When Indra, the king of the gods, requested Menakā to distract the great sage Viśvāmitra from his fierce austerities, Menakā addressed Indra with humility and concern. “O lord of gods,” she said, “after hearing your command, how can I approach such a sage on my own? Please, think of my protection, O king of the gods. Let me act under your safeguard, for your sake.” Menakā continued, “Let the wind-god provide me a delightful dwelling near the sage’s hermitage, as I desire, O god. And let Kāma, the god of love, by your favor, become my helper in this task.” Hearing her words, Indra arranged all as she requested. A fragrant wind began to blow from the forest, alluring and enticing the sage at just the right moment. With all preparations complete, Menakā set out for the hermitage of Kauśika, another name for Viśvāmitra. Thus instructed by Indra, Menakā was granted leave to come and go as needed. At the proper time, she set out, accompanied by the gentle wind. Though Menakā was of exquisite beauty, her heart was filled with apprehension as she approached Viśvāmitra, who, through his ascetic practices, had burned away all his sins. She found him deep in meditation in his hermitage. With reverence, Menakā saluted the sage and began to play and dance before him. At that moment, the wind—acting upon Indra’s will—swept away her garment, which shone like the moon. Swiftly, Menakā moved to the ground to retrieve her garment, her actions marked by modesty, as if she were gently reproaching the wind for its mischief. Viśvāmitra, radiant like fire, beheld Menakā in this predicament—her beauty and youth revealed, her grace beyond description. Seeing her qualities and her loveliness, the great sage, though steadfast, was overcome by desire and wished to unite with her. Menakā, blameless and equally drawn to him, invited him, and together they lived in the forest for a very long time. Enjoying each other’s company as if it were a single day, a thousand years slipped by unnoticed. Yet, despite his great composure and mastery over desire and anger, Viśvāmitra’s long-acquired austerity came to an end. With his ascetic energy depleted, he was overtaken by delusion, confusion, and anger, and began to live simply, eating roots and fruits. One day, making a sound in the water with his feet, Viśvāmitra returned to his hut on the island. Menakā, sensing his change and wishing to depart, heard the sound of the water and realized the time had come. She thought, “His ascetic energy, bright as ever, now comes and goes through the sky. Today I see the sign that his austerity is ended.” After bathing, Menakā approached the sage, her heart still touched by desire and passion. There, on the beautiful slopes of Himavat, near the Mālinī river, Viśvāmitra begot a daughter with Menakā—a radiant child, adorned with all ornaments, lying on a lovely bed. Menakā spoke to her newborn: “O radiant one, you possess the energy of the great sage’s fierce austerity. Now I must return to heaven, for I came here for the work of the gods.” Leaving her infant daughter by the Mālinī river, Menakā, her task complete, quickly returned to Indra’s assembly. The child lay alone in a forest filled with lions and tigers, but birds gathered around her, protecting her from harm. When I, the sage Kanva, went to bathe, I saw the child lying there, surrounded by birds in that lonely, beautiful forest. As soon as the birds saw me, they, the twice-born, approached and fell at my feet, speaking in gentle, sweet tones: “O Brahmin, take up the daughter of Viśvāmitra, entrusted to you. Your friend, who conquered desire and anger, has gone to the Kauśikī river. Therefore, raise this daughter with compassion.” Knowing the speech of all creatures and being compassionate to all beings, I took the child and raised her as my own daughter. According to the law of righteousness, he who gives the body, he who gives life, and he whose food is eaten—these three are called fathers. Because she was surrounded by birds (śakuntas) in the lonely forest, I named her Shakuntalā. Know, O Brahmin, that Shakuntalā is my daughter, and she regards me as her father. Thus, when asked about her birth, Shakuntalā told the great sage her story: “Know me as the daughter of Kanva, O king of men. Not knowing my true father, I consider Kanva my father. Thus, O king, I have told you what I have heard as it happened.” Hearing her words, the king addressed Shakuntalā: “It is clear you are a royal maiden, O blessed one. Become my wife, fair-hipped one, and tell me what I should do for you. I will bring you golden necklaces, garments, earrings, bracelets, and splendid jewels from many cities. Today I will fetch for you necklaces and deer-skins; let the whole kingdom be yours from this day, O lovely one. Become my wife.” He continued, “Come, timid one, marry me by the Gandharva rite, O beautiful lady. Among all forms of marriage, the Gandharva is said to be the best, O slender-waisted one.” But Shakuntalā replied, “My father has gone, O king, to gather fruits from the hermitage. Wait a moment, and he will give me to you. For my father is always my lord, my highest deity. The one to whom my father gives me, he will be my husband. A father protects a girl in childhood, a husband protects her in youth, and a son in old age; a woman is not fit for independence. Honoring my ascetic father, O king, how could I, who value righteousness, seek a husband unrighteously?