Having spoken among themselves, the assembled group approached the great sages, greeting them with reverence. These sages shone with a divine radiance, their splendor almost dazzling to behold. The townsfolk exclaimed, “Today our birth is truly fruitful, and our lives fulfilled, for we are blessed to behold these great sages, luminous as the sun itself.” After expressing their awe, some among them chose to follow the Paurava prince, whose lotus-like eyes shone like those of Parvati, the daughter of Himavat. Yet, others, deluded and eager to catch a glimpse of Shakuntala, declared that they did not wish to look upon her, for she was clad in a black antelope skin. These people, deformed and ill-mannered, resembled fiends or wandering spirits entering the city at an inauspicious hour. Worn thin by hunger and thirst, their bodies draped in bark and animal skins, these folk were reduced to skin and bone, their veins visible, their faces gaunt and hollow. Their eyes and matted hair were tawny, their teeth long, faces drawn, some with shattered heads, arms raised in wild gestures. Seeing such a sight, the townspeople laughed at them. Hearing these mocking words, the great sages called to one another and spoke: “The command of the venerable one, who ever speaks the truth, has not been followed. The instruction was clear: ‘Entry into the city must not be made.’ Why should we, who have renounced attachment, enter a city filled with wickedness? What could a city offer an ascetic?” Thus resolved, they declared, “Let us go to the forest, to the sacred confluence of the Ganges and Yamuna.” With these words, the sages departed as they had come. Watching the sages leave, Shakuntala, her heart heavy, took her young son by the hand. Bereft and sorrowful, like a child who has lost her parents, she grieved deeply. Yet, steadying herself despite her sorrow, the radiant Shakuntala walked the royal road after the brahmins had gone. With only her son as companion, she moved slowly through the city, her eyes wide with wonder at sights she had never seen before: grand mansions, splendid palaces, sacred shrines, and resplendent assembly halls. Curiosity filled her, and she gazed in amazement at the marvels of the Paurava capital. All who saw her whispered among themselves, marveling at her beauty. “She is like beauty itself, deprived only of the lotus; her gait is as graceful as a swan’s, her voice sweet as a cuckoo’s song.” Her face shone like the moon, her beauty rivaled Lakshmi herself, and her smile was like a jasmine blossom, her complexion radiant as the heart of a lotus. Her eyes were wide and lovely as lotus petals, her glow like molten gold; her hands reached to her knees, her hair was lustrous, and her breasts full and close-set. Her hips were broad and shapely, her thighs like the trunks of young elephants, and her feet were high-arched, red, and firmly planted upon the earth. Endowed with such beauty, Shakuntala seemed to have descended from the world of the gods—so thought all who beheld her in Dushyanta’s city. Again and again, the people spoke of her virtues, and they also praised the boy at her side: “Lion-eyed, lion-toothed, lion-shouldered, mighty-armed! His chest, strength, and stride are like a lion’s, his shoulders broad, his chest wide, his head shaped like a royal parasol. His palms and soles are red, his mouth too, and his voice resounds like a drum. He is marked with royal signs, his splendor unmistakable. In form, beauty, and energy, he is the equal of King Dushyanta himself. Whose son could he be?” As the people spoke, their praise swelled by the thousands; the women of the city, speaking with discernment, joined in these words. With affection, as though she were their own kin, they followed Shakuntala. Hearing all this, Shakuntala fell silent, weighed down by her purpose. At last, she reached the palace door. Overcome by the gravity of her task, she pondered deeply, her heart heavy with shame. “How can I, without embarrassment, speak to the king about my own cause?” she thought, sorrowful and lost in contemplation. Nevertheless, gathering her resolve, Shakuntala approached the king and was admitted into his presence. With her son—radiant as the rising sun—she entered the royal court where King Dushyanta sat upon his throne, shining like Indra himself. Bowing her head, filled with joy yet trembling with modesty, Shakuntala honored the king as was proper and addressed him. She said, “Bow to the king, your father, steadfast in his vows.” With her face lowered in humility, she stood by a pillar and said softly, “Be gracious.” Her son, too, greeted the king with joined palms, his eyes wide with joy as he looked upon his father. King Dushyanta, steadfast in righteousness, considered her words and spoke gently, “What is the purpose of your coming, O lady of beautiful complexion? Speak, for I will surely do what you ask, especially for you and your son.” Shakuntala replied, “Be gracious, O great king, and I will speak. This son, O king, was born to you from me, O subduer of foes. Therefore, let this son be consecrated by you as crown prince. And as was agreed in the hermitage, fulfill your promise, O best of men. Previously, at our meeting, you made that vow. Remember, mighty-armed one, your word at Kanva’s hermitage.” But Dushyanta, drawn to the pleasures of the palace and other women, had let Shakuntala and her son fade from his mind. Yet, as he looked upon them, memories stirred within him. With a gentle smile, he embraced them in his thoughts, and for a long time, he was filled with happiness.