Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (22 page)

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,

pointing out the folly of the plan.

“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.”

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!

I have won the Panchala princess!”

“Go, retainer,” said Duryodhana

to Vidura, “fetch Draupadi from her rooms.

They’re too good for her now—let her sweep the floor.

Let her move to the slave women’s quarters.”

“Wretched prince,” said Vidura, “don’t you know

that by today’s vile and unworthy actions

you are tying a cord round your own neck

and dangling above a dreadful chasm?

In any case, Draupadi is not a slave—

the king staked her when he had lost himself.”

“A curse on you!” shouted Duryodhana.

He turned to a lowborn page: “You go and fetch her

to serve the household of the Kauravas.”

Trembling, and with reluctant steps,

the messenger approached Draupadi’s door.

“O queen, you are summoned to the hall.

King Yudhishthira has lost his reason

and gambled every one of his possessions—

city, wealth, his kingdom and then, madam,

his brothers, and himself and, madam . . . you.

So Prince Duryodhana has ordered me

to escort you to his servants’ quarters

where you will be put to menial work.”

Draupadi was distraught and deeply shocked

but found the words to say to the page, “Go back,

and ask my husband if he gambled me

before he lost himself, or afterward.

Then come and tell me.”

The messenger obeyed

but could get no answer from Yudhishthira,

almost demented with despair and guilt.

“Let her be brought to the assembly hall,”

said Duryodhana. “She can ask her question

for herself.” And again he sent the page

to Draupadi. “I will not come,” she said.

“But say that I am willing to respect

what the venerable men in the assembly

may definitely tell me.”