#shakuni

The only person he never managed to outwit was Vasudev Krishna, and that makes sense. You can’t outplay the Almighty. If anything, I’ve always felt Krishna saw him as the only real intellectual threat in the room and admired him for it. The only opponent worth strategising against.

Because let’s be honest, Shakuni shaped everything. He nudged Duryodhana’s insecurities, exploited Dhritarashtra’s blindness (in every sense), manipulated situations, and practically orchestrated the fall of an entire dynasty. He understood people. He understood weakness. He understood timing.

Bhishma had principles but no flexibility. Drona had skill but no moral courage. Vidura had wisdom but no power. They all had moments where you just want to shake them and say, “use your damn brain dude!”

Praneet Bhat as Shakuni

Cred: Pinterest

She is seen in the Bengali Sanjaya Mahabharata.

When Arjuna fights Shakuni's unnamed young son, who survived the war, going against Krishna's wishes, this queen runs out with an unsheathed khadga, intending to kill Arjuna as revenge for the death of her husband and other sons.

Midway, her ministers catch and convince her that Arjuna is too hard an enemy to defeat in face-to-face battle, and so she backs off for the time being, and also reins in her son, the then ruler of Gandhara.

This is some fanart of Shakuni Mama from Mahabharata.

Shakuni: That’s not an award, it’s an angry missive from the king.

There is no diplomacy that can mend the disrobing of a woman in public. Think of what they'd do to ordinary women, when the empress herself was treated so. And that was the last straw. There were several bricks of evil placed one upon another to make what eventually stood and then had to be uprooted wholly. Nothing but destruction could have saved the future, as the present was already rotten. While yes, a war is gruesome and unpleasant to look at and live in, one must recognise the necessity of violence in such cases. You cannot construct a new building on the foundation of the old one. Be not afraid of rubbles.

Shakuni in his love for his sister turned to vengeance, did not realise that he'd be making her a vilomah. The word is exactly what it is. Opposite. The most ghastly ache one can have is lighting the funeral pyre of their own child. As per the laws, a child performs the last rites of their parents.

The Pandavas suffered, committed mistakes, rose and fell and rose again, losing so much including their children. That was not victory, certainly. But the war never was about them alone. It was about the entire human society. The juncture we stood on was capricious. The sense of dharma was so foggy that compassion was seen nowhere in it. All these warriors — with celestial prowess and descendants of gods, all so divine — they forgot what it is to be truly human.

The halls of Hastinapura had seen countless battles, both in the court and on the training grounds. They had witnessed the thunderous steps of warriors, the hushed whispers of conspiracies, and the resounding laughter of carefree princes. But on this particular afternoon, the halls bore witness to something truly unforgettable-something that would go unspoken in formal gatherings but live on in the hearts (and suppressed laughter) of the Kuru princes for years to come.

It all started, as many disasters did, with Bhima.

The young Pandava, already a force of nature at his age, had just been dismissed from his lessons along with his brothers and cousins. The elders-Bhishma, Guru Drona, and Shakuni-were leading the way down the long, grand staircase that connected the higher halls to the central court. It was a staircase worthy of its royal residents: steep, wide, and polished to a near-miraculous shine by the tireless palace attendants.

And, as it turned out, far too polished.

Bhima, unwilling to walk like a normal human being, decided to sprint up the last few steps. Why? No one knew. Perhaps he was racing an imaginary opponent. Perhaps he had just remembered that lunch was being served soon. Perhaps he was simply Bhima.

Regardless of his reasons, the results were catastrophic.

The moment Bhima reached the top, his sandal betrayed him. It slipped-a treacherous, traitorous little movement that sent his foot skidding out from under him. The great warrior-to-be flailed, arms windmilling, desperately grasping for anything to steady himself.

Fate, ever the mischievous force, provided him with something.

Shakuni’s cloak.

For a brief, glorious second, Shakuni was not a man.

He was a spectacle.

One moment, he had been walking with his usual air of practiced elegance, his fine robes flowing behind him as he engaged Bhishma in conversation. The next moment-he was airborne.

His feet lifted clean off the ground, his arms flailed, and his mouth opened-but no words came out, only a stunned, undignified gasp. His turban, that ever-present symbol of his regal composure, tilted precariously to one side.

And then, gravity remembered him.

Shakuni descended.

Not gracefully. Not heroically. Not with the composed dignity of a statesman. No, he rolled.

His long cloak, the very thing that had betrayed him, tangled around his legs, turning what might have been a simple fall into a grand, tragic performance. His staff, once held with the poise of a master strategist, clattered ahead of him, announcing his descent like a herald announcing a king’s arrival-except this king was tumbling helplessly down a flight of stairs.

First, he lurched forward. Then, he twisted midair. Then-thump, thump, thump-down he went, step by step, his arms flapping wildly in a last, desperate attempt to regain control of his fate.

The grand staircase of Hastinapura had never seen such an event before.

And it would never, ever see one like it again.

At the top of the stairs, the young Kuru princes froze.

This was a moment of great crisis.

Not because Shakuni might be injured-no, that was secondary. The real crisis was not laughing.

Duryodhana and Arjuna made the fatal mistake of looking at each other. Their expressions, which had started as carefully composed masks of concern, cracked immediately.

Nakula and Sahadeva stood as still as statues, the effort of holding back their laughter written all over their faces. Sahadeva was biting his tongue. Nakula’s shoulders were trembling.

And Yudhishthira-oh, poor Yudhishthira-looked as though he was suffering the torments of the gods themselves. His hands were clenched into fists, pressed against his mouth as he struggled desperately to maintain some semblance of dignity. His eyes were wide, pleading with the heavens for strength.

And Bhima?

Bhima, the root cause of this disaster, was trying to be the responsible one. He stepped forward, schooling his expression into what he probably thought was a look of deep concern.

“Shakuni Mama,” he said, in a voice that was just a little too strained, “are you well?”

It was a valiant attempt.

Unfortunately, his voice cracked halfway through.

The effort to suppress their laughter reached its breaking point. Duryodhana’s lips twitched. Arjuna coughed violently. Nakula turned away, pretending to examine a very interesting section of the wall.

The entire hall was silent.

The ministers, the soldiers, the attendants-everyone was holding their breath.

Bhishma, ever the composed patriarch, stroked his beard and nodded thoughtfully, as though he had just witnessed a fascinating philosophical lesson unfold before him. Guru Drona, to his credit, maintained his usual impassive expression, though his fingers twitched ever so slightly.

And then-Shakuni rose.

The fallen prince of Gandhara stood, slowly and shakily.

With the precision of a man who refused to acknowledge what had just happened, he adjusted his turban, straightened his robes, and calmly dusted off his shoulders.

Then, in a voice so controlled it could have been carved from stone, he declared:

“I am perfectly fine, mere bachche”

He paused.

Then, with a pointed look at the offending staircase, he added, “The stairs, however, are treacherous.”

Silence.

And then, Bhishma, in his infinite wisdom, gave a sage nod.

“Indeed,” he said gravely. “The stairs are quite polished.”

The princes lost their battle.

Yudhishthira turned away, his entire body shaking. Duryodhana let out a strangled noise that could have been a cough-or a suppressed howl of laughter. Nakula buried his face in his sleeve. Sahadeva looked like he had physically left his body to avoid the disgrace.

And Bhima?

Bhima covered his mouth, his shoulders heaving.

Shakuni, either unwilling or unable to acknowledge the suffering of his audience, simply gathered what was left of his pride and walked away.

He did not stalk off in anger. He did not rage or scowl. He merely left, as if nothing had happened, as if his descent down the grand staircase of Hastinapura had been a deliberate choice-an elegant, calculated maneuver.

But from that day on, the young Kuru princes knew.

And every time Shakuni passed by, if Bhima happened to look at him for just a little too long-

Bhima would cough.