A man, even when worn down by exile, misery, and the hardships of life—his body thin, his clothes soiled—still finds joy in his own wife, just as one scorched by the heat delights in cool water. Even those who have little, when they find wealth, rejoice; and even if a wife speaks harshly, the wise husband responds not with anger, but with patience and gentleness. For he knows, as the scriptures teach, that pleasure, affection, and righteousness all depend on her. She is half of himself, the guardian of his wealth and the protector of his children. Indeed, all that sustains a man—his body, his journey through life, his righteousness, his hope for heaven, the welfare of sages and ancestors, and the very land of his birth—owes its existence to virtuous women, who are eternal and pure. Without women, even the sages themselves could not create offspring; even the gods could not bring about their own births. Among women, creation is established—even the learned know this. Sages have been born from sages, and from women of every caste. Consider the love between a father and son: just as a child, covered in earth’s dust, runs to embrace his father, what could be dearer than that? So now, you have a son—intelligent, full of longing, gazing at you with sidelong glances. Why do you disregard him? Even ants carry and protect their own eggs; even the cuckoo and the crow nurture their own young. Why, then, would you, who know all, not cherish your own son? They say sandalwood, born in Malaya, is exceedingly cool to the touch, but the embrace of a child surpasses even that. No garment, no woman, no water has such a touch. The happiness found in holding one’s child is unmatched; there is no touch in this world dearer than that of a son. Let this beloved son embrace you, for among creatures, the Brahmin is the best among bipeds, the cow among quadrupeds, and the son is the foremost among those who give joy through their touch. This boy, born after three full years, is a subduer of enemies. Today, by my word, this prince awaits your call, O mighty king, ready to remove your sorrow. This descendant of Puru will one day perform a hundred horse sacrifices, and other royal rites such as the Rājasūya, giving boundless gifts. When I gave birth, a cow once spoke to me from the sky: “Alas! Out of affection, I carried my own calf on my lap and went to another village.” People greet their sons by smelling their heads, and even among the Vedas, the twice-born recite this collection of mantras. You know well the birth rites for sons: from limb to limb he arises, from the heart he is born. He is called “son,” your very self—may he live a hundred autumns. Fathers bless their sons with this mantra, smelling their heads. Your nourishment depends on me, and my lineage is everlasting—live, my son, and be happy for a hundred years. The saying goes, “Having become one, he became two.” This child was born from your own limbs, a person from a person, supreme. See your son as your second self, like the moon reflected in a clear lake; just as you see the moon in water, see yourself in him. As the fire for sacrifice is taken from the household fire, so too was he brought forth from you; you are one, now made two. O king, let me tell you of my own story. While you were hunting, drawn by the chase, you found me, a maiden, in my father’s hermitage. Among the Apsarases, Urvaśī, Pūrvacitti, Sahajanyā, Menakā, Viśvācī, and Ghṛtācī are the foremost, and of these, Menakā is renowned as the best, born from Brahma. She descended from heaven to earth and gave birth to Viśvāmitra’s child. The illustrious sage Kuśa, devoted to righteousness and called Brahmayoni, was the grandfather of Viśvāmitra. Kuśa’s son was the powerful Kuśanābha; his son was Gādhi, and Viśvāmitra was born of Gādhi. Such was my father, Viśvāmitra, and Menakā, the distinguished Apsaras, is my mother. She gave birth to me on the slopes of Himavat, but then, abandoning me, she departed. Left alone, righteous birds gathered and protected me. Sheltered by their wings, I came to be called Śakuntalā. Then, the great-souled sage Kāśyapa saw me. The birds, seeing me approach the water of the sacrificial fire, compassionately entrusted me to the sage as if I were a precious deposit. The sacrificer Kaṇva, seeing me, was pleased; taking me as one would take fire from kindling, he brought me to his hermitage. There, O king, the great sage honored me with compassion and raised me as his own daughter. I am the daughter of Viśvāmitra, raised by the sage; you saw me, O king, as I entered my youth. In the hermitage, in a leaf-hut, you saw me alone, bereft of my father, in solitude, and fate brought us together. With gentle and truthful words, you wooed me for the sake of offspring; you dwelt in the hermitage, steadfast in righteousness, desire, and purpose. By the Gandharva rite of marriage, according to custom, you took my hand. I know your lineage, your conduct, and your truthfulness.