Yudhishthira's ascension to the role of Yuvaraja was like the arrival of a gentle, life-giving rain after a long, scorching drought. His very presence seemed to soothe the raw, frayed nerves of the kingdom. Where his father Dhritarashtra ruled from a place of insecurity and vicarious ambition, Yudhishthira governed with a quiet, unwavering compass of Dharma. His court was not a place of flattery or fear, but of reason and justice. He would sit for hours, listening patiently to the grievances of the humblest citizens, his judgments renowned for their compassion and unimpeachable fairness.
Under his administration, the kingdom flourished. He expanded trade routes, not through conquest, but through fair treaties that benefited both sides. He filled the royal treasury, not by levying harsh taxes, but by fostering prosperity that allowed citizens to give gladly. He honoured the learned, protected the weak, and ensured that the laws of the land applied equally to the highest noble and the lowest commoner. The people adored him. They saw in him the reincarnation of his father Pandu's noble spirit, and they felt secure, prosperous, and content for the first time in years. Every success Yudhishthira achieved was a testament to his fitness to rule, a fresh layer of legitimacy on his claim to the throne.
And every one of his successes was a fresh dagger in the heart of Duryodhana.
The Kaurava prince watched this golden age unfold from the shadows of his own palace, his soul curdling with a jealousy so potent it was a physical sickness. He saw the love in the people's eyes for his cousin and interpreted it as hatred for himself. He saw the kingdom's prosperity as a theft from his own inheritance. The cheers for Yudhishthira were a constant, mocking reminder of his own public failures—his defeat at the hands of Drupada, his boorish behaviour at the Rangabhoomi. He grew sullen, withdrawn, and prone to violent outbursts. The only company he could tolerate was that of his loyal friend Karna, who listened with a sympathetic ear, and his uncle Shakuni, who listened with a calculating one.
"I cannot bear it, Uncle!" Duryodhana raged one night, pacing his chambers like a caged lion. "Every day, he grows stronger. Every day, the people love him more. My own father looks at me with pity! He has stolen my birthright, and he is rubbing my face in it with his insufferable righteousness! We must do something! We must challenge them, raise our army!"
Shakuni, who had been calmly observing a game of dice he was playing against himself, looked up. His eyes, small and clever, held no trace of Duryodhana's heated passion. They were cold, patient, and reptilian.
"And what would that achieve, my dear nephew?" he asked, his voice a soft rasp. "Challenge them? You already tried that in Panchala. It ended in your humiliation. Raise your army? Bhishma and Drona control the army, and their hearts belong to the Pandavas. The people love them. If you raise a hand against their precious Yuvaraja now, you will be seen as a traitor, and you will lose everything, including your father's fragile support."
"Then what?!" Duryodhana roared, slamming his fist on a table. "Am I to do nothing? Am I to simply stand by and watch him take everything that is mine?"
Shakuni smiled his crooked, unsettling smile. "You are thinking like Bhima, my boy. All muscle and rage. You must learn to think like a serpent. A serpent does not challenge the lion in a head-on roar. It waits. It hides. It strikes when the lion is sleeping, fat and content. You cannot defeat them in the light, Duryodhana. The light belongs to them now. You must learn to fight in the dark."
He beckoned his nephew closer. The dice lay scattered on the board, forgotten. A new game was beginning. "The people are the source of Yudhishthira's strength," Shakuni whispered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. "So, the first step is to remove the Pandavas from the people. We must get them out of Hastinapura."
Duryodhana's eyes widened, a flicker of understanding dawning. "But how? My father would never agree. And Vidura would see through any trick."
"Leave the thinking to me," Shakuni said, his smile widening. "We will not use a trick. We will use a celebration. There is a great festival in honour of Lord Shiva soon to be held in the town of Varanavata. It is a beautiful place, a place for rest and relaxation. We will have your father suggest—for the good of the kingdom, of course—that the Pandavas and their mother take a well-deserved holiday. A chance to escape the pressures of the court, to allow the city's political passions to cool."
"A holiday?" Duryodhana scoffed. "And what good will that do? They will simply return, more popular than ever."
"Ah," Shakuni said, his eyes glinting. "But who said anything about them returning?"
And then, in the flickering torchlight of the chamber, the master of deceit unveiled his masterstroke. He spoke of a palace, a magnificent structure to be built in Varanavata especially for the Pandavas, a gesture of goodwill from their loving cousin Duryodhana. He called it the Shiva Bhavana, the Abode of Prosperity. But its true name would be whispered only between them: Jatugriha, the House of Lac.
"I have a man," Shakuni explained, "an architect named Purochana. He is a master of his craft, and his loyalty to you is absolute. We will send him ahead to Varanavata. He will build this palace. But he will build it with a secret. The walls will be coated with lacquer. The foundations will be mixed with hemp, resin, and dried reeds. The furniture will be filled with clarified butter—ghee. It will be a beautiful, fragrant, luxurious home. And it will be as flammable as a torch soaked in oil."
Duryodhana stared, his initial rage transforming into a cold, horrified fascination.
"Once they are settled in," Shakuni continued, his voice barely a whisper, "once they are comfortable and their guard is down, Purochana will wait for a moonless night. He will bar the single gate from the outside and set one corner of the palace alight. It will go up in a single, glorious inferno. By the time anyone realizes what has happened, there will be nothing left but ash. Five brothers and their mother, dead in a tragic, unfortunate accident. Who could be blamed? It will be a tragedy, and you, my dear Duryodhana, will be the chief mourner."
The sheer, diabolical brilliance of the plan left Duryodhana speechless. It was perfect. It was untraceable. It removed his enemies permanently and left him appearing blameless, even sympathetic.
The next day, they went to work on the blind king. Duryodhana entered his father's chambers weeping, throwing himself at Dhritarashtra's feet. He spoke of his misery, his inability to eat or sleep, his torment at seeing the people scorn him in favour of his cousins.
"I cannot live like this, Father!" he cried, his performance worthy of a master actor. "The very air of Hastinapura is poison to me as long as they are here! I will take my own life, I swear it!"
Dhritarashtra was distraught, his heart aching for his miserable son. Shakuni then stepped in, his voice full of feigned concern for the king.
"Great King, your son speaks from a place of pain, but there is wisdom in his words," he said smoothly. "The popularity of the Pandavas is becoming a danger. The people murmur that a blind king is unfit to rule, that the strong and sighted Yudhishthira should take the throne now. They are a threat not just to Duryodhana, but to you. Sending them away for a time is the wisest course. Let them attend the festival at Varanavata. Let the people's passions cool. It will show your authority and give your son's wounded heart time to heal. It is an act of prudence and paternal kindness."
Battered from all sides, his love for his son warring with his fear of losing his throne, Dhritarashtra finally crumbled. He convinced himself that it was indeed the wisest course, a temporary measure to ensure peace. He summoned Yudhishthira.
The court was assembled. Dhritarashtra, forcing a warm, paternal smile onto his face, praised Yudhishthira for his excellent work as Crown Prince. Then he made his suggestion.
"My son," he said, his voice resonating with false sincerity. "The people of Varanavata are celebrating a great festival to Lord Shiva. It is said to be a place of immense beauty and piety. You and your brothers have worked tirelessly for the kingdom. I think it is time you took a respite. Go to Varanavata with your mother. Enjoy the festivities. A magnificent palace, the Shiva Bhavana, has been prepared for your comfort. Consider it a gift from the crown for your loyal service."
Yudhishthira listened, his heart growing cold. He looked at his uncle, the king, and saw the lie behind his eyes. He looked at Duryodhana, who stood in the corner, unable to completely mask the triumphant smirk on his face. Then he looked at Vidura. His great-uncle's face was a stone mask, but his eyes were screaming a warning. In that silent, desperate glance, Yudhishthira understood everything. This was not a holiday. It was an exile. This was not a palace. It was a trap.
He was the Yuvaraja, but he was powerless. To refuse the king's 'request' would be an act of open rebellion, the very thing his enemies wanted. It would give them the pretext to declare him a traitor and start a civil war he could not win. He was caught. His Dharma, his duty to obey the head of the family, was being used as a weapon against him.
He bowed his head, a gesture of submission that felt like a death sentence. "As you command, my King," Yudhishthira said, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his soul. "We are grateful for your generosity. We shall prepare for the journey to Varanavata at once."
As they left the court, the Pandavas walked with their heads held high, but their hearts were heavy with the knowledge that they were walking willingly into a house designed to be their tomb. Vidura watched them go, his mind already racing, searching for a way to counter a plot so dark it threatened to consume the entire Kuru line in its flames.