Shakuntalā, standing before King Duṣyanta, spoke with gentle firmness. “O Duṣyanta,” she said, “I am known as the daughter of the venerable sage Kaṇva, a steadfast, righteous ascetic of great soul and virtue. I am not independent, O king; Kaṇva, who is both my teacher and my father, is of the lineage of Kāśyapa. Whatever your purpose may be, seek his counsel alone—you must not act otherwise.” She continued, her voice full of reverence, “The venerable Kaṇva, honored throughout the world, is steadfast in his pure vows, O illustrious one. Even if virtue falters elsewhere, he, firm in his resolve, never does.” Duṣyanta, filled with curiosity and wonder, asked, “O radiant one, how were you born as his daughter? This is a great mystery to me—please dispel my doubt here and now.” Shakuntalā began to recount her story. “Just as this event has come to me, so it happened before. My father, though his nature is otherwise, speaks differently among others. But listen, O king, to the true account of how I became the sage’s daughter, for those who obscure the truth are but thieves of their own selves. Once, a certain sage came and questioned me about my birth, asking, ‘Since you are one whose seed is held upward, how then is this Shakuntalā yours? How did a daughter arise from you? Tell me the truth, O Kāśyapa.’ To him, the venerable one replied as it truly happened. Hear now that account, O king. Long ago, the great ascetic Viśvāmitra was engaged in severe penance, so intense that he greatly troubled Indra, the lord of the gods. Indra, fearing, ‘By the power of his blazing austerity, he may cast me down from my place,’ spoke these words to Menakā, the foremost among celestial nymphs: ‘O Menakā, you excel in virtues among the apsarases; do me this favor and listen to what I ask. That great ascetic Viśvāmitra, radiant as the sun, is performing fierce penance and is shaking my mind with his power. Menakā, this task is yours: Viśvāmitra is resolute and nearly impossible to disturb, established in fierce austerity. Go and entice him so that he does not cast me down from my position. Disrupt his penance and do me this great service. Use your beauty, youth, sweetness, gestures, smiles, and speech, O lovely-hipped one—entice him and turn him away from his penance. He is a great and radiant sage, possessed of immense austerity and quick to anger; even the Lord knows this about him. Of his energy, austerity, and wrath, even you are afraid—how could I not be? He who deprived the fortunate Vasiṣṭha of his beloved sons, and who, though born a kṣatriya, forcibly became a brāhmin. He who, for the sake of purity, created a river difficult to cross and full of waters, known in the world as the most sacred Kausikī. Where, in former times, in that difficult place, the great-souled sage’s wife was once supported by Matanga, the righteous royal sage who had become a hunter. When a famine had passed, the sage came again to Akṣama, and there, by the river, the lord named it Pāreti. There, with a glad heart, he caused Matanga to perform a sacrifice, and you, out of fear, went to drink Soma, O lord of the gods. In his anger, he created another world, endowed with stars; he made the constellations beginning with Śravaṇa, and gave refuge to Triśaṅku, even though he had been struck down by the curse of his guru. How could Kauśika, the royal sage, free himself from the curse of a brahmarṣi, when the gods, scorning him, destroyed the sacrificial rite? That mighty ascetic, the lord of great energy, created other sacrificial limbs, and at that time led Triśaṅku to heaven. I am greatly afraid of him whose deeds are these; instruct me, O lord, so that he does not burn me in his anger. By his energy, he could burn up the worlds, shake the earth with his foot, swiftly compress mighty Meru, and turn the directions around. How could a woman like me approach one so endowed with ascetic power, blazing like fire, and with senses conquered? How could I touch one whose face is like blazing fire, whose eyes are the sun, moon, and stars, whose tongue is time itself, O best of gods? Even Yama, Soma, the great sages, the Sādhyas, the Viśvedevas, and all the Vālakhilyas are afraid of his power—why should I, a woman, not be afraid? Having been told thus by you, O lord of gods, how could I approach the sage? Think of my protection, O king of the gods, so that, for your sake, I may act under your protection. Let the wind-god provide me a dwelling there for my play, as I desire, O god; and let Kāma, by your favor, be my helper in this task.’ Then, as she wished, the fragrant wind blew from the forest, enticing the sage at that time; and having agreed, and after all was arranged, Menakā set out for Kauśika’s hermitage. Thus addressed by Indra, Menakā received his command for her constant coming and, at the proper time, set out together with the wind. Menakā, of lovely limbs but fearful at heart, arrived at Viśvāmitra’s hermitage, where the sage, his sins burned away by asceticism, was deep in austerities. Having saluted him, Menakā began to play in his presence, and the wind carried away her garment, shining like the moon. Swift-footed, she went to the ground to retrieve it, her modesty apparent as she seemed to reproach the wind, her lovely complexion glowing. Even as the royal sage, whose splendor was equal to fire, looked on, Viśvāmitra saw Menakā in this difficult situation—faultless and revealed, her age and beauty beyond description. Seeing her qualities and beauty, that foremost of brahmins was overcome by desire and wished to unite with her. Thus, O king, you have heard the true account of how I am the daughter of the sage.