In those days, Duryodhana withdrew from all company, shunning both counsel and converse. This silence troubled the wily Śakuni, who seated himself close beside the prince and addressed him in tones of studied affection: “O King of Hastināpura, why these many days of wordless gloom? Why does your brow burn like the parched earth before the monsoon? Speak—what grief oppresses you? Are you not the subduer of all earthly kings, the dread of rival lords? Wherefore, then, this restless heart?”
At length Duryodhana’s envy broke forth, dark and unashamed. “You have yourself beheld,” he said, “the marvellous Mayasabha raised for Yudhiṣṭhira—a hall of wonders such as no man has seen or heard of. There every comfort waits upon his will, and in that splendour the son of Dharma shines as the sun at noon. His renown has swelled beyond measure; kings of name and lineage, awed by his might, lay down their pride and pay him tribute in gold and gems. The eldest of Kuntī’s sons stands forth as a monarch among monarchs, and the fame of the Pāṇḍavas spreads like the ungoverned wind.
“Did you not behold how Kṛṣṇa’s discus struck down the proud Śiśupāla before the gathered assembly? Chivalrous lords from every quarter applauded, and not one dared withstand the deed. Their wealth and glory, their growing strength, scorch me like a burning brand. O maternal uncle, my only treasure is ambition, and I cannot endure their triumph. Devise, I pray you, some subtle means to strip them of their fortune.”
Śakuni’s eyes gleamed. “If King Dhṛtarāṣṭra will but sanction a stratagem, then may their riches and their lands—horses, elephants, chariots, weapons—fall into our hands. Only his consent is needful.”
Thus persuaded, Duryodhana approached his sire. Dhṛtarāṣṭra, startled by the pallor of his son and the listlessness of his manner, stroked him in fatherly concern and said, “Child, the wealth of the Kauravas lies already at your command. Your brothers, allies, servants—none stands against your will. Your splendour rivals that of Indra; vassal kings obey you without question. Why then this wasting of spirit, this discontent amid such royal fortune?”
Shameless and unhesitating, Duryodhana made answer: “Father, the treasure of the Pāṇḍavas eclipses even the wealth of the heavens. Step by step it has grown and spread to every quarter. The clear light of their valour shines to the ends of the earth. Arjuna, bold as Viṣṇu himself, has conquered lands even to the fabled Uttara Kuru. Is this a trifle to be overlooked? Leaving aside Drupada and Kṛṣṇa—bound to them by ties of friendship—every other king hastens to lay tribute at their feet. Mountains, forests, and islands own their sway. And I, a prince of the Kuru house, must stand by like an impotent kinsman, watching their glory rise!”
He recounted, with a bitterness edged by wonder, the offerings he had been sent to collect on Yudhiṣṭhira’s behalf: “Gems from every ocean, as the ancient lore proclaims; silks of many hues from Gouḍa and Kāmboja; horses the colour of the clear sky; pearls, corals, and spices from the southern kings; sandalwood in great store; diamonds of such fire that the sun itself seemed pale; fourteen thousand elephants; and countless horses of rarest breed—sapphire, moon-white, parrot-green, peacock-blue. Forest lords brought honey and herbs, and fabrics spun from the gold of wild silkworms. Beds of feathers outshone the work of master artisans; swords of peerless temper flashed like lightning; palanquins of ivory and gold dazzled the eye. The Gandharva king Citraratha gave four hundred celestial steeds; Tumbura added a hundred more, creatures that could race through air or water, fearless of fire or storm.
“All these marvels were mine to receive, a charge of honour and trust. Yet to my mind it seemed but a cunning insult: that I, Duryodhana, should stand as servant to display their opulence! In truth, no riches of the past, present, or future can rival the treasure of Yudhiṣṭhira. My spirit wanes beneath the weight of their glory. At the Rājasūya sacrifice, their conch of plenty sounded unceasingly, marking the feeding of a hundred thousand Brāhmins. Delicacies without number were served; none departed unsatisfied. Draupadī herself, tireless through the night, oversaw the service and partook of food only when all were fed. Even I, their foe, could scarce withhold admiration. Yet the splendour of that sacrifice surpasses even the famed rite of King Hariścandra.
“Father, their pride of power, their unbounded wealth, gnaws at my heart. I grow pale, my hope is spent. Must I, a prince of the Kuru line, stand idle while the sons of Pāṇḍu rise like gods? Grant me leave to act, and by subtle play we shall bring their fortune low.”
Thus Duryodhana, with envy as his counsellor and vengeance in his heart, sought to rouse in Dhṛtarāṣṭra the very jealousy and selfishness that would open the door to ruin.
