Hastinapura – The Dice Hall
Time: Moments after the first throw
The echo of the ivory dice striking the polished marble floor lingered like an ominous drumbeat. Their final position revealed a grim omen: another win for Shakuni. The court was hushed. Eyes flicked between the seated princes and the cunning Gandhara-born sorcerer who smiled like a jackal in moonlight.
Yudhishthira sat motionless, his hand still extended where he had cast the dice. His brow furrowed, not in surprise, but resignation. The first loss had been expected. Shakuni's reputation was not built on luck—it was forged in the fire of vengeance.
Bhima leaned forward from his seat, his breath a growl. "Brother…" he warned, voice low. "This game stinks of treachery."
Yudhishthira did not respond. His eyes remained on the dice as though they held some secret he must decipher.
Duryodhana smirked from across the court, lounging beside his uncle. His voice rang out, sharp and mocking. "Might we raise the stakes, O righteous son of Dharma? Or would you abandon the field so early?"
The challenge was bait. And like a moth to flame, Yudhishthira stepped closer.
"What is the wager?" he asked, voice calm but distant, as if spoken from behind a veil.
Shakuni leaned in, whispering something in Duryodhana's ear. The prince chuckled and turned to the assembly. "Let the second wager be ten thousand gold coins. Or, perhaps, a precious jewel from the Pandava treasury? Let the world see the might of Indraprastha on the dice board."
There was no hesitation. "I accept," said Yudhishthira, casting the dice once more.
Again, they clattered across the floor like a death rattle.
Again, Shakuni's smirk deepened.
"Another loss," the court announcer declared softly, shame bleeding into his voice.
Gasps rippled. Yudhishthira closed his eyes. It had begun. The slope was now steep, and he had already stepped too far.
Duryodhana rose from his seat and walked slowly toward the center of the hall. "O kings, elders, and warriors of Bharata," he said dramatically, his arms extended, "behold the Dharma-raj, the upholder of virtue, gambling away his empire's treasures like a merchant in the marketplace!"
Vidura, seated near the throne, could bear no more. "This is not a game—it is a venomous plot!" he declared. "The dice are loaded. The players are not equal. Why does the king permit this?"
But Dhritarashtra remained silent, his blind eyes fixed inward, as if listening to ghosts rather than the living.
Yudhishthira stood. His voice was steady, though his heart pounded like a war drum. "I have accepted this challenge. I shall not turn back now."
Bhima sprang up. "You've nothing to prove to these snakes! Stop this now!"
"I cannot," Yudhishthira replied.
"Why?" Bhima shouted, fists clenched.
"Because it is the law of kings. A challenge once accepted must be played till the end."
His brothers fell into stunned silence.
Then Shakuni chuckled. "Well said, Yudhishthira. Let us continue."
The Third Throw
Now came a third wager—precious jewels, ornaments from Draupadi's chambers, even weapons from their royal armory. Each cast brought another loss. Each loss stripped away not just wealth, but dignity.
Yudhishthira's face became paler with each throw, as though the very soul was being drained from him. He had begun to sweat despite the cool air. His breaths were shallow. Yet his voice remained composed—too composed.
In truth, his mind was no longer entirely his own. It had begun to fragment under the burden of expectation, shame, and ancestral duty. The dice had become not cubes of bone, but cursed relics pulling him toward doom.
The Fourth Wager
"Enough of ornaments," Duryodhana sneered. "Surely a warrior such as yourself can gamble with true stakes."
"What do you suggest?" Yudhishthira asked dully.
"Chariots. Horses. Your armies."
There was a long silence.
Arjuna rose this time. "Yudhishthira. Brother. Listen to reason. This has gone far enough. The court watches in horror. They would not fault you for ending this madness."
But Yudhishthira looked past Arjuna, his eyes unfocused, his heart too clouded by self-loathing and the silent, cruel demand of Dharma. He felt as if Dharma itself watched him from the rafters, whispering: See how far your righteousness will carry you. See what is lost when pride disguises itself as virtue.
"I wager our armies," he said finally.
Another throw.
Another fall.
Another win for Shakuni.
A silence descended like ash after fire.
The Fifth Gamble
Duryodhana's voice had become venom sweetened with silk. "You have lost wealth, gold, armies. Yet the game continues. What remains, O king?"
Yudhishthira's lips trembled. His hand hovered near the dice, as if possessed by something not human.
Shakuni smiled like death incarnate. "Perhaps… your brothers?"
The court exploded in protest. Karna stood, even his loyalty strained. "This is dishonorable!" he declared. "A man cannot gamble away another's freedom!"
But Duryodhana cut him off. "The Pandavas stand as one. Is that not what they claim? If Yudhishthira is king, are not his brothers his vassals?"
Silence returned like an axe. The words, twisted though they were, carried force.
Yudhishthira's mind was breaking. In a daze, he whispered, "I wager Nakula."
"No!" cried Sahadeva, rising to his feet.
"I must," said Yudhishthira, hollow. "It is the law. I accepted the game. I must see it through."
The dice were cast. Ivory clattered. Shakuni's laughter followed.
"Nakula is mine," he announced.
Nakula bowed his head, ashamed but silent. He walked to the side of the Kauravas, head held high, though his eyes betrayed the hurt.
"Why Nakula?" Bhima asked bitterly. "Why not me first?"
Yudhishthira did not reply. He could not. Somewhere inside, a part of him was screaming—but the voice was buried beneath layers of silence and pride.
Duryodhana leaned forward, snake-like. "And now, O king, do you love Sahadeva less? Would you not wager him too?"
Yudhishthira's hand was shaking. "I wager Sahadeva."
Bhima stood this time. "Then wager me, brother! Wager me next!"
"I do."
Another throw. Another loss. Another brother stripped from his side like armor falling from a warrior's body.
The Sixth and Seventh Throws
Arjuna was next. Then Bhima.
With each throw, the dice hall grew colder. Shadows lengthened, and the silence became unbearable. Even the courtiers began to shift uncomfortably. Drona looked away. Kripa wept silently. Gandhari sat unmoving, her heart shattering with every dice roll, her ears the only witnesses to this ruin.
Finally, Duryodhana leaned in, savoring every word. "You have lost everything, Yudhishthira. Wealth. Army. Brothers. Is there anything left to wager?"
Shakuni's eyes gleamed. "There is one more thing," he whispered, though all could hear.
Yudhishthira looked up, as if waking from a dream.
Duryodhana smiled wickedly. "You remain, O king. You have not yet wagered yourself."
Gasps.
The court was no longer simply scandalized—they were terrified. This was no longer a game. It was a descent into madness.
Vidura stood. "I forbid it! This is not a game. This is black magic. This is sin given form."
Dhritarashtra stirred but said nothing. His silence was a shield behind which cowardice hid.
But Yudhishthira, battered by guilt, loss, and duty, raised his hand.
"I wager myself."
The dice fell.
Shakuni smiled.
"You are now a slave."
END OF CHAPTER 2