The grand sabha hall of Hastinapur, a monument to the Kuru dynasty's glory, had descended into a chamber of shadows and shame, the air thick with the metallic tang of desperation and the faint clatter of dice.
The elders—Bhishma, Vidura, Kripacharya—stood in mournful silence, their faces etched with the sorrow of a dynasty unraveling.
The Kauravas, loyal yet uneasy, exchanged glances, Vikarna's eyes pleading with his Jyeshta to end the madness. Shakuni's irritation boiled, his plan—meticulously crafted to humiliate the Pandavas—teetering on the brink of ruin by a boy's plea.
Every soul in the hall, from the stripped Pandavas kneeling in defeat to the nobles whispering in horror, waited for Duryodhana's word, the weight of the moment crushing like Mahadev's trishul.
Then, a sound pierced the tension—footsteps, deliberate and unyielding, echoing from the entrance. The guards, who should have heralded the intruder, stood frozen, their faces pale as if beholding a divine apparition.
The sabha fell into an utter hush, a pin-drop silence where breaths were held, eyes turning to the doorway. The newcomer's arrival was a thunderclap in the storm, every face registering shock, from Dhritarashtra's blind confusion to Shakuni's narrowing eyes and the Pandavas' defiant glares.
Dhritarashtra, leaning on Sanjay, his voice cracking with urgency, demanded, "Sanjay, what madness grips the sabha? The air is thick with astonishment—tell me, who has entered without herald? Is it a god, a rishi, or some harbinger of fate? Speak, for the silence is unbearable!"
Sanjay, his voice low and reverent, replied, "Maharaj, it is Magadha Naresh Bahubali, son-in-law of Hastinapur. He stands at the entrance, his face like a storm cloud, surveying the hall with eyes that pierce the soul. His arrival is as timely as a trishul's strike, halting the game's descent."
Dhritarashtra's face confusion. "Bahubali? Here, unannounced?"
Bahubali strode forward, his green dhoti flowing like the Ganga, his presence a pillar of unyielding dharma. His eyes, calm yet piercing, swept the hall—the dice board mocking with its ivory gleam, the stripped Pandavas kneeling in humiliation, the elders' bowed heads, Shakuni's cowering form. He stopped before Rudra, who rose from his seat, shock widening his eyes. "Pitashree? You… here? How?"
Bahubali asks. "What happend here Rudra?"
Rudra, recovering from his astonishment, stepped forward, his voice steady despite the tremor in his heart. "Pitashree, it began as a dyut to mend ties between Kauravas and Pandavas. But Shakuni's dice favored Duryodhana, and Yudhishthira, gripped by the game's madness, staked his treasury, palace, Indraprastha—everything. Then his brothers—Nakula, Sahadeva, Arjuna, Bhima—each lost in turn, consenting to his folly. He staked himself, and now… now he seeks to bet Mata Draupadi, kula vadhu of Kuru. I pleaded, the elders begged, but pride and vengeance blinded them. You've arrived just as the abyss opens."
Bahubali's gaze turned to Yudhishthira, anger flashing in his eyes like Shiva's third eye. He thought even when I tried to steer Duryodhana toward dharma's path, fate still tries to steer him into the original shadows of this tale. Thankfully, Rudra's letter reached me in time, before the unthinkable happened.
Then Bahubali speaks. "Now, listen well, all of you in this hall, from king to slave, elder to youth. What I see here is a grave adharma unfolding, a game of dice that has stripped kings of their honor, brothers of their freedom, and now threatens a woman's dignity. This is not dharma—it is a pit of delusion."
He turned to Duryodhana, his voice steady but piercing. "Suyodhana, my friend, all you had to do was ask. I would have waged war on Indraprastha for you, won it with Ajaydhansu's might, and restored your honor. Is this the value you place on our friendship? Gambling kin and women for vengeance? Hastinapur's yuvraj, reduced to Shakuni's pawn? But you, who have the heart of a lion, let pride chain you."
He shifted to the Kuru elders, Bhishma, Vidura, Kripacharya, and Dronacharya, their heads bowed in shame. "Gangaputra Bhishma, grand elder of the Kurus, bound by thorns of oaths, pride, and responsibility—your silence witnesses this fall. Are you proud of what unfolds before your eyes? Mahamantri Vidura, wisest of all, Kulguru Kripacharya, Guru Dronacharya—you four, pillars of Hastinapur, stand as witnesses to this adharma. Brothers staked like cattle, a vadhu reduced to a bet—does your wisdom approve of this?"
He fixed on Dhritarashtra, the king's blind eyes averted. "Maharaj, you, the father of these sons, should have halted this escalation long ago. Your bias for Suyodhana is a father's love, but it has blinded you to adharma's flood. How will you face the Kuru ancestors, seeing your house gamble its soul?"
Finally, his gaze fell on the Pandavas, kneeling in their stripped state, their pride shattered. "Panduputras, devaputras, mighty warriors of Aryavrat—now slaves in your own house. You, who claimed dharma's mantle, have lost your kingdom, your brothers, yourselves to a game's whim. A kingdom is not gold or palaces, but its people—their trust, their lives. Did you consult them before staking them? Your brothers might have agreed to this folly, but Draupadi—did you ask her permission, or see her as mere property? Being a husband means she is your other half, not a stake in your folly. Have you no shame in this descent?"
Bahubali's gaze swept the sabha, his voice rising like a mantra. "As long as I stand here, I will not allow a woman to be wagered in this game. If any dares continue, they will face my sword— I dare anyone to defy it." With a fluid motion, he unsheathed Agnikhanda, its fiery edge gleaming, pointing it toward the dice board, daring all to challenge his decree.
The hall remained frozen, the weight of his words and weapon sealing the game's end, Hastinapur teetering on the edge of redemption or further ruin, as Bahubali's intervention became the dynasty's last hope.