The sage Mathinarā performed a twelve-year sacrifice upon the banks of the sacred river Sarasvatī, upholding with steadfast discipline the eternal order of rites. With mind and soul poured into every act, he conducted the sacrifice with faultless devotion. The river, long observing his austerities, was moved to favor him, and, assuming human form, became his consort. From their union was born a son, Thrasa. Later, Kalindī gave birth to Ilina, whose wife Rathandharī bore the illustrious Duṣyanta.
From youth, Duṣyanta excelled beyond all his peers. To him, the chase of deer, the taming of lions, tigers, elephants, bisons, and wild boars was but daily sport. He moved hillocks aside, turned the courses of waters, and transplanted trees to make paths wide for elephants and horses. Over the earth itself—guarded by the eight celestial elephants of the quarters—he reigned supreme. Impenetrable forests that even the sun could scarcely enter lay under his dominion. Yet he ruled with a father’s care, young, bold, and strong, devoted to dharma, and in his realm, there was no sorrow, no sickness, no fear, nor suspicion. The fame of his justice resounded far and wide.
One day, in the fervour of the hunt, Dushyanta sped through the forests, vying with the steeds of the sun, scattering beasts and birds with his bow. His guards, left far behind, strove in vain to keep his pace; the forest echoed with their shouts, drums, and whistles. Tigers leapt and roared; lions sprang but fled the arrows of the king; fierce beasts fell beneath his shafts. Soon his entourage, weary and faint with hunger, sought rest by a river shaded with heavy-laden boughs, rich in blossoms and fruits, its air perfumed with fragrance. This was the river Malini, flowing through a forest fair as the Khaṇḍava itself, a creation of Brahma upon earth.
Dushyanta beheld the beauty with delight: slender creepers like maidens, the hum of bees like their whispered words, blossoms falling like rice cast in sacrifice, birds calling like the chants of priests. The cool breeze soothed his body, the groves of Asoka and Sarangi, the screw-pines, mangoes, and bananas laden with fruit, the parrots and cuckoos singing—these enchanted the king. As he wandered deeper, the air grew filled with the fragrance of sacrificial smoke, sandalwood, and sacred barks. Vedic chants resounded, mingled with discourse on grammar, the Vedangas, and the secret depths of the Upanishads. Thus, he came upon the hermitage of sage Kaṇva.
Within the forest itself seemed transformed into a celestial realm. Parrots uttered the Sama hymns, mynas chanted the Yajur verses; elephants stood hushed in awe, while tiger-cubs and deer played together without fear. Serpents and eagles mingled, and all enmity was stilled. Hermit maidens fed the creatures, birds vied joyously, and even cats and rats sported without harm. The king, astonished, felt he had entered heaven upon earth.
As he sought the sage, his eyes fell upon a maiden: fair of hue, with black curling locks, lotus-shaped eyes, and a form delicately wrought by nature. This was Shakuntala. She, beholding the king, tall, strong, and radiant with regal grace, thought him no less than Jayanta, son of Indra. With modesty, she welcomed him, offering a seat and honouring him with the courtesy of the hermitage.
Dushyanta, pleased by her simplicity and gentle bearing, inquired of her birth. Then Shakuntala told the tale revealed to her by Kaṇva. Long ago, Viśvāmitra, the king turned sage, stood in fierce penance, so intense that Indra trembled for his throne. To break his austerities, Indra sent the celestial nymph Menakā, though she trembled at the task. For if Viśvāmitra’s wrath fell, mountains would shatter, oceans would dry, and the three worlds would reel. Yet obeying the king of gods, she went, adorned with jewels and flowers, her anklets and bangles chiming sweetly. Her beauty and gentle presence overcame the sage; he fell from his austerity and dwelt with her in joy for many years. From their union was born a daughter, whom Menakā, departing, left upon the sands of the river Mālinī. Birds gathered to protect the child, and Kaṇva, finding her thus preserved, brought her to his hermitage, naming her Śakuntalā.
“Women may call father those who beget, those who nourish, and those who save from peril,” said Kaṇva, “and in this third sense, I am her father.” Thus, the maiden grew in purity and grace beneath his care.
Hearing this tale, the king’s doubts were dispelled, for he saw she was born of kṣatriya and celestial blood. Joy arose in him, for destiny was weaving a union that would alter the fate of the world.
