17.
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.”
Seeing the page
quaking with dread, this time Duryodhana
sent Duhshasana, his closest brother,
bloodthirsty and coarse, to fetch Draupadi.
“Come, my fine girl, you’ve been lost at dice
and are nothing but a slave. We own you now.
You’ll have to learn to love the Kauravas
and show us how you’ve made our cousins happy!
I’m here to fetch you, you’ve no choice. Be quick.”
She tried to run, hoping to find protection
in the women’s quarters. Duhshasana
followed, grabbed her, pushed her, dragging her
by the hair toward the assembly hall.
She whispered that it was her time of the month
when she should not be seen, when she was wearing
a single garment, but he laughed lewdly.
“Let everybody see you have your period—
wear what you like, or come to us stark naked.
Slave! You can’t be so particular.
Call on the gods until your voice is hoarse—
‘Nara, Narayana . . .’ They won’t rescue you!”
Soon she was flung in front of the assembly,
her long hair loose, her garment torn, disheveled
and stained with blood. Every decent man
lowered his eyes in shame, but none of them—
not the elders, and not her five husbands—
uttered a word of protest. They were silenced,
for to speak out would have been disrespectful
to Dhritarashtra; and some of those present
feared falling out with Duryodhana.
Draupadi stood upright in their midst,
glowing with anger. She glanced scornfully
at her husbands, and that one glance hurt them
more than the loss of everything they owned.
She addressed Duhshasana, “It is an outrage
for you to drag me here—a virtuous woman—
to a hall of men! I see before me
many elders well versed in propriety
and in dharma—yet not one of them
raises his voice at this disgraceful insult.
Do they lack courage? Or do they condone
your vile behavior? A curse on you!
My husbands will not pardon this offense!”
“Slave! Slave!” jeered Duhshasana, rubbing his hands.
Karna laughed, thinking of how Draupadi
had scorned him at her bridal tournament,
and Shakuni and Duryodhana cheered.
But everybody else was choked with shame
and sorrow, and stayed dumb.
Draupadi spoke.
“My noble husband is the son of Dharma
and follows dharma. Let no word of mine
be heard as blaming him in any way.
I wish to hear an answer to my question.”
Bhishma said, “Dharma is a subtle matter.
The answer to your question is not obvious.
One without property has nothing to stake
but, on the other hand, it is accepted
that wives are the chattels of their husbands.
Shakuni is an unsurpassed dice-player;
your husband played him of his own free will.
He himself has not accused Shakuni
of cheating.”
Draupadi replied at once,
“Great-spirited Yudhishthira was summoned
to this hall and, having no real choice,
was challenged to a shoddy gambling match
despite the fact that, as is widely known,
he has no skill at dice. Then his opponent,
Shakuni, took vile advantage of him—
how then could he be said to have lost?
My lord was caught up in low exploitation—
only possible because he cleaves
to principle. As I understand it,
when he put me up as his last stake
he had already gambled himself away
into slavery—is that not so?”
Draupadi again looked to Bhishma,
master of every nuance of the law,
for a clear reply. No answer came.
Seeing Draupadi weeping piteously,
Bhima, unable to contain himself,
leapt to his feet, his eyes blood-red with rage,
and shouted wildly at Yudhishthira,
“I never heard of a gambler who staked
even the life of a common prostitute,
let alone that of his wife! Oh! Shame on you!”
He made as if he would attack his brother,
but Arjuna restrained him. “Wolf-belly!
Never have you uttered such an insult
to our brother. In playing against his will
when invited by a respected elder,
he acted as a kshatriya should act.
You, though, by this rash outburst, are falling
away from the highest dharma; you’re matching
our enemies’ dishonor and wickedness.”
Then Vikarna, one of the younger sons
of Dhritarashtra, addressed the assembled elders,
urging those present to express a view.
There was silence, so he spoke himself.
“It’s deeply shameful for her to be dragged here.
Yudhishthira was under the influence
of an addiction; he had lost control
of his own actions, so should not be seen
as properly responsible. Furthermore,
it was not his own idea, but Shakuni’s
to stake his wife—this despite the fact
that Yudhishthira is not her sole husband.
In any case, it’s clear that the Pandava
could not lose his wife if he had lost himself,
since slaves can have no right to property.
Draupadi is no slave—it stands to reason.”
There were sounds of approbation in the hall.
Karna answered him contemptuously,
“You notice none of the elders speaks for her;
only you, you green, impulsive youth,
are swayed by sentiment. The fact remains,
we clearly heard Yudhishthira stake all,
all his possessions. That includes Draupadi.
As for her being brought into this hall
scantily dressed—if that’s what’s upsetting you—
that is not an act of impropriety.
Even to strip her naked would be no sin
since she has joined herself to five husbands,
flouting every law of decency,
and therefore is undoubtedly a whore
in the eyes of gods and men. Duhshasana—
make the Pandavas take off their clothes,
and strip this woman.”
At this, the Pandavas
removed their upper garments and flung them down.
Duhshasana then grabbed at the loose end
of Draupadi’s robe, and began to pull . . .
. . . Draupadi
closed her eyes in silent concentration.
Duhshasana brayed with triumphant laughter
as he twirled her round, unraveling
yard upon yard of cloth which pooled and pooled
on the marble floor, more and more of it.
His gleeful smile began to fade, as minutes
passed and more minutes, and the garment
covered her as securely as before,
though a stream of silk, a multicolored river,
shimmered and snaked around the assembly hall.
Everyone cried out in utter wonder,
and glowered at the sons of Dhritarashtra.
Duhshasana gave up, tired and angry.
Bull-like Bhima roared, his voice like thunder,
“As the gods are my witnesses, I vow
that, before I enter the halls of Death,
I will tear open this man’s wicked breast
and drink his blood, as a lion savages
a helpless deer, its eyes pleading in vain.
If I do not, then let me never reach
the pure and blessed realm of my ancestors!”
All who heard him shivered. The tide of feeling
was now increasingly behind the Pandavas,
and against the weak-willed Dhritarashtra
who was sitting, mute, stroking his chin.
Vidura addressed the gathering:
“Learned men, it is not right that Draupadi
stands here, with no answer to her question.
I urge you to speak.” But there was silence.
“Take this slave girl away,” ordered Karna.
But as Duhshasana was dragging her,
Draupadi cried, “Stop! I have a duty
which I neglected to perform before
through no fault of mine—to greet the elders
in this assembly in the proper fashion.
My lords, I do not deserve this treatment—
to be forced to stand before this court in shame
by you, members of the honored family
that is now mine. Since my svayamvara,
I have never been paraded in this way
for men to scrutinize. Lords of the earth,
where is honor in this hall? Where is dharma?
Time must be out of joint when such outrages
can be enacted unprovoked, unchallenged.
I am the wife of great Yudhishthira,
equal to him in rank. I am the daughter
of King Drupada, and the friend of Krishna.
I ask again for an answer to my question—
am I won, or not? Am I a lowly slave,
or am I a queen in a distinguished line?
You surely know the law. I will accept
whatever you decide.”
Bhishma answered,
“As I’ve already said, the law is subtle,
so obscure that even Drona slumps
with his head bowed. But this much is certain—
you are blameless. What has been done today
will bring disaster on the Bharatas.”
Duryodhana spoke: ‘This doom-mongering
is so much old man’s talk. Stick to the point.
Draupadi, the answer to your question
lies with your husbands—the four younger ones.
If they disown Yudhishthira and declare
that he is not your lord, then you go free.”
Duryodhana’s cronies applauded him,
while others shed tears at the Pandavas’
cruel predicament. But strong-armed Bhima,
quite clear on this, said, “Do you really think
that if high-souled and just Yudhishthira
were not our unquestioned lord, your ugly head
would still be sitting on your shoulders? Only
because I bow to his authority,
and because Arjuna tightly holds me back,
do I sit quiet, rather than littering
the floor of this assembly with the corpses
of you and your friends, killed with my bare hands!”
“Dark-skinned Draupadi,” said Karna, “notice—
no one here is speaking up to say
you have not been won. In fact Yudhishthira
had lost you when he lost himself. Accept it,
you are a slave’s wife—or, rather, former wife,
since slaves own nothing.
Go now to the quarters
of the king’s relatives; the Kauravas,
and not Kunti’s sons, are your masters now.
Choose another husband, one who will not
gamble you away—or shall we share you?
In slaves, a willing, sensual disposition
is always welcome. Show us what you can do.”
Duryodhana laughed, and bared his hairy thigh
obscenely to the weeping Draupadi.
At this, Bhima’s eyes blazed scarlet, “I swear
the day will come when I will break that thigh
in a great battle, and you will plummet then
into the deepest, darkest pit of Death!”
Duryodhana turned again to the Pandavas:
“Come, reply. I’ll abide by your decision.”
Arjuna said, “Our brother was our master
when he staked us. But when Yudhishthira
had lost himself, then whose master was he?
No one’s master—not even Draupadi’s.
It follows, then, he had no right to stake her.”
He turned to the assembly, “Now acknowledge
that the blameless Draupadi retains
her freedom, and her status, as before.”
Many agreed with Arjuna’s solution.
Just then, a jackal began to howl loudly
somewhere in the palace; asses squealed,
and frightful birds croaked. King Dhritarashtra
found the courage to address his son:
“Duryodhana, you have gone too far.
This blameless princess of the Panchalas
has endured the most grievous insults.
Virtuous Draupadi, ask me for a boon
and you shall have it.”
“My lord,” said Draupadi,
“free the dutiful Yudhishthira
from servitude, so that his son and mine
can never be taunted with the name of slave.”
“Let it be so,” conceded Dhritarashtra.
“And now let me grant you a second boon.”
“Then, my lord, let my other husbands go,
together with their weapons and chariots.”
“It shall be as you say,” said Dhritrashtra,
“Now, ask again.”
“My lord,” said Draupadi,
“greed is a threat to virtue. These two boons
are enough for me. My noble husbands
will make their own way, through their own good acts.”
“This is remarkable,” said haughty Karna.
“In Draupadi, the Pandavas have a boat
ferrying them across to their salvation.”
Bhima now leapt to his feet, on fire
to unleash on the Kauravas the fury
he had suppressed before. But Yudhishthira
forbade it and, approaching Dhritarashtra,
affirmed his loyalty. “Go now in peace,”
said the king, “and bear no grudge against us.
Look with indulgence on your old, blind uncle.
All you lost, I hereby return to you.”
With that, the Pandavas, somber and relieved,
mounted their splendid chariots, and left,
setting out on the road to Indraprastha.