With deep affection and reverence, the father embraced his son, breathing the blessing that he might live a hundred autumns. As he placed his hand upon the boy’s head, he recited the ancient mantra, recognizing in his son his very own self and wishing him a long and joyful life. “Your nourishment depends on me, and my lineage is everlasting,” he declared. “Therefore, live, my son, and be happy for a hundred years.” He reflected on the sacred wisdom: “From the One, there became Two. This son was born from my own limbs—a person from a person, supreme.” He gazed upon his child and saw in him his second self, just as the moon’s reflection shimmers in a clear lake; in his son, he saw his own image, as one sees the moon in water. Just as the sacred fire for sacrifice is led forth from the household fire, so too was his son brought forth from himself—he was one, now made two. In the midst of these reflections, Shakuntalā began to recount her own story. “O King,” she said, “while hunting, drawn by the chase, I was found as a maiden in my father’s hermitage. Among the foremost of the Apsarases are Urvaśī, Pūrvacitti, Sahajanyā, Menakā, Viśvācī, and Ghṛtācī. Of these, Menakā is renowned as the best, born from Brahma himself. She descended from heaven to earth and bore a child by the illustrious sage Viśvāmitra. “Viśvāmitra, devoted to righteousness and mighty in austerity, is called Kuśa’s grandson, for Kuśa was his grandfather, a sage of great renown. Kuśa’s son was the powerful and righteous Kuśanābha, whose son was Gādhi, and from Gādhi was born Viśvāmitra. Such was my father, and Menakā, the distinguished Apsaras, is my mother. She gave birth to me on the slopes of the Himavat. “Yet, after my birth, Menakā abandoned me and departed, leaving me alone as one forsaken by her own mother. Righteous birds gathered around and protected me, shielding me with their wings. Because I was guarded by these birds, I was named Śakuntalā. Then, the great sage Kāśyapa saw me. “The birds, seeing me come to fetch water for the sacrificial fire, compassionately entrusted me to the sage, as if I were a precious deposit. The sacrificer Kaṇva, seeing me, was pleased and smiled. Like one kindling the sacred fire, he brought me to his hermitage. There, O King, I was honored by the great sage out of compassion, and he raised me as his own daughter. “I am the daughter of Viśvāmitra, O King, raised by sage Kaṇva. You saw me, O King, as I was entering my youth. In the hermitage, in a leaf-hut, you saw me alone, a maiden bereft of my father, prompted by fate and in solitude. With gentle and truthful words, you wooed me for the sake of offspring. You dwelt in the hermitage, firmly resolved on righteousness, desire, and purpose. “By the Gandharva rite of marriage, according to custom, you took my hand. I know well your lineage, your conduct, and your truthfulness. Upholding my own duty, I have now sought your protection. Therefore, having promised, you should not speak a false word. Having set aside my own path and come to you, with you as my only protector, you, lord of men, should not forsake me, who am without fault. “What evil deed did I commit before, O King, that I was abandoned by my relatives in childhood, and now by you? Even if you abandon me, I will return to the hermitage; but this child, your own son, you should not forsake.” But the king replied coldly, “I do not recognize this son as born from you and me, Shakuntalā. Women speak untruths; who will believe your words? You shamelessly utter these unbelievable claims in my presence, O wicked ascetic woman—go away. Where is that great sage, fierce in austerities, and where is that Apsaras Menakā? And where are you, so pitiable, dressed as an ascetic woman? “Your son is of great stature, and though a child, he is exceedingly strong. How has he grown so tall, like the trunk of a sala tree, in such a short time? Your birth is most lowly; you seem to me a wanton woman, born of Menakā by chance, out of lustful desire. Everything you say to me is hidden, O ascetic woman. ‘All women in the world are fickle, all are devoted to desire.’ “All women are dependent on others, all are filled with anger; all women speak falsehoods. You should not speak to Kaṇva. Menakā, your mother, is without compassion, a dancer by profession, who abandoned you at the foot of the Himalayas like a discarded garland. And your father, too, though born of the warrior class, is without compassion—Viśvāmitra, greedy for Brahminhood, devoted to desire. “The divine woman bore me, Viśvāmitra, as she wished. I know your birth, O degraded one, from ignoble people. Menakā is the best among Apsarases, and your father is a great sage. Why then, as their child, do you speak like a wanton woman? You claim noble lineage, but your birth is lowly. After your birth, you were abandoned and raised by others, like a cuckoo’s chick. “Your father Kaṇva, of poor judgment, raised you as a child born from misfortune. The words you speak, O ascetic woman, are not to be believed. Speaking thus in the presence of the king, go wherever you wish. Here are gold, jewels, pearls, garments, and ornaments. If you desire enjoyment, O ascetic woman, accept these. I do not wish to see you; go wherever you please from here.” At this, Shakuntalā, wounded yet steadfast, replied, “O King, you see the faults of others as small as a mustard seed, but your own, though as large as a bilva fruit, you see yet do not see.