were passing into slavery, the dice game
was over. They were wrong.
“O Pandava,”
said Shakuni, “have you nothing left to stake?”
“Only I myself,” said Yudhishthira,
“am still unwon, still free to leave this hall
and travel where I will. Yet how can I,
having stripped my brothers of their liberty,
count my freedom more valuable than theirs?
I hereby stake myself!”
“Look, I have won,”
smiled Shakuni. “But in staking your own self
while you still had property, you have done wrong.
There still remains an asset dear to you,
your wife, Draupadi, the dark princess
of Panchala, she of outstanding beauty.
By staking her, you could win back yourself.”
“She who is perfect,” whispered Yudhishthira,
“neither too tall nor too short, whose eyes
sparkle with love, whose care for us is boundless,
our matchless Draupadi—yes, I stake her!”
At once, there was agitation in the hall.
Nobles, elders, members of the court
were deeply shocked at this turn of events.
Vidura slumped down, wringing his hands.
Drona and Bhishma were silent, bathed in sweat.
Some people fainted. Only Duryodhana
and his friends laughed aloud, and Dhritarashtra,
excited, asked repeatedly, “Is she won?”
“Look,” cried Shakuni, “I have won her!