Hear now the tale of Shakuntala, as she herself relates her origins and the trials she endured. “My father is the illustrious sage Vishvamitra, and my mother is Menaka, the renowned Apsaras. Menaka bore me on the slopes of the sacred Himalayas, and after my birth, she abandoned me, forsaking her own child. Left alone, righteous birds gathered around and protected me, sheltering me beneath their wings. Because of their care, I came to be known as Shakuntala. One day, the great sage Kashyapa saw me. The birds, seeing me approach for water meant for the sacrificial fire, compassionately entrusted me to the sage, as if I were a precious deposit. Later, the venerable sage Kanva, upon seeing me, was pleased and smiled. Like one kindling fire from wood, he took me into his hermitage. There, O King, the sage honored me and, out of compassion, raised me as his own daughter. Thus, I am the daughter of Vishvamitra, raised by Kanva. You, O King, saw me as I entered my youth. In the hermitage, in a simple leaf-hut, you found me alone—a maiden, bereft of my father, solitary by fate. With gentle and sincere words, you wooed me for the sake of progeny. You dwelt in the hermitage, steadfast in righteousness, desire, and purpose. By the Gandharva rite, according to custom, you took my hand in marriage. I know your lineage, your conduct, and your truthfulness. Now, upholding my own duty, I have sought your protection. Having promised, you should not speak a false word. I have set aside my own duty and come to you, having been abandoned, with you as my only protector. You, lord of men, should not forsake me, who am without fault. What wrong did I commit, 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 son—you should not forsake.” But the king replied harshly, “I do not recognize this son as born from you and me, Shakuntala. Women speak untruths; who will believe your words? Shamelessly you utter these unbelievable words in my presence, O wicked ascetic woman—go away. Where is that fierce sage, your father, and where is Menaka, your mother? And where are you, so pitiable, dressed as an ascetic? Your son is tall and strong, though still a child. How has he grown so quickly, like the trunk of a sala tree? Your birth is most lowly; you seem to me a wanton woman, born from Menaka by chance, out of desire. All you say is hidden, O ascetic woman. All women in the world are fickle, devoted to desire. All women are dependent on others, filled with anger, and speak falsehoods. You should not speak to Kanva. Menaka, your mother, is without compassion, a dancer by profession, abandoned at the foot of the Himalaya like a discarded garland. Your father, born of the warrior class, is without compassion—Vishvamitra, greedy for Brahminhood, devoted to desire. The divine woman bore me, Vishvamitra, as she wished. I know your birth, O degraded one, from ignoble people. Menaka is the best among apsaras, 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 Kanva, of poor judgment, raised you as a child born from misfortune. The words you speak, O ascetic woman, are not to be believed. Having spoken thus in my presence, go wherever you wish. Here are gold, jewels, pearls, garments, and ornaments. If you desire enjoyment, accept these. I do not wish to see you; go wherever you please from here.” Shakuntala, wounded by these words, replied with dignity, “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. Menaka dwells among the gods, and the gods are with Menaka; my birth is exalted, Dushyanta, compared to yours. You walk upon the earth, O King, while I move in the sky; see the distance between us, like that between Mount Meru and a mustard seed. I have visited the palaces of Indra, Kubera, Yama, and Varuna—witness my power, O King. Long ago, O best of men, a son was born to Urvashi, named Ayus; he was your ancient forefather, O great King. Many great sages and mighty kshatriyas have been born from apsarases; among the sages, there is no fault in having such mothers. Hear also a saying that is true, O King; I offer it for illustration, not out of malice—please forgive me. As long as a deformed man does not see his own face in a mirror, he considers himself more handsome than others. But when he sees his ugly form reflected, he feels shame within himself, not because of others. One who is exceedingly handsome does not look down on anyone; but one who is excessively talkative and harsh in speech becomes a troublemaker. Elephants in rut rejoice when dust is thrown upon them; likewise, a wicked person delights in slandering others.” Thus, Shakuntala defended her honor and lineage, standing steadfast before the king, her words imbued with truth and grace.