16.
As they traveled, Duryodhana kept
a baleful silence, sighing frequently
and growling to himself. “Best of Kauravas,
why are you sighing?” asked Shakuni at last.
Pale and haggard, Duryodhana groaned,
“Oh, uncle, I keep seeing that great hall,
my cousin’s treasury, bursting with wealth.
And all five brothers rich in the attentions
of radiantly lovely Draupadi—
more beautiful than any other woman.
And that sacrifice, fit for the immortals!
I burn with jealousy—I’m like a river
scorched dry by summer sun. And Shishupala!
What Krishna did was unforgivable
and no one had the courage to object—
those craven kings, cowed by the Pandavas,
only bit their lips and kept their seats.
“Thinking of Yudhishthira ensconced
as emperor of the earth, the sons of Pandu
wallowing in wealth, is agony.
I cannot bear to live! I shall take poison,
or drown myself, or set myself on fire!”
And Duryodhana sank to the chariot floor
in dark despair.
“Come now,” said Shakuni,
“the sons of Kunti deserve prosperity;
the wealth their father left to them has been
increased through their own energy and skill.
And they enjoy good fortune—think of the times
you tried to finish them, yet they survived.
The gods are on their side—jealousy’s useless.
Accept things as they are.”
“Impossible!”
cried Duryodhana. “What man worth the name
who sees his enemies enjoy such splendor,
holding imperial sway over half the world—
what man, knowing that such huge success
is beyond his reach, would not despair?
Seeing that success, remembering
how I tried to erase them from the earth,
I know that effort’s fruitless. Fate is supreme.”
As soon as he arrived in Hastinapura,
Duryodhana rushed to his apartments.
His silks, brocades, the jeweled necklaces,
chests designed by the most gifted craftsmen
inlaid with ivory and precious stones
seemed insufficient now. If they could not be
more splendid than the riches of the Pandavas,
more voluptuous, colored more vibrantly,
then everything he owned was worse than worthless.
Was there some detail of his cousin’s court,
anything in the chambers, cloisters, galleries
he could despise? Some detail cheaply made?
Some carelessness? Some error of proportion?
There was nothing. Everything possessed
by the Pandavas seemed to him perfection.
They owned the world—all that was of value,
all joy, all goodness. What he had was nothing.
He thought of the fire trap he had laid for them
at Varanavata—how had they escaped?
And then, when the kingdom was divided,
and they consigned to a wilderness of thorns,
had he not crushed them? No—they had sprung up
stronger, converted setback into triumph,
his triumph into sharp humiliation.
He ground his teeth to think how gleefully
they must be gloating. He writhed, remembering
how everyone had laughed—Bhima, Draupadi
and her women, speechless with amusement,
his cousins’ servants doubled up with laughter—
when he fell into the pool he thought was fake,
and teetered round the crystal marquetry
he’d taken for a pool of lotuses.
Shakuni sought him out, and was dismayed
to see his nephew red-eyed, pale, as if
some parasite was gnawing him within.
“Uncle,” he whispered, “I am sick with sorrow.
I think of nothing but the Pandavas
and how they block my path to happiness.
Until they’re crushed, I have only death in life.
The whole world has flocked to honor them;
I am alone, with no one to support me.”
His uncle tried to comfort him. “My dear,
your position is not so terrible.
You say you are alone, bereft of allies,
but you forget your brothers and your friends—
I myself, with all my kin, Drona,
Ashvatthaman, Karna . . . I could go on.”
“You are right!” exclaimed Duryodhana.
“All these men are powerful warriors.
Together we can march on Indraprastha
and defeat my cousins. Then I myself
shall become the emperor of the earth
and possess that great assembly hall!”
“War would be foolishness,” said Shakuni.
“You’ve seen their countless legions. And not only
do they have numerous and powerful allies,
but Krishna is on their side. Even the gods
would hesitate to fight the Pandavas.
But in any case, don’t let them trouble you.
They’ve laid no claim to your half of the kingdom.
Why not forget them? Just enjoy your life.”
“They won’t let me do that. My bitter hatred
pierces and chokes me every waking minute.
Night and day, I hear them laughing at me.
My one goal is to send them to their deaths.
I’d rather die fighting than live like this,
skulking like a pauper, while they flourish.”
“Nephew, I understand,” said Shakuni.
“There is a way for you to have revenge,
but cleverness and guile are the best tactic,
not unsubtle force. Let Dhritarashtra
invite Yudhishthira to the traditional
game of dice. I’ll play on your behalf.
No worse gambler exists than Yudhishthira—
he’s far too honest, transparent as a child—
yet he loves to play. I, on the other hand,
have never lost a game—my skill at dice
is widely known. I promise I will win
his wealth from him.”
A widening chink of hope
lit up the dark heart of Duryodhana.
He saw the possibility of stripping
the Pandavas of everything they owned,
grinding their faces in the dirt. But first
his father must be talked to and persuaded;
the invitation must come from the king.
“How did that fateful dice game come about?”
asked King Janamejaya. “That dicing match
was the root cause of dreadful tragedy.
How was it allowed to happen? Tell me
in detail.”
Vaishampayana proceeded
to describe the events as they unfolded.
When Dhritarashtra learned of the proposal
from Shakuni, he was, as usual, doubtful,
but also wracked with sorrow for his son
whose voice he could hear cracking with distress;
whose trembling and emaciated body
he felt under his hands when he embraced him.
He hesitated.
“Oh! What kind of father,”
cried Duryodhana, “won’t agree at once
to do something so simple for his son.
I’m burning, Father, tortured by desire.
Envy twists my entrails—the Pandavas
have made us look like beggarly provincials.
I’ve seen their heaven-made city, Indraprastha,
I’ve seen their treasuries, engorged with gold
exceeding every dream—tribute from Sind,
from Kashmir, from Kalinga, sumptuous gifts
from far-flung countries—China, Scythia . . .
the jewels, the splendid horses—I can’t bear it.
And the consecration—beyond imagining!
The greatest kings, the fiercest and most valiant,
who adhere most strictly to sacred vows,
who are learned in the Vedas, who practice
all the correct sacrifices—all these,
like merchants queuing up to pay their taxes,
made their obeisance to Yudhishthira.
The most holy rishis were in attendance,
uttering mantras, praying to the gods
for blessings on Yudhishthira. And then
there was the silk parasol, the peacock fan,
there was the great conch of Varuna,
fashioned in the workshops of the gods,
which Krishna used to scoop up sacred water
and anoint Yudhishthira, to seal the rites.
At that sight, I fainted.
“Father, Yudhishthira
has had himself raised up to the position
of the legendary Harishchandra.
Seeing this, I have no will to live.”
Shakuni spoke up. “Illustrious king,
I urge you to accept this plan of mine.
It is a way to take wealth from the Pandavas
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,
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.”