Duryodhana, determined to inflame the mind of his blind father, began to pour his words like poison into an open wound. The spoke of the Rajasuya sacrifice, whose concluding rite—the sacred Avabhrutha ablution—had drawn the foremost of seers: the venerable Dhaumya, the mighty Vyasa, the divine Narada, Brahmarshis and Rajarshis, all chanting hymns that filled the air with a splendour like the music of the heavens. Yudhishthira, radiant as Indra enthroned among the guardians of the quarters, shone in that celestial light. The waters of all holy rivers had anointed him, and he stood like Brahma at the dawn of creation. Satyaki, chief of the Yadava clans and commander of the Narayani hosts, held aloft a pearl-white umbrella above his head; Bheema and Arjuna waved fly-whisks whose golden handles, studded with diamonds, gleamed like captured lightning. Krishna himself, with Dhrishtadyumna the son of Drupada, guided kings to bow before the son of Dharma.
The grandeur of the scene struck Duryodhana like a blow. His pride turned pale; his heart shrank. He saw Krishna, the Pandavas, Draupadi, and Satyaki laughing together, their mirth glancing toward him and his brothers, and he felt himself mocked. Yudhishthira, meanwhile, chose eight thousand Brahmins as living jewels of Vedic learning, built dwellings for their families, and assigned to each household thirty attendants to serve their needs. Ten thousand scholars he invited to sit at his side and showered upon them gold, jewels, and a feast of boundless plenty. Blessings poured upon him like rain from a cloud of merit.
Duryodhana could not bend his heart to rejoice in the glory of his kinsmen. The triumph of Yudhishthira burned him like a hidden flame. Cloaking his jealousy in cunning words, he whispered to his father a tale in which truth itself became a weapon. For indeed all that he described was real—the celebration had been grand, the blessings abundant, the people’s joy unfeigned. Yet he twisted the meaning, painting Yudhishthira’s merit as personal arrogance and the Pandavas’ fortune as an insult to the house of Kuru. When the mind is adrift upon the waves of selfishness, every shadow seems an enemy, and even truth becomes a blade. From such darkness the weapon of evil is born—a weapon blind and merciless, devouring without distinction.
Sakuni, the prince of deceit, perceived the swelling storm and soothed Duryodhana with words like venom wrapped in honey. He lifted the veil upon a coming ruin of life and order—of wealth, of nature, of law, of royal honour—and whispered: “O Duryodhana, the world shall praise you. I will wrest from the Pandavas all their riches by the art of dice. Yudhishthira is drawn to the game, and none can rival my mastery. Leave your grief; I shall win all and lay it at your feet.”
Thus did Suyodhana—so men named him, for his unyielding spirit in right or wrong—bow before his father and plead for consent. Dhritarashtra, torn between duty and affection, sought the counsel of Vidura, wise in the laws of Brihaspati, balanced in judgment and faithful to the welfare of both Kauravas and Pandavas. But Duryodhana, knowing Vidura’s heart inclined toward righteousness, feared his opposition. With shameless threat he said, “If you will not agree, Father, I shall cast myself into fire. Rule your realm pleasing Vidura if you will; I will not live to see it.”
Alas, when a mean-spirited son wields such blackmail, the parent’s heart often bends, and the floodgates of destruction are opened. Like a forest fire that devours all in its path, the blind king’s love overcame his reason. Though he dreaded the dice game and the ruin it might bring, the sorrowful voice of his son prevailed.
Dhritarashtra commanded a thousand architects and sculptors to raise a hall of a thousand pillars, adorned with gold and silver, encrusted with gems, and filled with secret doors and magical passages. Yet his mind wavered. When alone, he confided to Vidura the counsel of Sakuni and the desire of Duryodhana. Vidura, perceiving in this the first dark breath of Kali Yuga, spoke with stern clarity: “This plan I cannot approve. Why sow discord between your sons and the sons of Pandu? Let them remain united. Gambling provokes even the peaceful and breeds enmity where love should dwell. As king, act for the good of all. Root out this evil thought before it bears fruit.”
The blunt wisdom of Vidura struck the king like a thunderclap. His heart swung between the threat of his son and the weight of royal duty. From that inner conflict—between the weakness of a father and the burden of a king—arose the choice that would shape the fate of the world.
