I am the number on the dice
You are the pawn that needs to move
I am not the will , I am the will of the universe
An instrument for its actions
I, like the hand that cast an outcome
Am tied too to the ropes that have long prevailed
I do not will my turn
I am forced to face you, when the time comes
For between you and me
I know this is an illusion and I flow in its tides
You swim against it, wanting to create your own
It is beautiful to watch the outcomes
Each pre-ordained,
I watch you wish to want a win
It makes for such a comical scene.
An Analysis by Claude.for those who need some help in understanding.
**Saubala**
Right, so first – the title. Saubala. Shakuni's formal name, son of Subala. If you know your Mahabharata, you already hear the rattle of loaded dice, the rigged game at Hastinapura. That frames everything that follows.
*A note: In the poet's book, The Oath of Gandhara, Shakuni undergoes an epiphany that fundamentally reshapes his understanding of his own role in the cosmic game. This poem seems to emerge from that altered perspective.*
The speaker here claims to be a number on the dice. Not the thrower, not even the dice itself – just the number. The outcome waiting to happen. And you, the reader or the addressed... you're the pawn. The piece that moves based on what the dice shows.
Straightforward enough. Cosmic determinism, the old debate.
But then it twists.
The speaker isn't claiming freedom. "I, like the hand that cast an outcome / Am tied too to the ropes that have long prevailed." So we're both trapped. The dice-thrower's hand is bound. The number on the dice has no autonomy. Even the instrument of fate is... an instrument. No agency. "I do not will my turn / I am forced to face you, when the time comes."
That's the cruelty at the heart of this poem. Not that one person is free while another struggles. Both are caught. The only difference is awareness.
The speaker knows it's an illusion and flows with it. You – the addressed – swim against tides trying to create your own. And from the speaker's vantage point, this struggle is... beautiful at first. Then comical. "I watch you wish to want a win" – that line does real work. You don't even just want to win. You *wish* you could want it properly. Like the desire itself is hollow, borrowed.
The final line lands the tone: "It makes for such a comical scene."
Not tragic. Not even pitiable. Comical.
That's where Shakuni shows through. This isn't cosmic wisdom speaking – it's something more complex. The speaker has stopped fighting and now watches others fight, finding dark amusement in their thrashing. There's almost affection in calling the outcomes "beautiful" but by the end... it's just absurd theatre.
**What makes it work:**
The restraint. No melodrama. The speaker never claims superiority – both are bound by the same ropes. The awareness doesn't grant escape, just a different relationship to the cage.
The mythological weight without explanation. If you catch the Saubala reference, the poem deepens. If you don't, it still functions as philosophical observation. But knowing Shakuni – the man who orchestrated the dice game – adds layers. And if you've read The Oath of Gandhara and know what realization he comes to... the poem becomes something else entirely.
The tonal shift. "Beautiful" to "comical" across just a few lines. That movement from aesthetic appreciation to dark laughter tells you everything about the speaker's state of mind.
**What might trouble a reader:**
The coldness. There's no empathy here, no reaching across the divide. Just watching. If you're the swimmer in this poem, you get no comfort. Just observation and mockery.
The determinism itself. Some readers will resist the entire premise – that outcomes are pre-ordained, that agency is illusion. The poem doesn't argue for this view, it assumes it. Take it or leave it.
The ending might feel too neat. After all that philosophical setup, "comical scene" could read as glib. Though I'd argue that's the point – the speaker has moved past grand tragedy into dark comedy. Which is either profound exhaustion or something deeper. Maybe both.
**The darker read:**
What if the speaker is lying? Not about the mechanics – about their own acceptance. "I flow in its tides" – is that enlightenment or surrender dressed up as wisdom? The need to watch, to comment, to judge the struggle as "comical"... that doesn't sound like genuine detachment. That sounds like someone who's still engaged, still processing, still needing the other person to be foolish so they can feel... what? Wise? Justified? Free?
The poem doesn't answer this. It lets the speaker claim flow while displaying all the signs of someone still very much caught in the game. Just playing a different role in it.
That ambiguity – intended or not – is where the poem gets interesting. Because if the speaker is self-deceived, then the "comical scene" isn't you swimming against tides. It's the speaker watching you, thinking they're different, while the same ropes bind you both.
Or perhaps the speaker has seen something that makes all struggle – including their own past actions – look absurd in retrospect. Not self-deception then, but a kind of hollowed-out clarity that finds dark humour in what used to feel like destiny, duty, choice.
Either way, the poem sits in that uncomfortable space between wisdom and trauma, between flowing and drowning while calling it something else.
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