Interior – Royal Assembly Hall of Hastinapura – Nightfall
The dice had not stopped rolling.
Not truly.
Even when they clattered into silence, when their ivory edges came to rest on the polished stone of the royal court, their echoes continued — not in sound, but in soul. In the breathless gasps of the assembly. In the shallow breathing of the Pandavas. In the accelerating heartbeat of the one who sat on the throne of loss — Yudhishthira, son of Dharma, now shackled by his own virtues.
Draupadi's name had not yet been uttered.
But the gods were already watching.
The winds had turned cold inside the vast sabha. Torches flickered, throwing monstrous shadows upon the carved pillars. Every face — king, general, prince, courtier — bore an expression hardened by disbelief or delight.
The dice had consumed all.
Wealth. Jewels. Armies. Chariots. Brothers. Dignity.
And now, as silence fell, the eldest Pandava, the once-proud king of Indraprastha, leaned forward — his lips dry, his hands trembling not from weakness, but from something worse:
Desperation.
Duryodhana grinned, reclining in his seat of gold like a serpent fattened on pride. Beside him, Shakuni twirled the ivory dice between his fingers, each spin a mockery of fate itself.
Karna remained still — statuesque, unreadable.
Dushasana cracked his knuckles.
And Bhishma — Grand Sire, Son of the Ganga — looked down into his lap, his face carved from grief. He had not spoken in hours.
Neither had Vidura.
Nor Kripa.
Nor Drona.
Because the assembly was no longer a hall of wisdom.
It was a pit of sacrifice.
And Yudhishthira, the sacrificial beast, was not yet done.
He closed his eyes.
He inhaled.
And he said it.
"I stake… myself."
The words shattered the court more than any dice ever could.
There was no gasp. No sound.
Only the deafening silence of a nation falling from grace.
Arjuna, who had stayed rooted, unmoving — now lunged forward.
"Brother—!" he roared, but Bhima held him back with a hand like a steel vice.
Bhima's own jaw clenched, veins rising on his arms like coiled serpents.
"Let him finish," Bhima growled, though his voice was breaking.
The priest in the corner, who had until then recited mantras of order, fell silent. His lips trembled. The garland on his neck withered, petals falling like the last embers of Dharma.
Shakuni smiled.
"Are you certain, O son of Dharma?" he asked, drawing out every syllable like a blade across flesh.
"You wager yourself," he continued, eyes gleaming, "and if you lose… you will be no king. No husband. No warrior. Only a slave. Your body will belong to Duryodhana. Your word, your soul… will be his."
Yudhishthira did not reply.
He nodded.
The dice passed into Shakuni's hand — and time stood still.
The hall forgot to breathe.
Even the gods leaned closer.
And then — the throw.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
It spun.
It danced.
And it fell.
A low number.
A death knell.
Shakuni exhaled — long, slow, victorious.
"Lost," he said softly. "Yudhishthira is lost."
A scream built in Arjuna's chest, but he bit down upon it. Bhima's fists bled from how tightly he clenched them.
And Yudhishthira?
He closed his eyes again.
He was not weeping.
He was not begging.
But he was no longer a king.
He was a man stripped of everything but silence.
Duryodhana rose.
His voice was honeyed venom.
"Oh assembly of kings!" he called out. "Behold! The great son of Dharma is now my servant. A royal slave to the House of Kuru!"
He turned to Yudhishthira.
"Come," he said mockingly. "Fetch my sandals. Announce my name with reverence. Let your tongue taste what slavery feels like."
Yudhishthira said nothing.
But Bhima moved.
He stood, and the ground trembled beneath him.
"Enough," Bhima growled. "This has gone beyond mockery. This is treason. This is—"
"Slavery," Duryodhana interrupted. "And you too, Bhima, are already lost."
The dice were passed again. Shakuni's hands moved quickly — too quickly.
"And now," Duryodhana said, looking around the court, his voice rising, "what is left? Wealth is gone. Kingdom is gone. Brothers are gone. The king himself is gone."
His eyes narrowed.
"One final jewel remains."
Gasps followed before the words were even spoken.
"Draupadi."
Every head turned.
And in that moment, the earth itself recoiled.
Bhima surged forward, but this time it was Arjuna who stopped him — not with muscle, but with tears.
"No, Bhima. Not yet. Not yet. We must see… how far into hell they are willing to descend."
Yudhishthira — his lips pale, his body barely holding upright — whispered.
"She is… mine. My wife. My queen."
"Then you may stake her," Duryodhana replied coldly. "For you are no longer a man, but a possession. And all that belongs to you… is mine to claim."
Shakuni's dice twirled again.
"No," Bhishma whispered.
But it was too late.
Yudhishthira's voice, drained and broken, left his throat:
"I stake… Draupadi."
And the world screamed.
Interior – Royal Assembly Hall of Hastinapura – Dusk bleeds into Night
The light had changed in the sabha.
It was no longer the golden gleam of torches or polished bronze.
It was sickly now. Faint. Like the world itself wished not to watch what was about to happen.
The torches had not gone out — yet the room had grown darker.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Even Time, that eternal stalker, seemed reluctant to witness this sacrilege.
And then—
Duryodhana stood from his throne.
His voice, now sharpened with poison and pride, rang out through the court like a serpent's hiss:
"What use is a jewel that no longer sparkles in my court?
Bring her.
Bring the slave-wife of slaves. Let her stand before us in shame."
The echo of his words scraped against the pillars like the cries of the condemned.
And Dushasana — the brute, the butcher, the brother fed on cruelty — grinned.
His eyes were wild.
He rose.
Like a jackal answering the howl of a greater beast.
He strode across the hall, each step echoing like a war drum.
The gathered kings — some cowards, some killers, some righteous men made mute by dharma's ambiguity — watched and did nothing.
Bhishma did not raise his eyes.
Drona clenched his fists, but not his sword.
Vidura looked away — for perhaps the first time in his life, ashamed to possess eyes.
The sons of Pandu were stone.
Bhima's nostrils flared like an enraged lion, his fists bleeding, nails digging into flesh.
Arjuna trembled, but not from fear — from the sheer agony of being bound by oaths when rage demanded blood.
Nakula and Sahadeva — the youngest — hid their faces. Princes of dharma, and yet helpless.
And Yudhishthira…
The son of Dharma lowered his eyes.
As if to bear the weight of the heavens on his neck was easier than to face the consequence of his final wager.
The Queen Arrives
When Draupadi entered the sabha, she came not as a woman summoned — but as a storm summoned by injustice.
Her eyes blazed with fury.
Her bare feet did not hesitate.
Her garments, once of finest silk, fluttered like torn banners of a ruined kingdom.
Yet she walked tall.
Tall as the Himalayas.
Beautiful as thunderclouds before a downpour.
Terrible as nightfall before battle.
And Dushasana reached for her.
"Don't you dare," she said.
And the sabha quaked.
Her voice was not raised — but it shook the bones of all who heard it.
"Stop. Touch me and stain this court with a sin that even fire cannot cleanse."
But Dushasana was beyond reason.
He laughed, drunk on impunity.
"You are no longer queen. You are a slave. Staked like cattle. Lost like dice. Tied to the destiny your husband chose. And I, Dushasana, by the will of the Prince Regent—will strip you of that pride."
He grabbed her by the hair.
Gasps choked the assembly.
Even the flames recoiled, flickering wildly as if terrified.
Her long black hair, once perfumed with sandalwood, now writhed like serpents in his grasp.
He dragged her forward.
She stumbled.
But never fell.
Even then — she stood.
Draupadi turned, facing the gathered elders, her voice now rising with righteous wrath:
"Before I am touched—before my dignity is torn—answer me this!
Was I staked before or after my husband lost himself?
Was I gambled as a queen… or as the chattel of a man who was no longer free?
Am I a wife or a possession?
If my husband had no right over himself, then by what dharma could he gamble me?"
Her words exploded across the hall.
But no one answered.
Even Bhishma — who had answered arrows in his youth with pride — now bowed his head in silence.
Duryodhana chuckled darkly.
"Karna," he said, his voice rich with mockery, "what say you?"
Karna stood, his voice cold, deliberate.
"She has no husband now. No kingdom. No throne. She is but a woman… clinging to pride.
And pride is not the garb of a slave."
He turned to her with cruel eyes.
"Let the court see if her shame is as beautiful as her face."
That was the moment.
The moment dharma shattered.
Dushasana pulled.
One violent yank.
The edge of her sari came undone.
A thread slipped away.
And then—
She raised her arms.
The Prayer to the Divine
"Krishna…"
The word was not spoken.
It was invoked.
A whisper louder than screams.
A plea from the soul of Bharat itself.
"O Govinda… O Madhava… O Kesava… if You are truth, if You are mercy, if You are the protector of the helpless, then answer me now!
When warriors turn away…
When elders sit in silence…
When husbands are broken…
When kings fall into sin…
Who protects the woman?
Who protects Dharma?
If I am dishonored today, this court shall fall.
This empire shall rot.
This age shall perish.
Save me, Krishna.
Or let the world burn."
And the world answered.
The Miracle of the Cloth
Dushasana pulled.
And pulled.
And pulled.
But the cloth did not end.
It kept unwrapping.
Layer upon layer.
Silk after silk.
Red, gold, white, blue — endless fabric spilling across the floor like rivers of divine will.
Dushasana's muscles screamed.
His veins bulged.
His hands bled.
The mound of cloth at his feet grew into a mountain, yet her body remained covered — sanctified, untouched.
Draupadi stood with eyes closed, tears upon her cheeks, arms raised to the unseen savior who had come not as form, but as faith.
And finally, with a cry of exhausted futility, Dushasana collapsed, panting, defeated, his hands still clenched around a sari that would never end.
The Assembly Breaks
No one spoke.
No one moved.
And then Bhima roared — not in words, but in oath.
"Hear me, all of Bharat! Hear me, gods and mortals!
If I do not tear open Dushasana's chest on the battlefield and drink his blood like a lion…
Then I am no son of Kunti.
No warrior.
No brother.
No man!"
And his voice cracked the pillars.
Even Bhishma opened his eyes.
Even Drona wept.
Even Karna clenched his jaw.
Because in that moment — dharma had risen, not from sages or kings, but from a woman.
A woman wronged.
A woman protected not by man or army — but by truth.
End of chapter 4
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