When a great famine had passed, the sage returned once more to Akshama. There, by the riverbank, the venerable sage gave the place a new name—Pāreti. In this tranquil setting, his heart full of joy, he arranged for Matanga to perform a sacred sacrifice. But you, O lord of the gods, out of fear, withdrew to drink the Soma nectar. Angered, the sage displayed his extraordinary power: he created another world, adorned with stars and constellations, beginning with Śravaṇa. He offered refuge to Triśaṅku, even though Triśaṅku had been struck down by the curse of his guru. How could Kauśika, the royal sage, ever free himself from the curse of a brahmarṣi, especially when the gods themselves scorned him and destroyed his sacrificial rite? Yet, the mighty ascetic, lord of immense energy, fashioned new sacrificial limbs, and in that moment, he led Triśaṅku to heaven. I am deeply afraid of him, whose deeds are so wondrous and fearsome. Instruct me, O lord, so that I may not be consumed by his wrath. Such is the sage’s power that, by his energy, he could burn up the worlds, shake the earth itself with a single step, compress the mighty Meru mountain, and even turn the directions about. How could a woman like me ever approach one so radiant with ascetic power, blazing like fire, his senses fully conquered? How could I touch one whose face shines like burning 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 might—how could a woman like me not be afraid? Having been thus instructed 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 shelter. Let the wind-god provide me a beautiful dwelling there for my play, as I desire, O god; and let Kāma, with your favor, assist me in this task. Then, as all was arranged, a fragrant wind began to blow from the forest, enticing the sage at that time. Having agreed, she set out for Kauśika’s hermitage. Thus addressed, Śakra, lord of the gods, commanded her to go constantly. At the proper time, Menakā, accompanied by the wind, set forth. Menakā, lovely of limb yet fearful in her heart, came to the hermitage and beheld Viśvāmitra, his sins burned away by austerities, deep in meditation. She respectfully greeted him, and, in his presence, began to play. The wind, as if on cue, swept away her garment, which shone like the moon. Swiftly, she moved to the ground, seeking her garment, modestly reproaching the wind as she did so. The royal sage, his radiance like fire, looked on and beheld Menakā, faultless and in distress. Viśvāmitra saw her, agitated and revealed, her age and beauty beyond description. Overwhelmed by her qualities and beauty, the foremost of brahmins fell under the sway of desire and wished for union with her. She, blameless, invited him, and herself wished for him. There, the two lived together for a very long time. They enjoyed each other’s company as they wished, and though it seemed but a single day, a thousand years passed without their noticing. The sage, always composed and master of his desires and anger, brought to an end the austerity he had accumulated over so long a time. With his austerity depleted, delusion overtook him; confused and angry, he wandered, eating only roots and fruits. Making a sound in the water with his feet, he returned to his hut on the island. Menakā, wishing to depart, heard the sound of the water. She recognized the sign: the sage’s energy, bright from austerity, now waned and waxed, passing through the sky. She realized that his austerity had come to an end. Yet, saying, “It is not proper to go,” Menakā, having bathed after her period, approached the sage, who was still overtaken by desire and passion. The sage begot upon Menakā a daughter, Śakuntalā, on the beautiful slopes of Himavat, near the Mālinī river. The child, radiant as a divine being and adorned with all ornaments, lay on a lovely bed. To her, Menakā spoke gently: “O radiant one, you possess the energy of the great sage’s fierce austerity; now, I shall return to heaven, for I came here for the work of the gods.” Leaving the newborn by the Mālinī, Menakā, her task accomplished, swiftly returned to Indra’s assembly. The child, alone in the forest teeming with lions and tigers, was protected by birds who gathered around her, keeping the wild beasts at bay. There, the birds shielded Menakā’s daughter. When I went to bathe, I saw her lying there, surrounded by birds in that lovely, lonely forest. As soon as they saw me, the twice-born birds approached and fell at my feet, speaking sweetly in gentle tones. “O Brahmin,” they said, “take up the daughter of Viśvāmitra, entrusted to you; your friend, who conquered desire and anger, has gone to the Kauśikī.” Thus, they urged me to raise the child with compassion. I understand the speech of all creatures and am compassionate to all beings. So, I took the child and made her my daughter. According to the law of righteousness, he who gives the body, he who gives life, and he whose food one eats—these three are called fathers. Because she was surrounded by birds in the lonely forest, I named her Shakuntalā. Know, O Brahmin, that Shakuntalā is my daughter, and she, blameless one, regards me as her father.