When the time came for Śakuntalā to leave the forest and journey to her rightful place, the venerable sage Kaṇva summoned the ascetics dwelling in his hermitage. These were men of severe austerity—some lived only on water or air, others ate fallen leaves, fruits, or roots. Emaciated by their penances, their bodies were lean, their veins prominent, and their minds restrained by their vows. Kaṇva gathered these ascetics, some with matted hair, some shaven-headed, all clothed in bark garments or animal skins. Moved by deep compassion, he addressed them: “This illustrious daughter of mine, born and raised here in the forest, has always been cherished and protected by me. She knows nothing of the world beyond these woods. I ask you all, revered ones, to escort her from this hermitage to the house of the Kṣatriya. The city of Pratiṣṭhāna lies but two yojanas from here. There, her grandfather, the king, once dwelled for a long time with Urvaśī.” He described the city: Pratiṣṭhāna, splendid and ancient, stood at the sacred confluence of the Gaṅgā and Yamunā rivers. It was rich in marshes and jungles, teeming with wealth and grain. Kaṇva instructed the ascetics, “Upon reaching the confluence, bathe, offer oblations into the fire, and take your food—roots, fruits, and vegetables. Then return to the hermitage, for otherwise the journey will be too arduous.” The ascetics replied, “So be it,” and set out, leading Śakuntalā towards Duṣyanta’s city. With them walked the lotus-eyed boy, radiant and graceful, shining like a yak-tail fan beside his mother. Together, they emerged from the forest and made their way to the beautiful city where King Duṣyanta resided. The ascetics, steadfast in righteousness, guided Śakuntalā through forests and across rivers, over mountains and along their streams. They traversed valleys, riverbanks, kingdoms, cities, and sacred hermitages, their fatigue dispelled by their purpose and devotion. By midday, they reached Pratiṣṭhāna, the city built by Puruhuta for the son of Ila. Pratiṣṭhāna was a city of strength and splendor, guarded by mighty gates, battlements, and ingenious defenses—engines for hurling stones, machines for protection—making it near-impossible for enemies to approach. Within its walls, mansions and palaces rose in abundance, adorned with goods of every kind. The city was ringed by beautiful halls, pavilions, delightful assembly places, and water-houses, all interconnected by a magnificent royal road, splendidly laid out and decorated with gateways that resembled the peaks of Kailāsa. Auspicious arches and exits graced the city, which was surrounded by lush gardens and mango groves, and girdled by grand sala trees. Lotus ponds and blossoming gardens abounded, home to people of every class and stage of life, each steadfast in their duties and ever engaged in festivals. The city flourished with wealth and grain, its people content, adorned with jewels, and renowned for their learning and devotion to fire rituals. No wrongdoers dwelled there; the citizens were generous, compassionate, and averse to unrighteousness, all striving for the heavenly worlds. In this way, Pratiṣṭhāna resembled another realm of Indra himself. At its heart stood the royal palace, a mansion like that of Indra, filled with heaps of treasure and, at its center, a divine assembly hall glittering with jewels. In that hall sat the royal sage, Duṣyanta, adorned with all manner of ornaments, surrounded by Brāhmaṇas, Kṣatriyas, and wise counselors. Bards, genealogists, and minstrels praised him as he attended to the needs of all who came before him. When their business was done, he dismissed them and sat at ease. At that very moment, the great sages, skilled in reading omens, heard the cries of birds and observed auspicious signs. They said to Śakuntalā, “These omens are favorable for you. Today, our purpose will be fulfilled. Surely you will become queen, and on this very day, your son will be made crown prince.” As the sound of instruments resounded at the gate of Vardhamanapura, the sages entered the city, placing Śakuntalā at the forefront. The people gathered, eager to witness the arrival of the prince, descendant of Puru, who entered through the city gates with Śakuntalā shining before them like a goddess—fortune incarnate, as if Paulomī herself had returned from Indra’s realm with Jayanta. The townsfolk, filled with joy, felt as though they dwelled in Indra’s own city. They praised the great sages, exclaiming, “Today our birth is fruitful, our lives fulfilled, for we behold these radiant sages, shining like the sun.” Some followed the Paurava prince, whose eyes were like lotus petals, as if he were the son of Himavat himself. Yet others, deluded and eager to see Śakuntalā, claimed they did not wish to look upon her, for she was clad in a black antelope skin. These people appeared like fiends or spirits entering the city at an untimely hour—emaciated by hunger and thirst, draped in bark and animal skins, their bodies reduced to skin and bone, veins exposed, with tawny eyes, matted hair, long teeth, gaunt faces, and upraised arms. The townspeople laughed at the sight of them. Hearing such words, the great sages called out to one another, saying, “The venerable one’s command has not been followed: ‘Entry into the city must not be made’—such was his instruction. Why should we enter a city filled with wicked people? What purpose does a city serve for an ascetic who has renounced all attachment?” Thus, the arrival of Śakuntalā and her son, escorted by the ascetics, marked a moment of wonder and revelation for the people of Pratiṣṭhāna, as the sages pondered the ways of the world and the meaning of true detachment.