After the sages had concluded their counsel, they resolved, “Let us go to the forest, to the sacred confluence of the Ganges and Yamuna.” With these words, the group of wise men departed just as they had arrived, leaving behind Shakuntala and her young son. Watching the sages leave, Shakuntala, grief-stricken like a child deprived of parents, took her son by the hand. Though sorrow weighed heavily upon her body, she steadied herself and, radiant despite her anguish, began to walk along the royal road after the brahmins had gone. With only her son for company, Shakuntala moved slowly, taking in the sights of the royal road of the Pauravas—things she had never seen before. As she walked, her curiosity grew as she gazed in wonder at the grand mansions, palaces, shrines, and splendid assembly halls that lined the way. Everyone who saw her remarked that she was like beauty deprived of its lotus. Her gait was as graceful as a swan’s, her voice as sweet as a cuckoo’s. Her face shone like the moon, her beauty rivaled Lakshmi herself, and her smile was as delicate as the jasmine blossom, with a complexion radiant as the heart of a lotus. Her eyes were wide like lotus petals, her glow like molten gold; her hands reached to 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; her feet were high-arched and red, firmly planted upon the earth. Endowed with such beauty, Shakuntala seemed as if she had descended from the world of the gods—so thought all the people in Dushyanta’s city. Again and again, they spoke of her virtues, and also of her son: lion-eyed, lion-toothed, lion-shouldered, and mighty-armed. The boy possessed a lion’s chest, lion’s strength, lion’s stride, broad shoulders, a wide chest, and a head shaped like a parasol—truly remarkable. His palms and soles were red, his mouth was red, his voice resounded like a drum, he bore royal marks, and the splendor of royalty shone in him. In form, beauty, body, and energy, he was the equal of Dushyanta; people wondered aloud, “Whose son could he be?” As these conversations spread, thousands praised Shakuntala and her son, and all the women of the city spoke admiringly and with reason. With affection like relatives, they followed Shakuntala. Hearing the words of the city folk, Shakuntala fell silent. When she reached the palace door, the king’s daughter was overcome, pondering her task with a heavy heart. Filled with shame, she wondered, “How can I, without embarrassment, speak to the king about my own cause?” Lost in sorrowful thought, Shakuntala nevertheless approached the king and was admitted to his presence. With her son, radiant as the rising sun, she entered the throne room where King Dushyanta sat, shining like Indra himself. Bowing her head, Shakuntala honored the king with great joy and spoke to him as was proper: “Bow to the king, your father, steadfast in his vows,” she said to her son, standing there with her face lowered in modesty. Clinging to a pillar, she addressed the king, “Be gracious,” and her son too greeted the king with joined palms. With eyes wide in joy, the boy looked at the king; but Dushyanta, considering the situation with a mind set on righteousness, spoke gently. “What is the purpose of your coming? Speak, O lady of beautiful complexion. I will do it without doubt, especially for you and your son.” Shakuntala replied, “Be gracious, O great king, and I will speak, O best of men. This son, O king, has been born to you from me, O subduer of foes. Therefore, O king, let this son be consecrated by you as crown prince. And as was agreed in the hermitage, abide by that, O best of men. Previously, at our meeting, you made that promise. Remember that, O mighty-armed one, concerning the hermitage of Kanva.” But as Dushyanta had become attached to the pleasures of his royal life and to other women, Shakuntala and her son had faded from his mind. Yet now, holding them in his thoughts, he smiled and embraced them in his mind, attaining happiness for a long time. Even after hearing her words and remembering her, the king said, “I do not remember our union, O gentle lady. I do not wish to engage in union in vain; this is my resolve. I do not recall, O blessed one, any union with you. I do not remember any connection of righteousness, wealth, or desire with you. Go or stay as you wish, or do whatever else you desire.” Shakuntala’s eyes reddened with anger and indignation, her lips quivering; she glanced sideways at the king as if burning him with her gaze. Concealing her expression and the agitation caused by anger, she restrained the energy she had gained through her austerities. After reflecting for a moment, filled with grief and indignation, she looked at her husband and spoke words in accordance with propriety. “Though you know, O great king, why do you speak in this way? Without hesitation you say you do not know, just as an ordinary man would. Your heart knows both truth and falsehood. Alas, you disregard your own self, which is the witness, O blessed one. He who, being one thing, behaves as another—what sin has he not committed, like a thief who steals his own self? You think you are alone, but you do not know the ancient sage in your heart, who knows the deeds of sin; in his presence you commit wrong.” Thus, Shakuntala stood before the king, her grief and indignation mingled with dignity, and spoke the truth that weighed upon her heart.