Though well aware that gambling is a heinous act fraught with dreadful consequences, Dharmaja, as if compelled by an unseen power, agreed to play. The game unfolded in a realm bereft of rules or restraint. The hall of dice was adorned with mango groves, perfumed with sandalwood, and the dice themselves were consecrated with flowers, turmeric, and sacred rice.
Sakuni, Vivimsathi, Chitrasena, and Vikarna sat prepared. “Out of you all, who will contest with me?” asked Dharmaja. The schemer in waiting, Sakuni, veiled his treachery in sweet words, saying, “O pious king, I shall play on behalf of Duryodhana, and whatever he stakes, I shall answer.” Duryodhana at once cast into the play his gem-studded ornaments and rich jewels, and Dharmaja, though declaring such wagers unethical, matched them. The game seemed to run on friendly terms, but Bhishma, Dhritarashtra, Vidura, Kripa, Drona, and Ashwatthama, seated upon lofty seats, watched in grave unease, dreading the turn of fate.
Though Dharmaja himself murmured that gambling was unwise and filled with peril, he could not withdraw, for the snare of dice is stronger than reason. Sakuni, with cunning hand and crooked mind, gained mastery over him. Inflamed by excitement and blinded by pride, Dharmaja declared he would defeat his foe and pressed the play forward, which was the very design of the wicked pair—Sakuni and Duryodhana. His passion leapt beyond measure, turning into wrath to conquer the deceitful foe. He staked vast heaps of gold, jewels, and treasures, and lost them all. He staked herds of horses, elephants, even the rare water-elephants, and lost again. He wagered his bands of servants, women adorned in ornaments, and even the celestial horses bestowed upon Arjuna by the Gandharvas, and each fell into ruin. Yet Dharmaja, drunk with obsession, refused to retreat.
Step by step, Sakuni led him to destruction. Dharmaja staked flocks of goats, sheep, cows, buffaloes, and donkeys, losing them as swiftly as they were named. Vidura, filled with dread, whispered counsel to Dhritarashtra, recalling omens at Duryodhana’s birth when foxes howled and misfortunes darkened the sky. He warned that this prince, bereft of virtue, pollutes the pure lineage of Shantanu, and that unless corrected, he would consume the Kuru race like fire, reducing fruit-laden trees to ash. He urged the blind king to send Krishna, the slayer of Kamsa, who alone could check Duryodhana’s folly.
But Dhritarashtra remained silent, fettered by helplessness. Vidura, in righteous grief, declared that deceit in gambling would bring condemnation from kings and people alike, for the mighty Pandavas, conquerors of enemies, had been robbed through trickery. Duryodhana, enraged, mocked Vidura, accusing him of favoring the Pandavas and likening his presence in the Kuru court to a serpent in the lap. Vidura answered with steady truth: that flatterers are false friends, and the true well-wisher of the throne is he who speaks unwelcome but saving words.
The play, meanwhile, hastened to its ruinous climax. Sakuni demanded further stakes, and Dharmaja, consumed by madness, staked his kingdom—save only the temples and lands of Brahmins—and lost. One by one he staked Nakula, Sahadeva, Arjuna, and Bhima, and lost them all. At last, he staked himself and, falling into abject misery, was defeated. Yet Sakuni, relentless, reminded him he still possessed one more wealth—the lotus-eyed Draupadi. Though Dharmaja knew he had no right to stake her after losing himself, his judgment drowned in intoxication, and he cast her too into the pit of dishonor. Thus, he lost not only wealth and kin, but pride, dignity, and dharma itself.
At this, the elders—Bhishma, Drona, and Kripa—sat sweating in anguish, unable to utter a word. Vidura bowed his head in grief, while murmurs like the roar of an ocean swept through the assembly. Karna, Dussasana, and Saindhava rejoiced in cruel delight, while Duryodhana laughed with demonic glee, mocking the silence of the venerable.
When Dhritarashtra inquired into the uproar, Duryodhana, proud of his gains, demanded Draupadi be brought to serve in his hall as a menial. Vidura rebuked him fiercely, calling him a fool blinded by arrogance, and warned that such sinful pride would wash away even inherited wealth. Draupadi, queen of queens, was not to be humiliated thus. Yet Duryodhana, deaf to counsel, ordered his servant Pratikami to summon her.
When Pratikami delivered the message, Draupadi, in righteous indignation, asked, “In what age has a husband ever staked his wife at dice? Tell me, was I lost before my lord staked himself, or after? If you know not, inquire of the gambler himself. Until then, how can you claim me?” Her sharp words cut to the heart of Dharmaja’s folly, exposing both her disdain for the game and her own independent strength of virtue.
Pratikami carried her words back, but Dharmaja, drowned in grief, sat silent. Duryodhana, impatient, commanded again that she be dragged to the hall, where matters would be settled before all. Thus unfolded the most shameful moment of the Bharata race—the silence of rulers, the anguish of lawgivers, the selfishness of princes, and the cruelty of schemers—all sanctioned by Dhritarashtra’s weakness, opening the floodgates of doom for dynasties, nations, and generations to come.
