The hour of ruin stood close at hand, for the momentary frailty of a mind usually steadfast and luminous was to unbar the gates of devastation. Dharmaja, scion of righteousness, a ruler gentle and just, whose humility matched his virtues, found himself upon the very path where fate’s unerring device makes a man’s own judgement the measure of both fortune and fall. The universe, in its stern wisdom, had chosen the harsh road: to sweep away the burden of sin it would tempt mortals with fleeting wealth and the brittle ties of human affection.
With his brothers, with Draupadī, with the sage Dhoumya and other learned men, Dharmaja journeyed to Hastinapura. There, Duryodhana and Dushasana, the sons of Dhritarashtra, stood with Bhishma, Shalya, Śakuni, Saindhava, Karna, Kripa, Drona, Aswatthama and Somadatta, while the blind king himself presided. Dharmaja, ever reverent, bowed low before the elders, greeting Gandhari, Bhanumati and the noble ladies of the Kuru house. Draupadī too touched Gandhari’s feet; the daughters-in-law of that ancient line gazed on her with startled wonder. Such unearthly beauty seemed to them the very gathering of all graces into a single form; envy stirred, and in their hearts, they whispered that Brahmā himself must have poured the treasures of charm into the shape of Draupadī.
That day the sons of Pandu and the sons of Dhritarashtra mingled in affectionate courtesy. But when dawn broke anew, Duryodhana led his guests to the newly raised hall of marvels—the Sabha of wonder. Dharmaja, the valiant Bhima, the peerless archer Arjuna, the gallant Nakula and the bold Sahadeva moved through its shining spaces, their eyes roaming over sculptured pillars and polished terraces, praising the splendour of its art. Yet, mindful of the burning house of lac in days gone by, the Pandavas searched every corner with a warrior’s caution, suspecting the unseen. They knew not that in the very heart of that jewel-studded hall, where gems flashed on carvings and the air itself seemed steeped in ease, a subtler snare lay hidden.
With smiles smooth as silk, the wily prince approached. “O noble Dharmaja,” said Duryodhana, “let us delight ourselves with a friendly game of dice. I have heard of your skill; men speak with admiration of your dexterity and your pleasure in the play.”
The son of Dharma answered with gentle firmness, recalling the kingly code: “Deception and gambling are forbidden to rulers. For him who abides in virtue, the throw of dice is a sin beyond forgiveness; the gambler’s path leads only to the loss of wealth and honour.” He knew well the crooked counsel of Śakuni, whose mind was ever steeped in guile, and he read the prince’s invitation as the mask of some darker plan.
Śakuni, sly master of intrigue, now set forth his argument in honeyed tones. “Great Yudhishthira,” he said, “you are renowned in wisdom and in the regal codes of dharma; such a one should not slight the noble game. To win by rightful skill is as glorious as victory in battle.” The words, though cloaked in praise, were edged with subtle provocation. He spoke further, more boldly: “The weak may resort to stratagem when they strive with the strong; in victory alone lies the law of the world. If you decline, will it not seem that you fear defeat and hide behind excuses?”
Thus, the net was cast. Honour and the ancient rule of kingship, which forbids retreat once a challenge is flung, closed round Dharmaja like iron. “We cannot draw back,” he said at last. “It is not fear that restrains us; we are neither timid nor unwilling. We will play.”
So was the pious son of Dharma drawn, step by step, into the labyrinth of deceit—while Śakuni, shameless and triumphant, prepared to turn the very codes of dharma into weapons for his treacherous game.
