The tumult of strange misfortune might well have driven a lesser woman to madness; yet Draupadī, noble in birth and steadfast in virtue, stood unshaken, seeking the truth amidst outrage. The foul deed of staking a wife in a game of dice weighed upon her like a dark enigma, and in the midst of that perilous confusion, she yearned to know the rights of a gambler. But before the cunning and the base, such pleas were but pearls cast to wolves. Her gentle breeding and cultured ways, of which even Vidura had spoken with reverence, were mocked by the foxlike brood of Kuru.
Pratikāmi, trembling, whispered that her questions must be answered in the council of elders. Fearful of Duryodhana’s cruelty and her own lord Yudhiṣṭhira’s strange passivity, Draupadī knotted her single robe, her eyes brimming with tears, and followed the servant into the royal hall. There she stood before the blind king Dhṛtarāṣṭra. The Pandavas, crushed with grief at her pitiful state, bent their heads in silence, unable to meet her gaze, while Suyodhana, in secret glee, rejoiced in their shame. He bade Duśāsana act, for even the servant shrank before Bhīma’s wrath.
Still Draupadī’s heart clung to hope. She cried within her soul that it was the king’s sacred duty to shield the honour of his daughter-in-law, and she held fast to the faith that she was no chattel, for she had not been won by righteous means. Yet the Kaurava hearts, void of pity and eager for sin, gave her no mercy. When the cruel Duḥśāsana advanced, her tears fell like rain; she shrank in shame and fled to Gandhārī, knowing that the blind king would not dare the risk, but hoping at least the mother of the Kuru line might intercede. The villain overtook her with a shout: “Whither goest thou, O woman? Shakuni has conquered thee in the game. Thou art Duryodhana’s prize; thy husbands, thy wealth, thy very self are lost.” Draupadī answered, “I am clad but in a single robe; it is not meet to stand before elders so attired.” But he mocked, “What matter? I shall drag thee forth!” and with impious hands he seized the sacred hair that had been hallowed at the Rājasūya bath, and dragged her like a banner torn by the storm into the midst of the court.
Her hair dishevelled, her face pale as moonlight clouded, she stood amidst the wicked—Karna, Duryodhana, Śakuni, Śaindhava—and yet found voice to cry: “O elders of the Kuru race, though calamity without end has befallen us, Yudhiṣṭhira shines still in virtue and strays not from the path of dharma. Yet this Duḥśāsana, puffed up by brute strength and blinded by folly, has dragged me hither by the hair while ye look on in silence. The ancient house of Bhārata, once famed for righteousness, is defiled this day by deeds that shame the very wise.”
Silent, she turned her heart in prayer to Kṛṣṇa, while her mighty husbands, whose arms could conquer the three worlds, sat helpless under the spell of dice. Yudhiṣṭhira, intoxicated by the accursed game, had lit the fire of their ruin. That flame now blazed in Draupadī’s eyes. Bhīma, teeth gnashing like Yama himself, thundered at his elder: “O sun-bright Yudhiṣṭhira! Thou hast lost gold, jewels, chariots, horses, elephants, weapons, even thy brothers and thyself. But canst thou stake Draupadī, thy queen, in a deceitful game? For this vile insult I burn. Knowing full well Śakuni’s fraud, thou hast betrayed virtue. I shall burn my own hands for this impotence!” Arjuna said, “If the king of dharma falters, the earth itself is shaken. Yet a king may not reject the wager, for regal duty binds him. If the gods themselves turn against us, shall we lament? The spotless fame of Yudhiṣṭhira is sullied by these godless men.”
While the elders sat mute, Vikarna rose and spoke with fearless justice: “The question Draupadī raises must be weighed by the wise. To ignore it is to court hell. Gambling, the hunt, drunkenness, and gluttony—these four lead men to sin. Yudhiṣṭhira was lured by gamblers and lost his wealth in delusion. Draupadī, wife to five, is the common treasure of all; she cannot be lost by a single hand, nor has she been rightly won. To drag a woman clad in but one robe is against all law.”
But Karna scorned him: “Foolish youth! Why preach duty before the elders? Yudhiṣṭhira has lost all in the presence of council and ministers. Draupadī is no stranger to him; therefore she is lawfully staked. And what of her single robe? The wife of many husbands defies the common code; she is hostage and may be brought as one will.” Duryodhana, hearing this, commanded Duḥśāsana to strip her. The Pandavas laid aside their upper cloths and stood in silent anguish, heads bowed. The brutish Duḥśāsana, reckless of all human decency, seized her garment and pulled. Yet as he drew, her robe grew without end; weary and sick with his own futile rage, he sank exhausted, the miracle shaming all.
The daughter of Drupada, thus protected by the unseen Lord, kindled a fire of vengeance in Bhīma’s heart. His eyes blazed; he ground his teeth and roared, “In the sight of all, I swear: I shall tear open Duḥśāsana’s breast and drink his hot blood. If I fail, let me fall from the path of my sires!” His dreadful vow struck the assembly like a thunderclap. He turned then on the blind king with words of bitter reproach.
Vidura raised his hand for silence. “Let the wise answer Draupadī,” he cried. “If her doubt touching virtue be left unanswered, this court shall bear the sin. Young though Vikarna be, he has spoken like Bṛhaspati, and made dharma clear. Reject him not. Dharma is subtle and not always plain; even Brahmā must at times keep silence. To know the right and speak it not is sin; those who hear and fail to judge share the burden. Profit, fear, or grief must not sway the scales of justice, for false judgment brings its own doom.”
Yet though Vidura’s counsel fell like cool rain upon the burning hall, its power to move those hardened hearts remained in doubt. Cruelty and corruption ruled the court of the Kurus, and in that hour the fire of adharma flared, presaging the ruin of their race.
