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The wealth of the Rajasuya sacrifice, where every king on earth had stood at Yudhishthira’s gate with tribute of gems and jewels, settled in Duryodhana’s heart as a fire that would not go out. He lingered in the assembly hall that the Asura architect Maya had built, and studied one by one the marvels he had never once seen in the city named after the elephant. In that looking his own laughter was turned against him, his spirit was scorched by that abundance, and out of that envy was laid the board of the crooked game that would split the house of Bharata in two forever. What follows is a plain telling of that story, kept close to what Vyasa said, as Vaisampayana told it to Janamejaya.
Duryodhana’s stumbles in the hall of Maya, and the fire that smoldered within
Duryodhana walked through that assembly house at his leisure, with Shakuni, the king of Gandhara and his mother’s brother, at his side. The place had been fashioned with such craft that a floor of crystal, the clear bright stone, looked like a sheet of water, and a pool of water strewn with crystal lotuses looked like solid ground. One day, going his rounds, the prince came upon a level floor of crystal, mistook it for a pond, and drew up his clothes to wade across. When he understood his error he wandered off in confusion and shame. A little later he took a real pool of crystal water, in which crystal lotuses were in bloom, for dry land, and fell straight into it with all his clothes on.
Seeing Duryodhana fallen into the pool, the mighty Bhima laughed aloud, and the servants of the palace laughed with him. At the king’s command the attendants brought him dry and handsome clothes. Watching him in that plight, Bhima and Arjuna and both the twins laughed again. Duryodhana, unused to swallowing insults, could not bear their laughter. He hid what he felt and would not even turn his eyes toward them. Then, taking a piece of dry ground for water, he gathered up his clothes once more to cross it, and again they all laughed.
A while later the king took a shut crystal door for an open one, and as he moved to pass through, his head struck against it and he stood swaying with his brain reeling. Then he mistook a door that was truly open for a closed one, and in trying to force it apart with outstretched hands, he tumbled down. And coming at last upon a door that stood open, he thought it shut and turned away from it. Falling victim to error after error, and having seen the vast wealth gathered for the Rajasuya, he at last took his leave of the Pandavas and returned to Hastinapura.
As he rode toward his city, wounded by the sight of the Pandavas’ prosperity, Duryodhana’s heart bent toward sin. Beholding the sons of Pandu happy, and every king of the earth doing them homage, and reflecting again and again on the splendor of Yudhishthira, he turned pale. The whole way he thought of nothing but that assembly house and that unrivaled prosperity of the wise Yudhishthira. Shakuni spoke to him more than once and got not a word in reply. At last, seeing him lost in thought, Shakuni asked, “Duryodhana, why do you ride like this?”
Duryodhana answered, “Uncle, I have seen the whole earth pass under Yudhishthira’s sway by the strength of Arjuna’s weapons, and I have seen a sacrifice of the son of Pritha as grand as Indra’s own among the gods. Filled with jealousy, burning day and night, I am drying up like a shallow tank in the summer heat. When Shishupala was struck down by the chief of the Satwatas, there was no man to take his part. Consumed by the fire of the Pandava, they all forgave the deed. And king after king brought Yudhishthira every kind of wealth like tribute-paying merchants. Seeing all this my heart burns with a jealousy that I know it is not fit for me to feel.”
Then, as though scorched by flame, he spoke again. “I will throw myself on a blazing fire, or swallow poison, or drown myself in water. I cannot live. What man of any spirit could bear to see his enemies in the fullness of prosperity and himself in want? I am not able to win such royal fortune alone, and I see no allies who could help me to it. So I am turning over the thought of my own death. Know me, son of Suvala, as a man consumed with grief and jealousy, and carry this to Dhritarashtra.”
The gist: In the hall that Maya built, the crystal illusions make Duryodhana stumble again and again, and the laughter of Bhima, Arjuna, and Draupadi lodges in his mind like a thorn. By the time he reaches Hastinapura his envy burns so fiercely that he speaks of dying. Here is planted the seed of poison that will grow into the board of the dice game.
Shakuni’s counsel, and the winning over of Dhritarashtra
Shakuni said, “Duryodhana, you should not envy Yudhishthira. The sons of Pandu are enjoying what their own good fortune has earned them. Time and again you tried to destroy them by scheme after scheme, and each time those tigers among men slipped free by sheer luck. They have Draupadi for their wife, and Drupada and his sons and the mighty Vasudeva for their allies, and they came into their father’s kingdom without anyone snatching it from them. Where is the cause for grief in that? Yet, king, I know the means by which Yudhishthira himself can be beaten. Listen to me.”
Duryodhana said, “If there is a way that does not put my friends and these renowned warriors in danger, tell it to me.”
Shakuni said, “The son of Kunti is very fond of dice, though he has no skill at it. Asked to play, he is unable to refuse. I am an adept at dice. There is none to equal me at it on earth, no, not even in the three worlds. So challenge him to a game. Skilled as I am, I will win his kingdom and all that splendid fortune of his for you. But lay all of this before king Dhritarashtra. Commanded by your father, I will win the whole of Yudhishthira’s wealth beyond any doubt.”
Duryodhana said, “Son of Suvala, you yourself lay this properly before Dhritarashtra, the chief of the Kurus. I will not be able to say it.”
So Shakuni went to Dhritarashtra and told him that Duryodhana had lost his color and grown thin and depressed and heavy with anxiety. Dhritarashtra summoned his son and asked him, “Son, what is the cause of your grief? All this wealth is at your command. Your brothers and all our kin do nothing against your wishes. You wear the finest robes, you eat the best of food prepared with meat, the best of horses carry you. Why then do you grieve like a man who has nothing?”
Then Duryodhana laid out in detail all the wealth of Yudhishthira’s Rajasuya. “I eat and dress like a wretch,” he said, “and I am forever the prey of a fierce jealousy. He alone is a man who, unable to bear the pride of his foe, conquers that foe and lives.” He told of the 88,000 Snataka Brahmanas who kept households on Yudhishthira’s bounty, each of them given 30 serving-girls; of the thousands more who ate the finest food off golden plates each day; of the king of Kamboja, who had sent countless deerskins and blankets of fine weave; of the thousands of she-elephants and the 30,000 she-camels that wandered through the palace grounds. He told of the day the Ocean itself brought, in vessels of white copper, a nectar-like water finer than any that flowers and plants yield, and of how Vasudeva, taking up a great conch, bathed the son of Pritha with sea water carried in a thousand jars of gold. “Beholding all of it, I fell feverish with jealousy.”
A sub-tale: Before the gambling hall was ever built, Duryodhana recited to Dhritarashtra a long inventory of the Rajasuya tributes, and one strange picture keeps returning in it. The gatekeepers had held many kings and Brahmanas at the door, men who had come bearing gifts worth tens of millions. The Kambojas, the Bahlikas, the men of Singhala, the kings of Chola and Pandya, and countless peoples of distant countries stood at the gate with their offerings. That was the sight Duryodhana found unbearable: so many kings bringing tribute and still made to wait for entry, and that very splendor set his envy alight.
Dhritarashtra reasoned with him first. “Son, you are my eldest. Do not be jealous. Yudhishthira is as rich as you are, and holds no jealousy toward you. If it is the honor of a great sacrifice that you covet, let the priests arrange for you the mighty rite called Saptatantu, and the kings of the earth will gladly bring you wealth and gems as well. The sons of Pandu are as your own arms. Do not lop them off. To covet another man’s property is a mean thing.” But Duryodhana would not be moved. He answered with the cold logic of statecraft, that for a Kshatriya victory is the only measure, that whether the means be righteous or sinful there is no room for scruple in the duty of one’s own order, that discontent is the very root of prosperity, and that he chose to remain discontented.
At last Shakuni said it plainly. “Best of the victorious, that fortune whose sight grieves you, I will snatch it away by dice. Know this: betting is my bow, the dice are my arrows, the marks upon them my bowstring, and the gaming board my chariot.” Dhritarashtra said first that he would take counsel with Vidura, for Vidura, keeping dharma before his eyes, would tell them what was good and proper for both sides. But Duryodhana cut across him. “If you consult Vidura he will hold you back, and if you hold back, I will surely kill myself. Then you may enjoy the whole earth in peace with Vidura. What need have you of me?” Blinded by love of his son, Dhritarashtra gave the order for a splendid hall to be raised, of a thousand columns and a hundred doors.
The gist: Shakuni unveils his unfailing weapon, the loaded dice. Dhritarashtra hesitates at first, naming dharma and Vidura, then bends under his son’s threat of suicide and orders the hall built. The moral irony surfaces here. The king knows in his heart that this is a ruin in the making, and still he opens the road to it, pleading “fate” as his excuse.
Vidura’s warning, and the summoning of Yudhishthira
The moment the wise Vidura heard of the plan, he knew that the age of Kali was drawing near and that the door to destruction was about to open. He came quickly to Dhritarashtra, bowed at his feet, and said, “Great king, I do not approve of this resolve. Act so that no quarrel may arise among your sons over this match at dice.” Dhritarashtra answered, “Kshatta, if the gods are kind to us, no quarrel will ever divide my sons. Auspicious or not, for good or ill, let this friendly game go forward. Beyond doubt this is what fate has ordained. I hold fate to be supreme.” Hearing this, and certain now that his line was doomed, Vidura went in deep sorrow to Bhishma.
Then Dhritarashtra took Duryodhana aside once more. “Son of Gandhari, have nothing to do with dice. Vidura does not speak well of it, and Vidura never counsels me against my good. Dice sows dissension, and dissension is the ruin of a kingdom. You are the eldest, you live in your own realm, you have the finest food and clothes. Why do you call yourself unhappy?” But Duryodhana only repeated his hard maxims, and said that father and son were bound together like one boat tied to another. In the end Dhritarashtra, treating fate as unalterable, waited for the hall to be finished and then commanded Vidura: “Go to Khandavaprastha and bring Yudhishthira here with his brothers. Let him see this handsome hall of mine, and let a friendly game of dice begin.”
Vidura set out against his will, behind swift horses, toward the capital of the Pandavas. Yudhishthira received him with honor and asked, “Kshatta, your mind seems cheerless. Do you come in peace and safety? Are Dhritarashtra and his sons well?” Vidura delivered the king’s message, and gave him the truth along with it. “I know that gambling is the root of misery, and I tried to turn the king from it. Yet the king has sent me to you. Knowing all this, learned one, do what is best.”
Yudhishthira asked, “Besides the sons of Dhritarashtra, what dishonest gamblers are gathered there?” Vidura said, “Shakuni, the king of Gandhara, quick of hand and reckless in his stakes, and Vivimsati, king Chitrasena, Satyavrata, Purumitra, and Jaya are there.” Yudhishthira said, “Then the most desperate and terrible of gamblers, men who lean on deceit, are seated there. This whole universe moves at the will of its Maker, under the hand of fate. It is not free. I have no wish to gamble at Dhritarashtra’s bidding. Yet if that wicked Shakuni calls me out in the assembly, I will never refuse. Never to turn my back when summoned is my eternal vow.”
“Like some bright body falling before the eyes, fate robs us of our reason, and a man, bound as if by a cord, gives himself over to the will of Providence.” Saying this, Yudhishthira set out with his kin and his attendants and the women of the household, Draupadi in their midst, for the capital of the Kurus. Riding in royal robes on the car the king of Bahlika had given him, Brahmanas walking before him, he reached Hastinapura and went to Dhritarashtra’s palace. There he met Bhishma, Drona, Karna, Kripa, and Ashvatthama, then Somadatta, Duryodhana, Shalya, and the son of Suvala, and embraced them each. He saluted the reverend Gandhari, who was surrounded by her daughters-in-law as Rohini by the stars, and then came to his old blind uncle, whose wisdom was his only eye, and Dhritarashtra smelt his head in affection. After a night of rest and pleasant music, the Pandavas rose at dawn, performed the rites of the day, and entered the assembly hall, where the men waiting to gamble greeted them.
The gist: Vidura sees the disaster coming and warns plainly twice, and Dhritarashtra brushes him aside with the same plea of fate. Yudhishthira too knows that deceitful gamblers are waiting for him, and still accepts the invitation because of his vow never to turn his back when summoned. Both sides hold the truth in their hands, and both walk toward the place where ruin waits.
The game begins, and Shakuni’s chant of “Lo, I have won”
When all the kings had taken their seats, Shakuni said, “King, the assembly is full. Everyone has been waiting for you. Let the dice be cast, then, and the rules of play be fixed.” Yudhishthira answered, “Deceitful gambling is a sin. There is no Kshatriya prowess in it, and there is certainly no dharma in it. Why then do you praise it so? Shakuni, do not conquer us by cheating, like some low creature.”
Shakuni said, “The player who truly knows the game is the one who knows the secrets of winning and losing, who is skilled at foiling the tricks of his opponent, who is at home in every turn of the play. The only fault of gambling is that the stakes may be lost or won. Do not be afraid. Fix the stakes and do not delay.” Yudhishthira quoted the words of Devala, the son of Asita, that it is sinful to play by deceit against a gamester, and that the finest sport is a victory in battle won without cunning, and gambling is nothing of the kind. But then he said, “When I am summoned, I do not withdraw. That is my fixed vow. And fate is stronger than all of us. With whom in this hall am I to play? Who here can match my stakes?”
Duryodhana said, “King, I will furnish the jewels and gems and wealth of every kind, and my uncle Shakuni will play on my behalf.” Yudhishthira said, “For one man to gamble by the hand of another seems against the rule. Still, if you are set on it, let the play begin.”
Yudhishthira laid his first stake, a peerless treasure of pearls raised of old from the churning of the ocean, all set in pure gold. Shakuni took up the dice and said, “Lo, I have won!” Yudhishthira said, “You have won this stake by unfair means. Do not be so proud.” Then he staked the inexhaustible gold of his treasury, and its silver and its ore, and Shakuni said, “Lo, I have won!”
Stake after stake he laid, and lost. His victorious car, covered with tiger-skin and drawn by eight white steeds swift as moonbeams. A hundred thousand young serving-girls, decked in gold and skilled in every art. Thousands of serving-men. A thousand musty elephants with golden girdles, their tusks long and thick as plough-shafts. As many cars, each with its trained horses and warriors. The divine steeds of the Tittiri, Kalmasha, and Gandharva breeds that Chitraratha had given to Arjuna. Ten thousand cars and vehicles and 60,000 chosen warriors of broad chest. Four hundred stores of the costliest gold and jewels, sealed in sheets of copper and iron. Each time Shakuni threw by his crooked hand and said again, “Lo, I have won!”
A key to reading this: The heart of the crooked game is that Shakuni’s dice were no ordinary dice. Again and again he wins by unfair means. Yudhishthira does not so much as know the game, and across the board sits the most cunning hand in the three worlds. The whole thing was a staged move with its end already fixed, a rigged play wearing the dress of a contest.
Vidura’s last cry, and Duryodhana’s rebuke
In the middle of this ruinous play, Vidura turned to Dhritarashtra and said, “Great king, hear my words, unwelcome though they may be, like medicine to a man who is dying. When this evil-minded Duryodhana howled at his birth in a jarring voice like a jackal’s, it was known then that he had been born to destroy the race of Bharata. A jackal lives in your house, king, in the shape of Duryodhana, and in your blindness you do not see it. In exchange for a crow, buy these peacocks, the Pandavas. In exchange for a jackal, buy these tigers. For the sake of a family one member may be given up, for the sake of a village a family, for the sake of a province a village, and for the sake of one’s own soul the whole earth.”
Vidura pressed on. “Gambling is the root of dissension. From it comes destruction. King, you are yourself a mine of wealth. By other means you can earn as much as you wish. What will you gain by winning the Pandavas’ wealth? Win the Pandavas themselves, and they will be worth more to you than all they own. Send Shakuni back where he came from. Make no war upon the sons of Pandu.”
But Duryodhana lashed at Vidura with hard words. “Kshatta, you are forever singing the praises of our enemies and running down the sons of Dhritarashtra. We know whose side your heart is on. We nursed you like a serpent held in the lap, and like a cat you wish only evil upon the hand that feeds you. Go wherever you please. However well she is treated, an unchaste wife still forsakes her husband in the end.” At this Vidura appealed to Dhritarashtra as a witness, saying that the hearts of kings are fickle things, that they grant protection first and strike with clubs at last, and that for his own part he would go on wishing Dhritarashtra and his sons prosperity to the end.
The gist: Vidura lays out the whole prophecy of the family’s ruin, “in exchange for a crow buy these peacocks, in exchange for a jackal buy these tigers.” Duryodhana answers by calling him a serpent in the lap and a treacherous cat, and casts him aside. This is the moment when the last voice of good sense is refused.
The staking of the brothers, of himself, and at last of Draupadi
Shakuni said, “Yudhishthira, you have lost a great deal of the Pandavas’ wealth. If anything is still left to you, name it.” Yudhishthira answered that he had countless kine, horses, goats, and sheep spread across the land from the Parnasa to the eastern bank of the Sindhu. Shakuni said, “Lo, I have won!” Then Yudhishthira staked his city, his country, his land, and the wealth of all its people save the Brahmanas, and that too he lost.
Then he set the young princes on the board. “These princes, radiant in their ornaments and earrings, are now my wealth.” Shakuni won them too. Then Yudhishthira staked Nakula. “This Nakula, lion-necked and young, is now one stake of mine.” Shakuni said, “King, Nakula is dear to you, and he is won. With whom will you play now?” Then Sahadeva was lost. Shakuni jeered, “The two sons of Madri are gone, but Bhimasena and Dhananjaya, it seems, are dearer to you than all.”
Yudhishthira said, “Wretch. You seek to sow disunion among us who are of one heart, and you trample dharma to do it.” Yet one after another he staked Arjuna, and then Bhima, and lost them both. Shakuni said, “Son of Kunti, you have lost much wealth, horses, elephants, and your brothers as well. If anything remains, name it.” Yudhishthira said, “I alone, the eldest, am still unwon. Won, I will do what a man who is won must do.” Shakuni said, “Lo, I have won!” And then he sharpened the taunt. “To stake yourself is a grave sin. Yet even now one dear stake is left to you. Stake Draupadi, the princess of Panchala, and by her win yourself back.”
Yudhishthira, telling over Draupadi’s beauty and her virtue and her gentleness, laid her on the board. At once every elder in the hall cried out, “Fie! Fie!” The whole assembly shook, the kings sank into grief, and Bhishma, Drona, and Kripa were drenched in sweat. Vidura held his head between his hands and sat like a man who had lost his reason. But Dhritarashtra, glad at heart, asked again and again, “Has the stake been won? Has the stake been won?” and could not hide what he felt. Karna and Dussasana and the rest laughed aloud, while tears ran from the eyes of all the others. Shakuni took up the dice in his eagerness and said, “Lo, I have won!”
The gist: Yudhishthira loses first his wealth, then his kingdom, then his brothers, then himself, and at last Draupadi. Here the moral thorn goes in that will feed the whole argument to come. Can a man who has already lost himself stake anyone else, his own wife, on the board? This is the question of Draupadi that will leave the full assembly with no answer.
Draupadi’s question, and the herald’s repeated journeys
Duryodhana, delighted, said, “Kshatta, go and bring Draupadi here. Let her sweep the chambers and live among our serving-women.” Vidura rebuked him, “Wretch, with such harsh words you are binding yourself with cords, and you do not see that you hang on the very edge of a precipice. In my judgment slavery does not touch Draupadi, for the king staked her after he had already lost himself and ceased to be his own master.” But Duryodhana, scorning Vidura, ordered the Pratikamin, a herald of the Suta caste, to fetch her.
The Pratikamin went and said to Draupadi, “Yudhishthira, drunk with the dice, has lost you at play. Come now, and I will set you to some menial work.” Draupadi said, “Why do you speak so, Pratikamin? What prince gambles with his wife as a stake? Go and ask that gamester in the assembly, whom did he lose first, himself or me? Settle that, and then come and take me.”
The herald returned and put it to Yudhishthira before all the kings. “Draupadi asks: whose lord were you when you lost me? Did you lose yourself first, or me?” Yudhishthira sat like a man out of his senses and gave the herald no answer, good or ill. Duryodhana said, “Let the princess of Panchala come here and put her question. Let everyone in this hall hear what passes between her and Yudhishthira.”
The herald went once more and said, “Princess, the assembly is summoning you. It seems the end of the Kauravas is near.” Draupadi said, “The ordainer of the world has arranged it so. Happiness and misery come alike to the wise and the unwise. Yet it has been said that dharma is the highest thing in the world. If it is guarded, it will bless us. Let the Kauravas not abandon dharma now. Go to those elders learned in dharma and carry them my words. Whatever they, keeping to dharma, direct me to do, that I am ready to do.”
The gist: Draupadi does not weep and plead. She sets a sharp question of dharma before the hall. By what right can a man who has already lost himself stake his wife? That single question puts the conscience of the whole assembly in the dock. The herald’s repeated journeys show that even the Suta messenger is trembling, while Duryodhana will not stop.
Dussasana drags her by the hair, and the disrobing before the full hall
Duryodhana, out of patience, said to Dussasana, “This herald, a Suta’s son, is afraid of Bhima. Go yourself and bring Yajnaseni here by force. Our enemies are now at our mercy. What can they do?” With eyes red as blood, Dussasana rose and went to the Pandavas’ quarters. “Come, princess of Panchala,” he said, “you have been won by us. Accept the Kurus now as your lords.” At these words Draupadi rose in great distress, rubbed her pale face with her hands, and ran toward the women of Dhritarashtra’s household.
Then Dussasana, roaring in fury, ran after her and seized the queen by her long, curling, blue-black hair, the very locks that had been sprinkled with water sanctified by mantras at the Rajasuya sacrifice. Scorning the might of the Pandavas, he dragged her toward the assembly as though she were helpless, though her powerful protectors sat close by. She trembled like a plantain in a storm. With her body bent low she cried faintly, “Wretch. It ill becomes you to take me to the assembly. My season is upon me, and I am clad in a single garment.”
But Dussasana, hauling her on by her dark hair while she called upon Krishna and Vishnu who were Narayana and Nara, said, “Whether your season has come or not, whether you are clad in one cloth or entirely bare, you have been won at dice and made our slave, and you shall live among our serving-women as you please.” With her hair loose and her garment half undone, dragged along, the chaste Draupadi burned with anger and said, “In this hall sit men versed in every branch of learning, men equal to Indra, some of whom are truly my elders and my teachers. I cannot stand before them in this state. Cruel one, do not drag me so, do not lay me bare so.”
She called out again. “The son of Dharma is bound now by the ties of dharma. Dharma is a subtle thing, and only those of the clearest sight can make it out. Even in speech I will not forget my lord’s virtues and admit an atom of fault in him. You have dragged me before these Kuru heroes while my season is on me, and this is a shameful act. Yet no one holds you back. Surely they are all of one mind with you. Alas, the virtue of the Bharatas is truly gone. Bhishma and Drona have lost their fire, and so have Kshatta and the king. How else could these best of the Kurus look on in silence at so great a crime?”
Draupadi threw one glance at her enraged lords, and that glance stirred them more than anything else had. The Pandavas were not so wounded by the loss of their kingdom, their wealth, and their costliest gems as they were by that look of hers, moved as it was by modesty and anger. Dussasana, dragging her harder still, called out “Slave, slave” and laughed aloud. Karna was delighted and joined the laughter, and Shakuni gave his approval. Save for these three and Duryodhana, every man in the hall was filled with grief.
Then Bhishma spoke. “Blessed one, dharma is subtle, and I cannot decide the point you have put. On the one hand, a man with no wealth of his own cannot stake the wealth of another. On the other, a wife is always under the authority of her lord. Yudhishthira would sooner give up the whole earth with all its riches than give up dharma, and he has said, ‘I am won.’ For that reason I cannot settle this matter.” Draupadi answered, “The king was summoned to this hall and made to play, without any skill of his own, against skilled and wicked and merciless gamblers. How then can it be said that he staked me of his free will? The Kurus present here are the masters of their sons and their daughters-in-law. Let them weigh my words and decide this question.”
Then Bhima broke out in wrath against Yudhishthira. “Even in a gambler’s house there are many low women, and out of pity he does not stake them. Our kingdom, ourselves, everything, I bore losing it, because you are our lord. But to stake Draupadi was a wrong past bearing. This blameless girl did not deserve such treatment. Sahadeva, bring fire. I will burn these hands of his.” Arjuna held him back. “Bhimasena, you have never spoken such words before. Do not do the enemy’s work for him. The king was summoned by the foe, and he played against his will, keeping to the usage of the Kshatriyas. That is our highest honor.”
Then Vikarna, a son of Dhritarashtra, waved his hand and said, “Kings, answer the question that Yajnaseni has asked. If we fail to judge a matter laid before us, all of us will go straight to hell. How is it that Bhishma and Dhritarashtra, the oldest of the Kurus, and the wise Vidura, say nothing? Our teacher the son of Bharadwaja is here, and Kripa. Why do these best of men not answer?” When he had appealed again and again and no one would speak, Vikarna spoke himself. “Hunting, drink, dice, and the pursuit of women are called the four vices of kings. A man caught in them lives with dharma cast aside. This son of Pandu, snared in the vice of dice and goaded on by cheating gamblers, staked Draupadi. And Draupadi is the shared wife of the Pandavas. And the king staked her only after he had first lost himself. Weighing all of this, I hold that Draupadi is not won.”
At his words a roar of approval rose in the hall, and men praised Vikarna and cursed the son of Suvala. But Karna, blind with anger, said, “Vikarna, you are a boy, and you speak in this assembly as though you were old. You do not know dharma. When Yudhishthira staked his all, Draupadi was part of that all, so how do you call her not won? The gods have ordained one husband for one woman, and this Draupadi has many husbands. She is therefore an unchaste woman, and to bring her into the assembly in a single cloth, or even to strip her bare, is no cause for wonder. Dussasana, take off the upper garments of the Pandavas and the robe of Draupadi.” At this the Pandavas took off their upper garments and sat down in the hall.
Then Dussasana, before the eyes of all, began to drag the garment forcibly from Draupadi’s body. In that moment, as the cloth was pulled, Draupadi called on Hari with her whole soul. “Govinda, dweller in Dwarka, Krishna, Keshava, do you not see how the Kauravas shame me? Lord of Lakshmi, Janardana, lift me who am drowning in this Kaurava ocean. Krishna, soul of the universe, maker of all things, save me in my sorrow, for I am losing my senses in the midst of the Kurus.” So the anguished woman, covering her face, cried aloud upon Hari, the lord of the three worlds.
Hearing Draupadi’s words, Krishna was moved to the depths. And while Yajnaseni was crying to Krishna, to Vishnu, to Hari, and to Nara for protection, Dharma, remaining unseen, covered her with fine cloth of many hues. As one garment was pulled off, another of the same kind appeared to cover her, and this went on until many garments had been seen. By the protection of Dharma, hundreds upon hundreds of robes of every color came off Draupadi’s body. Then a deep uproar arose. The kings in the hall, beholding that most extraordinary sight in all the world, praised Draupadi and cursed the son of Dhritarashtra.
Then Bhima, wringing his hands, his lips trembling with rage, swore a terrible oath among all those kings. “Hear these words of mine, you Kshatriyas of the earth, words that no man has spoken before and none will speak hereafter. If, having spoken them, I do not make them good, let me not reach the world of my ancestors. If in battle I do not tear open by main force the breast of this wicked scoundrel of the Bharata race and drink his blood, let me not reach the world of my ancestors.” At this every hair stood on end. And when a great heap of cloth had gathered in the hall, Dussasana, spent and ashamed, sat down.
A key to reading this: In the original text Krishna does not appear in the flesh during the disrobing. The text says that Dharma, remaining unseen (the principle of righteousness itself, which shields her without showing itself), covered Draupadi with cloth. Draupadi did indeed call upon Krishna, and the means of her rescue was that unseen Dharma. This fine distinction belongs to Vyasa’s telling, and it has been kept as it stands, without the swelling embellishments of the later popular versions.
Draupadi’s question of dharma, Vidura’s tale of Prahlada, and Karna’s cry of “slave”
Then Vidura silenced everyone and said, “You who sit in this assembly, Draupadi has put her question and weeps helpless, and you do not answer. By this dharma is being wronged. An afflicted person comes into an assembly of good men like one burning in a fire, and it is the duty of the assembly to quench that fire with truth and dharma. He who knows dharma and does not answer a question that is put to him takes on half the guilt of a lie, and he who knows and answers falsely takes on the whole sin of a lie.”
Then Vidura told the ancient story of Prahlada and the son of Angiras. The Daitya king Prahlada had a son, Virochana, who quarreled with Sudhanwan, the son of Angiras, over a bride, and the two staked their very lives on the outcome, each claiming to be the better man, and made Prahlada the judge between them. Sudhanwan warned that if Prahlada spoke falsely or refused to answer, the wielder of the thunderbolt would split his head into a hundred pieces. Trembling, Prahlada went to Kasyapa for counsel. Kasyapa told him that a man who knows the truth and will not speak it out of lust, anger, or fear casts a thousand nooses of Varuna upon himself, and a witness who speaks carelessly does the same; that one such noose is loosed with the passing of each year, so the man who knows must speak the truth; and that in an assembly where a blameworthy deed is not rebuked, half the guilt falls upon the head of the assembly, a fourth upon the doer, and a fourth upon the rest. Hearing this, Prahlada set aside his love for his son and spoke the truth, that Sudhanwan was the better man, and Sudhanwan, pleased by his devotion to truth, granted Virochana a hundred years of life. “So, men of this assembly, having heard these truths of dharma, reflect on what the answer to Draupadi’s question ought to be.”
Yet still the kings sat silent. Only Karna spoke, saying to Dussasana, “Take this serving-woman Krishna away to the inner apartments.” Then Dussasana once more began to drag the helpless Draupadi. Draupadi said, “Wait, worst of men. There is a duty I must perform that I have not yet performed. Dragged by this wretch’s strong arms, I had lost my senses. I salute these reverend elders of the Kuru assembly. That I could not do so before is no fault of mine.”
Dragged now with even greater force, Draupadi fell to the ground and lamented. “Alas, only once before, at my swayamvara, did the assembled kings look on me, and never once after. She whom the very wind and sun had never seen in her palace stands today before this crowd. She whom the Pandavas would not let even the wind touch in her own house is today seized and dragged by this wretch. Kauravas, I am the wedded wife of Yudhishthira the just, sprung from the same royal line as the king. Tell me now, am I a slave or am I not? Whatever your answer, I will accept it gladly.”
Bhishma answered again. “Blessed one, the path of dharma is subtle. What a strong man calls dharma, others accept as such, and what a weak man calls dharma, though it be the highest dharma, is scarcely allowed to be so. Because the matter is so deep and so fine, I cannot give you a certain answer. This much is certain, that all the Kurus have become slaves of greed and folly, and the destruction of this race is not far off. The family into which you have come as a daughter-in-law is one whose sons, however great their calamity, never turn from dharma. Your own conduct too, that even in distress you keep your eyes on dharma, is worthy of you. It seems to me that Yudhishthira is the authority on this question. Let him declare whether you are won or not.”
The gist: Draupadi’s question grows past her own honor into a question about the whole order of dharma. With the story of Prahlada, Vidura shows that silence too is a sin. Even so, a knower of dharma like Bhishma puts the decision off with the words “dharma is subtle,” and lays the blame on Yudhishthira. This is the moral difficulty of the Mahabharata, that even the wisest men fall silent at the decisive moment.
Duryodhana’s thigh, Bhima’s second oath, and the evil omens
Duryodhana said with a smile to Draupadi that the question turned on her husbands. If Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva would declare that Yudhishthira was not their lord, she would be free of her slavery. Then Bhima waved his hand and said, “If Dharmaraja, who is our eldest, were not our lord, we would never forgive the race of the Kurus. He is the lord of our dharma, of our austerities, of our very lives. If he holds himself won, then we too are won. Otherwise, what creature that walks the earth on his own feet could touch the locks of Panchali and escape from me alive?” Bhishma and Drona and Vidura held him back, “Peace, Bhima. With you all things are possible.”
Then Karna spoke cruelly to Draupadi. “Yajnaseni, a slave, a son, and a wife are forever dependent and own nothing of their own. You are the wife of a slave. Go now into the inner apartments of Dhritarashtra and serve the king’s kinfolk, for that is your work now. And, beautiful one, choose yourself another husband, one who will not stake you away at dice.” Hearing this, Bhima, bound fast by dharma and by his brother’s command, drew a heavy breath and said, “King, I cannot be angry at this Suta-son’s words, for we have truly fallen into slavery. But could our enemies have said such a thing to me if you had not staked this princess?”
Then Duryodhana, to insult Bhima and to spur Karna on, bared his left thigh before Draupadi’s very eyes, a thigh like the stem of a plantain or the trunk of an elephant. Seeing it, Bhima, his red eyes widening, spoke among all the kings as though piercing them with darts. “If I do not break that thigh of yours in the great battle to come, let Vrikodara not reach the world of his ancestors.” Sparks of wrath began to fly from every sense of Bhima’s body, like sparks from every crack of a blazing tree.
Just then a jackal howled loudly in the fire-chamber of Dhritarashtra’s palace, and in answer the asses began to bray, and terrible birds cried out on every side. Vidura and Gandhari understood the meaning of these evil omens. Bhishma, Drona, and Kripa cried “Swasti, swasti,” may all be well. Then Gandhari and Vidura, in great distress, told the king everything. Dhritarashtra said, “Evil-minded Duryodhana, wretch, when you insult Draupadi, the wedded wife of these bulls among the Kurus, in this fashion, your own destruction has already come upon you.”
The gist: Karna carries the humiliation to its peak, calling Draupadi “a slave’s wife” and telling her to choose another husband. Duryodhana bares his thigh in challenge, and Bhima answers with a second oath, to break that thigh. At exactly this moment the evil omens sound, and even the blind Dhritarashtra understands that destruction has arrived. Here the seeds of the coming war go into the ground.
Dhritarashtra’s boons, and the Pandavas’ brief release
Wishing to save his kin and his friends from destruction, Dhritarashtra consoled Draupadi and said, “Panchali, ask any boon you desire. You are the first of all my daughters-in-law, chaste and devoted to dharma.” Draupadi said, “Best of the Bharatas, if you grant me a boon, I ask that the noble Yudhishthira be freed from slavery, so that no thoughtless child may ever call my son Prativindhya the son of a slave.” Dhritarashtra said, “So be it. Ask another.” Draupadi said, “I ask that Bhimasena, Dhananjaya, and the twins, with their cars and their bows, be freed from bondage and made their own men again.”
Dhritarashtra said, “So be it. Ask a third boon, for you deserve more than two.” But Draupadi said, “King of kings, greed always brings the loss of dharma. I do not deserve a third boon, and so I will not ask it. It has been said that a Vaisya may ask one boon, a Kshatriya lady two, a Kshatriya man three, and a Brahmana a hundred. These husbands of mine, freed from their wretched slavery, will win prosperity again by their own righteous deeds.” Then Karna said, “We have never heard of such a deed done by any woman famed for her beauty. This princess of Panchala became a boat to the sinking Pandavas and carried them across the ocean of their distress to the shore.” Hearing this, Bhima said in pain that a son born of a humiliated wife could be of little use to them, but Arjuna calmed him.
Then Yudhishthira folded his hands and said to Dhritarashtra, “King, you are our lord. Command us what we are to do.” Dhritarashtra said, “Ajatasatru, go in peace and safety. By my command, rule your own kingdom with all your wealth. And take to heart, my child, this counsel of an old man. Where there is intelligence, there is forbearance. The best of men do not dwell on the wrongs their enemies do them, but look only to their virtues. Do not remember Duryodhana’s harsh words. Look at your mother Gandhari and at me, your old and blind father. I allowed this match to go forward as a matter of policy, to see our friends and to test the strength and the weakness of my sons. Return to Khandavaprastha, keep brotherly love with your cousins, and let your heart rest always on dharma.”
Then Yudhishthira, with his brothers, on cloud-colored cars and with Draupadi beside them, set out with glad hearts for Indraprastha.
The gist: With the two boons Dhritarashtra grants, Draupadi frees her husbands and herself from slavery, and refuses the third boon as greed, which is her sense of dharma. Even Karna admits that Draupadi became the boat for the drowning Pandavas. This release lasts only a moment. For all of Dhritarashtra’s lesson in forgiveness, Duryodhana is already plotting his next move in secret.
The second game: a single stake of exile
When he heard that the Pandavas had gone, Dussasana came grieving to Duryodhana. “What we won with so much labor, the old man has handed back to our enemies.” Then Duryodhana, Karna, and Shakuni went to Dhritarashtra and quoted the words of Brihaspati, that enemies who do harm by cunning or by force should be slain by every means. Duryodhana said, “Even now Arjuna moves in his armor with the Gandiva and his two quivers, and Bhima comes whirling his mace. Who will forgive this humiliation? Who will forget the insult to Draupadi? Let us gamble with the Pandavas once more, this time on a single stake. The loser shall live twelve years in the forest and pass the thirteenth in some inhabited place, unrecognized. If he is recognized in that year, another twelve years of exile shall follow. In the meantime we will sink our roots into the kingdom, make alliances, and raise an army none can defeat.”
Dhritarashtra said, “Then bring the Pandavas back, however far they have gone. Let them come again and cast the dice.” Drona, Somadatta, Bahlika, Kripa, Vidura, Ashvatthama, Bhurisravas, Bhishma, and Vikarna all said, “Let there be no play. Let there be peace.” But Dhritarashtra, partial to his sons, brushed aside the counsel of all his wise friends and sent for the Pandavas. Then Gandhari too lamented, reminding him that at Duryodhana’s birth Vidura had said this destroyer of the race should be cast out. Dhritarashtra answered, “If the destruction of the race has come, let it come. I am not able to prevent it. Let the Pandavas return, and let my sons play again.”
The messenger reached Yudhishthira far along the road and gave him the summons. Yudhishthira said, “Creatures reap good fruit and ill by the ordinance of the Ordainer, whether I play or not. This is a call to the dice, and it is the command of the old king as well. Though I know it will be ruinous to me, I cannot refuse.” As Rama was tempted by the golden deer that could not truly exist, so the minds of men bowed under calamity grow deranged. Knowing well the fraud of Shakuni, Yudhishthira turned back and once more sat down at the board.
Shakuni said, “The old king has given you back all your wealth. That is well. But now there is one great stake. The loser shall live twelve years in the forest, pass the thirteenth unrecognized in some inhabited place, and, if recognized, go into exile another twelve years. At the end of the thirteenth year each shall return the other’s kingdom.” The men of the hall raised their arms and cried, “Alas, that Duryodhana’s friends do not warn him of this great danger.” But Yudhishthira, out of shame and out of a sense of dharma, took up the dice again and said, “How can a king like me, faithful to the usage of his order, refuse the dice when summoned? So I play.” Shakuni took up the dice and said, “Lo, I have won!”
The gist: The first game was undone by mercy, and at once the trio of Duryodhana, Karna, and Shakuni sets up a second, this time on a single stake of exile. Everyone from Drona to Bhishma tries to stop it, and Dhritarashtra bends again out of love for his son. Yudhishthira, though he knows Shakuni’s fraud, comes back because of his vow, and in one throw loses thirteen years to the forest.
Bark garments, four oaths, and the departure for the forest
The defeated Pandavas cast off their royal robes and put on deerskins. Dussasana taunted them. “The sovereignty of the illustrious Duryodhana has now begun over the whole earth. The sons of Pandu are left like sesame grains without the kernel. Yajnaseni, what joy will you find in these bark-clad, fallen husbands of yours? Choose one of the Kurus present here as your lord instead.” Hearing this, Bhima sprang at him like a lion and said, “Base wretch. As you pierce our hearts with these arrows of yours, so will I pierce your heart in battle.” Still Dussasana, past all shame, danced among the Kurus, taunting Bhima with the cry of “cow, cow.” And Bhima repeated his vow, that unless Vrikodara tore open Dussasana’s breast in the field and drank his blood, let him never reach the world of the blessed.
As the Pandavas were leaving the hall, Duryodhana in his joy began to walk in mimicry of Bhima’s rolling, leonine stride. Bhima half-turned and said, “Fool, do not imagine you win any mastery over me by this. Soon I will kill you and all your followers.” Then, going out of the Kaurava court, he made his declaration. “I will kill Duryodhana, and Dhananjaya will kill Karna, and Sahadeva will kill Shakuni, that gambler at dice. I will strike Duryodhana down with my mace, throw him to the ground, and set my foot upon his head. And the blood of this wicked Dussasana I will drink like a lion.”
Arjuna said, “Bhima, the resolves of superior men are not known by their words alone. On the fourteenth year from this day, they will see what comes to pass.” Bhima said again, “The earth will drink the blood of Duryodhana, of Karna, of the wicked Shakuni, and of Dussasana who makes the fourth.” Then Arjuna took his own vow. “Bhima, as you have said, I will kill in battle this jealous, harsh-tongued, and vain Karna with all his followers, with my arrows. The Himalaya may be moved from its place, the maker of the day may lose his brightness, the moon its coolness, but this vow of mine will be kept forever, if on the fourteenth year Duryodhana does not return our kingdom.”
Then Sahadeva, the handsome son of Madri, waving his mighty arms and hissing like a serpent, his eyes red with anger, said to Shakuni, “Disgrace of the kings of Gandhara, those you think defeated are not truly defeated. I will surely kill you and all your followers in battle. If you have anything to do, do it before that day comes.” Then Nakula, the handsomest of men, spoke. “I will send to the abode of Yama all those wicked sons of Dhritarashtra who spoke harsh and insulting words to this daughter of Yajnasena at the gambling match. Soon, at Yudhishthira’s command, and remembering the wrongs done to Draupadi, I will rid the earth of the sons of Dhritarashtra.”
Then Yudhishthira took his leave of all the Bharatas, of Bhishma, of king Somadatta, of the great Bahlika, of Drona, Kripa, Ashvatthama, Vidura, Dhritarashtra, and all the Kauravas. “I bid you all farewell, and on my return I will see you again.” Overcome with shame, none of them could say a word to him, and in their hearts they prayed for his welfare. Vidura said, “The reverend Pritha is a princess by birth. It is not fitting that she should go to the forest. She will live, respected, in my house.” The Pandavas agreed and asked Vidura for his guidance.
Vidura said, “Yudhishthira, know that a man defeated by unfair means need not grieve for such a defeat. You know every rule of dharma. Dhananjaya is ever victorious in battle, Bhimasena is a slayer of foes, Nakula is a gatherer of wealth, Sahadeva has the gift of governance, Dhaumya is foremost among those learned in the Vedas, and the well-mannered Draupadi is versed in dharma and in economy. You are attached to one another, you delight in one another’s company, and no enemy can divide you. This patient withdrawal from the world will be of great benefit to you, and no foe, even one equal to Indra himself, will be able to stand against it. Win the victory that belongs to Indra, the control of wrath that belongs to Yama, the charity that belongs to Kuvera, and the mastery of the passions that belongs to Varuna. Take gladness from the moon, sustenance from the water, forbearance from the earth, energy from the disc of the sun, strength from the wind, and abundance from the other elements. May welfare and health be yours. I hope to see you return.” Yudhishthira said, “So be it,” bowed low to Bhishma and Drona, and went his way.
When Draupadi was ready to set out, she took her leave of Kunti and of the women of the household. Then a loud wail of grief rose in the inner apartments of the Pandavas. In a voice choked with tears, Kunti said to Draupadi, “Child, do not grieve at this great calamity. You are pure in character and in conduct. Guarded by dharma, which is higher than all else, you will soon find good fortune. In the forest keep your eye on my son Sahadeva, and see that his heart does not sink under this trouble.” Saying “So be it,” Draupadi, bathed in tears, wrapped in a single bloodstained garment, her hair loose about her, left her mother-in-law weeping and wailing, and Pritha followed her in grief.
Kunti beheld her sons stripped of their ornaments and robes, clad in deerskins, their heads bowed with shame, and she gathered them to her breast and lamented. “You are all virtuous and gentle, devoted to the gods and to the sacrifices. Why then has this calamity fallen on you? Surely it is my own ill fortune that has done this. Krishna, why do you leave me so? Krishna who dwell in Dwarka, where are you? Why do you not lift me and these best of men out of this grief? Sahadeva, do not go, for you are dearer to me than my own body.” The Pandavas consoled their weeping mother and, with hearts torn by grief, set out for the forest. And Vidura himself, deeply pained, comforting the sorrowing Kunti with wise words, led her slowly to his own house.
The gist: After the defeat the five Pandavas and Draupadi put on bark and deerskin and set out for the forest, and as they go four oaths are sworn that will become the seed of Kurukshetra: Bhima’s twin vow over Duryodhana’s thigh and Dussasana’s blood, Arjuna’s vow to kill Karna, Sahadeva’s to kill Shakuni, and Nakula’s to destroy the sons of Dhritarashtra. Vidura’s counsel of patience and Kunti’s lament fill this parva with human sorrow. A single crooked game has set the house of Bharata on a road from which there is no more turning back.
Source: the Mahabharata (Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa), Sabha Parva; in the Gita Press Gorakhpur tradition.
Based on: the Mahabharata, Vedavyasa (Gita Press, Gorakhpur)