Having journeyed through mountain valleys and along the banks of rivers, passing through many kingdoms, bustling cities, and sacred hermitages, the travelers pressed onward, their weariness lifted by the purpose of their quest. As the sun reached its zenith, they gradually arrived at Pratishthana, the illustrious city built by Puruhuta for the sake of the son of Ila. This city was a marvel to behold: mighty gates and sturdy battlements guarded its perimeter, and intricate defenses—engines for hurling stones and other machines—made it nearly impregnable to foes. Within, grand mansions and palaces crowded together, adorned with precious goods. Beautiful halls and pavilions graced its avenues, and assembly places delighted the citizens, all encircled by elegant water-houses. A majestic royal road, splendidly laid out, ran through the city, its gateways soaring like the peaks of Kailasa. Everywhere, auspicious arches and exits welcomed visitors, while lush gardens and mango groves surrounded the city, which was girdled by stately sala trees. Lotus ponds and blossoming gardens abounded, and people of every class and stage of life dwelled there, each steadfast in their duties and ever engaged in festivals. The city thrived with wealth and grain; its people were content, adorned with jewels, and honored for their learning. Learned men who had performed sacrifices and were devoted to sacred fire rituals filled the city with wisdom. Nowhere were wrongdoers found; the people were generous and compassionate, shunning unrighteousness and aspiring to heavenly realms. Such was the city, shining like another world of Indra himself. At its heart stood the royal palace, resplendent as Indra’s own mansion, overflowing with treasures. At its center gleamed a divine assembly hall, adorned with every kind of jewel. Inside this hall, the royal sage sat adorned in all his ornaments, surrounded by Brahmanas, Kshatriyas, and wise counselors. Bards, genealogists, and minstrels praised him, while the king graciously attended to all who approached with their requests, dismissing them once their matters were resolved. When his duties were complete, the king sat at ease. At that moment, the great sages, guided by the calls of birds skilled in omens, observed auspicious signs for Shakuntala. “These signs promise success,” they said. “Surely, Shakuntala will become queen, and today her son will be made crown prince.” With the sound of instruments resounding at the gate of Vardhamanapura, the sages entered, placing Shakuntala at the front. As the prince entered, the people praised him; the descendant of Puru passed through the city gate, feeling as if he had entered Indra’s own realm. The townspeople gathered eagerly, all wishing to catch a glimpse of the prince. Shakuntala walked before them, shining like a goddess, as if fortune itself had arrived—like Paulomī returning from Indra’s realm with Jayanta. The people spoke excitedly among themselves, approaching the radiant sages and greeting them with reverence: “Today our birth is fruitful, our lives fulfilled, for we behold these great sages, resplendent as the sun.” Some among the crowd followed the Paurava prince, whose lotus-shaped eyes reminded them of Himavat’s son. Yet others, deluded and curious about Shakuntala, claimed they did not wish to look upon her, for she was clad in a black antelope skin. These townsfolk, deformed and fiend-like in appearance, resembled spirits entering the city at an inauspicious hour—emaciated by hunger and thirst, clad in bark and animal skins, their bodies reduced to skin and bone, veins prominent, their eyes and hair tawny, faces gaunt, teeth long, heads battered, arms raised. The townspeople laughed at the sight. Hearing these words and seeing such behavior, the great sages spoke among themselves: “The command of the venerable one, who always speaks the truth, has not been obeyed: ‘Entry into the city must not be made’—such was the instruction. Why should we enter a city filled with wicked people? What need has an ascetic, who has renounced attachment, for a city?” Resolving thus, they turned away, saying, “Let us return to the forest, to the sacred confluence of the Ganges and Yamuna.” With these words, the sages departed as they had come. Seeing the sages leave, Shakuntala, overwhelmed with grief yet steadying herself, took her son by the hand. Like children bereft of their parents, she sorrowed, but with resolve, she set forth along the royal road after the brahmins had left. With only her son as companion, Shakuntala walked slowly, marveling at the wonders she saw along the royal road of the Pauravas—mansions, palaces, shrines, and splendid assembly halls, all new to her eyes, and she gazed at them in amazement. All who saw her whispered among themselves: “She is like beauty deprived of the lotus, her gait as graceful as a swan’s, her voice as sweet as a cuckoo’s.” Her face glowed like the moon; her beauty rivaled Lakshmi’s, her smile was like a jasmine blossom, and her complexion shone like the heart of a lotus. Her eyes were wide as lotus petals, her radiance like molten gold. Her hands reached her knees, her hair was lovely, and her breasts were full and close-set. Her hips were broad and shapely, her thighs like the trunks of young elephants, and her feet were high-arched and red, firmly planted on the earth. So endowed with beauty, it seemed to all who beheld her in Dushyanta’s city that she had descended from the world of the gods.