novelraw Arc 5 - Sambhava - Chapter 5 - Śakuntalā's Return
Arc 5 - Sambhava - Chapter 5 - Śakuntalā's Return
Vaiśampāyana said:
After King Duṣmanta had departed from the forest hermitage, having made his solemn vow to Śakuntalā, she—slender-waisted and steadfast—brought forth a son of immense splendour and power. From birth, the child bore an aura like that of Agni himself. And when he reached the tender age of three, his radiance was like the rising sun—his beauty marked, his mind noble, his spirit lofty.
Kaṇva, that foremost of sages, performed every sacred rite and ceremony for the child, who, even in boyhood, displayed signs of greatness. His teeth shone like pearls, his locks curled richly, and his limbs bore the symmetry of celestial beings. His brow was broad, his gait assured, and his gaze clear and fearless.
Even wild beasts seemed no match for him. At six years of age, he would seize lions and tigers, bears and mighty buffaloes—even young elephants—and bind them playfully to the trees of the āśrama. Some he would ride; others he would chase for sport, laughing in delight, a garland of courage upon his shoulders.
The ascetics, beholding such feats, marveled and named him accordingly:
“He who subdues all that roams,
Fierce or gentle, wild or tame—
Let him be known across the world
As Sarvadamana, his rightful name!”
Thus did the boy come to be called Sarvadamana, the Subduer of All—possessed of vigour, fearless by nature, and blessed with divine might.
When Kaṇva saw the boy’s burgeoning strength and brilliance, he turned to Śakuntalā with the words of a wise and caring father:
“Daughter, the time hath come.
This child, resplendent like Indra’s son,
Must now be led to his father’s court,
To stand in his rightful place.
Women must not linger
Too long in their guardian’s house.
Even the virtuous grow weary of delay.
Let him now claim his royal name.”
At his bidding, Kaṇva’s disciples bowed low and prepared the journey. With Śakuntalā and her son at the centre, they travelled towards the famed city of Hastināpura, the elephant-named seat of the Kuru kings.
As they neared the palace, the boy shone like a young sun—his face bright with destiny, his lotus eyes fearless and fair. They entered the royal court and stood before King Duṣmanta, the boy's face calm, yet glowing with sovereign grace.
After offering due homage, Śakuntalā stepped forward and spoke without tremor:
“O king, behold thy son.
The fire of his spirit, the glow of his form,
Bear witness to his lineage.
Thou didst once pledge in Kaṇva’s grove—
Fulfil now that sacred vow.
Let him stand as thy heir,
A prince before the world.
In thy blood he rises,
In thy name he shall rule.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the king heard her words, his brow darkened, and his pride turned him cold. Memory, perhaps, stirred faintly—yet arrogance muffled it.
Duṣmanta said:
"I recall nothing of what thou speakest.
Who art thou, O woman robed in virtue’s guise?
Between us, I know no bond of Dharma, Kāma, or Artha.
Stay or go—do as thou wilt. It concerns me not."
These words, harsh and unjust, struck Śakuntalā like an arrow to the heart. Her colour faded. Like a tree split by lightning, she stood motionless. Her lips trembled, her breath quickened. Her grief threatened to become flame.
And yet, by inner discipline wrought through long tapas, she quenched that fire within herself. Composed once more, with a voice clear and fierce, she turned her eyes upon the king.
Śakuntalā said:
"Thou knowest the truth, O king. Why dost thou wear
The mask of ignorance, as though thou wert unaware?
Thy conscience knows, thy soul bears witness.
Speak truth, and fall not into baseness.
Who, being one, pretends to be another—
Is thief, betrayer, liar, and none other.
Think not thy sin lies hidden from all sight.
The Lord within, the ancient Light—
He dwells in every heart, He sees,
Thy every thought, thy dark deceits.
The Sun and Moon, the Wind, the Fire,
The Earth and Sky, the Gods entire—
Yama, Dharma, day and night,
All bear witness to wrong and right.
Even now, Nārāyaṇa sees thee thus.
Denying truth, unrighteous, dangerous.
Yama forgives the one He sees
Is blessed by Viṣṇu’s inward peace.
But he who hides his soul in lies—
Shall find no grace in gods or skies.
A man who stains his truth with art,
Is cursed by gods—and by his heart."
"O king, though I came of my own accord,
I am thy wife—by dharma, not by fraud.
Wilt thou deny me now, before thy court?
Am I so low, my lord, as to deserve this sort?
I am no stranger wandering through the wild—
I bear thy son, thy flesh, thy image, thy child!
And if thy heart refuse what truth demands,
Then let the gods decide with unseen hands.
'The husband enters the womb, returns as the son—
The soul reborn, the self and heir in one.
Therefore the wise call her "Jaya"—the birth-giver,
And the son, "Putra"—he who saves forever.'
What wife is true?
She who labours with grace,
Who bears a son,
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Who looks on none but her husband’s face.
She is his half, his friend, his root of joy,
His partner in virtue—none can this destroy.
In joy, the wife is like a friend;
In rites, a father, in pain—a mother.
Even in the forest, in exile grim,
The wife is balm; there is no other.
Why then cast me aside?
Why slight the son I bore?
Have I not shared thy soul,
And pledged myself for evermore?
Thou hast known the delight
When a child clasps thy knee,
Dusty and laughing—
Shall this not move thee?
Even ants guard their eggs.
Shall not a king guard his own?
Let thy son embrace thee,
Let thy blood be known!
'Sweeter than sandal,
Cooler than streams,
Is the touch of one’s son
In the warmth of his dreams.'
This child was born to dispel thy sorrow.
He is thy future, thy name, thy morrow.
Cast me off, if thou must, I will endure.
But cast not thy son—thy lineage pure.
Urvaśī, Pūrvacitti, Menakā—
Among these divine Apsarases, Menakā shone.
She bore me in Himavat’s glade
And left me—alone.
'What sin have I done in a former birth
To be cast away—by mother and now by thee?
Still I came, bearing thy son,
In hope, in love, in dharma’s plea.'
If I must go, I shall. But this I vow:
This child shall rule, if not today, then somehow.
The earth shall bear his wheel, the skies his fame—
And "Bharata" shall be the echo of his name."
Śakuntalā continued:
“O chastiser of foes, I bore this child in my womb for three long years.
He came into the world with power to banish sorrow—
To be thy strength, thy solace, thy fame on Earth and heaven.
‘He shall perform a hundred horse-sacrifices’—
So rang the voice divine above my chamber.
And still I hear its echo in my soul.
Strange it is, O king, how men in distant lands,
Seeing children not their own, lift them with joy,
Smell their sweet heads, and bless them with laughter.
Yet thou—thou shrinkest from thy own blood.
Knowest thou not the mantra that Brāhmaṇas chant
Upon the consecration of a son?
‘Thou art born, O son, of my body,
Sprung from my heart’s own root.
Thou art my self—breathed anew.
Live long, live true, a hundred years!’
This life of mine depends on him.
He is the sap of my lineage.
Thou art reborn in him—
As fire from fire,
As self divided in sacred rite.
Behold thyself in thy son,
As one sees his face in a silent lake.
Behold thy flame in his young light,
As altar-fire from domestic blaze is taken.
In the forest’s hush, while chasing deer,
Thou didst come to me—
I, a virgin sheltered in my father’s āśrama.
It was no folly. It was fate’s own course.
Urvaśī, Pūrvacitti, Sahajanyā, Menakā,
Viśvāchī, Ghṛtāchī—celestial courtesans they are,
But none shines brighter than Menakā,
Born of Brahmā, and mother to me.
Descending to earth, she joined with Viśvāmitra
And bore me in the snow-hushed valleys of Himavat.
Yet when I opened my eyes, I saw no mother's arms—
She cast me away, like a garland offered and gone.
What sin was mine in lives before
That mother left, and father denied?
Now thou, my husband, cast me too—
Is this the fate the gods decide?
If it please thee, send me back to Kaṇva’s shade—
But cast not off this child who bears thy mark.
He is thy truth, thy legacy, thy son.”
Duṣmanta replied:
“I know thee not, O woman veiled in ascetic guise.
I recall no bond, no son begotten upon thee.
Women are swift to falsehood, ever weaving tales.
Why should I believe thy words?
Menakā—yes, that famed Apsarā—is thy mother,
But cast thee she did,
As garlands cast aside once worship ends.
Like petals scattered on Himavat’s slope,
Abandoned wert thou in the chill of solitude.
And thy father—Viśvāmitra—born of Kṣatriya blood,
Turned Brāhmaṇa through hunger for power.
Yet he, too, showed thee no love.
Where are they now? Where is that Ṛṣi? Where that Apsarā?
Daughter of such uncertain grace,
Why speak’st thou so boldly in public space?
Thou art low-born, though clad in dignity.
Why pretend to purity,
When thy words drip with cunning?
This child thou claimest to be mine—
Is he not too strong, too tall for his years?
How hath he grown so swiftly, like a Śāla tree in spring?
Thou speakest of him as boy,
Yet he moves like a prince of war.
Thou, begotten of desire,
Speakest with wanton will,
Yet feignest the restraint of sages.
I know thee not, O woman bold—
Depart, vanish, go where thou will.”
Śakuntalā replied:
“Thou seest the faults of others, O king,
Though they be as small as mustard seed.
But thine own faults,
Though large as the Vilwa fruit, thou markest not.
My mother, Menakā, is no ordinary woman—
She is a daughter of heaven, first among Apsarases.
My birth, therefore, surpasses thine—
For I dwell where you may never tread.
Thou art a king of earth-bound realm,
Yet I, born of the stars, walk among the celestials.
Wouldst thou compare Meru to a mote of dust?
Then compare thyself to me.
I can ascend to Indra’s court,
Enter the mansions of Yama and Varuṇa,
Glide through Kuvera’s golden halls—
This, O king, is the strength of my birth!
Now hear me speak a parable:
It is not anger, but truth I bear.
An ugly man, thinking himself fair,
Wakes to truth only when he beholds his image in the mirror.
Then does the veil fall.
He who taunts others reveals his own darkness;
The swine seeks filth even in gardens of fragrance.
So too do the wicked seek fault in all speech,
Even when good and ill are mingled.
But the wise, like swan amid pond and reed,
Separate milk from water and drink the pure.
The noble refrain from harsh speech;
The ignoble take joy in wounding others.
The good revere the old with love,
The wicked find sport in scorning virtue.
The good seek not fault; the wicked do naught but seek it.
The good are ever patient; the wicked ever restless.
Thou sayest I am low-born,
Yet from heaven I have descended.
And thou, born a king, speakest words
That stain thy birth more than mine ever could.
Yet know this, O ruler of men—
Though thou dishonour me in court and hall,
Truth shall rise radiant,
And shame shall cling to the unjust.”
Śakuntalā continued:
What, O king, can be more absurd in this world
than the wicked casting the honest in their own shadow?
Even those who reject the gods
despise liars who abandon truth and virtue,
like venomous serpents coiled in darkness.
And I—nurtured in faith, daughter of sages—
should I not be angered?
He who begets a son in his own image
and yet denies that self,
shall never reach the heavens he covets.
The gods, enraged, strip him of all fortune.
The Pitṛs have proclaimed:
“A son upholds the line,
and this alone is the highest of religious acts.”
Therefore, abandon not this boy who is truly thine.
Manu hath said—
There are five kinds of sons in this world:
those begotten by one’s own self upon a lawful wife,
those received in gift from another,
those purchased by wealth,
those reared with affection,
and those born of another woman yet loved as one’s own.
All sons uphold a man’s Dharma and fame.
They rescue the ancestors from the dark pit of Put.
Know this child is such a son—
his strength, his soul, his light are thine.
So why, O tiger among kings,
shouldst thou abandon him?
O ruler of the Earth, cherish truth, cherish thy son—
in cherishing them, thou cherishest thy very self.
A tank's dedication surpasses a hundred wells.
A sacrifice is holier than a tank.
But a son excels even sacrifice.
And Truth—
Truth is greater than a hundred sons.
Truth, O king, is weightier than a hundred aśvamedhas.
Truth is equal to the Vedas and all holy rites.
There is no virtue greater than Truth;
no god higher than Truth;
no vow holier than Truth.
Let thy soul cling to Truth
as the moon to its luminous form.
Let not thy promise falter,
nor thy heart forget the sacred vow.
If thou still trustest not my words,
then I shall go. I seek not thy kingdom,
nor favour, nor name.
But know this—
When thou art gone from this world, O Duṣmanta,
this son shall wear the crown,
and rule the four seas
with the mountain king at his side.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
As Śakuntalā, her words like thunder, withdrew from the court,
a voice descended—formless, celestial—resonating through the hall,
where Duṣmanta sat surrounded by his priests, ministers, and sages.
All turned upward, hearts arrested by the sound that came from no one,
and yet from everywhere.
And the voice said:
“The mother is but the sheath of flesh,
the son is the father reborn—
sprung from his very seed.
Therefore, O Duṣmanta, cherish thy son
and cast not insult upon Śakuntalā.
O best of men,
he who is born of thee delivereth thee from Yama's grasp.
Forsake him not—thy own reflection, thy own soul reborn.
To abandon one’s living son
is a calamity no man should endure.
Śakuntalā hath spoken truth.
She is pure, and this boy is thine.
A husband, splitting his self in twain,
is born anew in the womb of his wife—
and that form is called son.
Therefore, O monarch of Puru’s line,
let thy arms embrace the child.
And because this boy is to be cherished even by divine decree,
his name shall be Bharata,
the Cherished of the Worlds.”
These words, uttered by the unseen gods,
rolled through the royal hall like the sound of Dharma itself.
A hush fell over the court. The sages wept in quiet joy.
Then King Duṣmanta, his heart uplifted like a lotus touched by dawn,
rose with reverence and joy, and spoke to his assembly:
“Ye have heard, O Brāhmaṇas, O ministers,
ye have heard the voice of heaven.
This child is mine—my very flesh and soul.
Yet had I accepted him on Śakuntalā’s word alone,
suspicion would have darkened his name,
and purity would not have been his shield.
But now—he is vindicated by the gods.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Then the monarch, O scion of Bharata's line, his heart flooded with joy,
saw his son's purity affirmed by the voice of heaven.
And with arms outstretched, trembling not from doubt but devotion,
he embraced that radiant child.
He smelled the crown of his son’s head,
and pressed him to his breast with a father’s love long withheld.
The Brāhmaṇas chanted hymns of blessing,
while bards raised their voices in songs of glory.
Like a rain-parched field welcomes the first monsoon,
so too did the king's soul rejoice
at the touch of his own blood made manifest.
Then turning to Śakuntalā, whose grace no sorrow had dimmed,
he drew her near, speaking with soft reverence:
"O goddess among women,
Our union was hidden—sealed in the hush of the forest.
I feared the world’s harsh eyes would cloud thy virtue,
and our son’s claim be shadowed by slander.
Forgive, beloved, the words I uttered in fear,
For none is dearer to me than thee, O large-eyed one."
And so saying, the royal sage welcomed her with honour—
perfumes, rich foods, and golden goblets—
the rites of reunion at last complete.
Then Duṣmanta bestowed upon his son
the name that would echo through ages: Bharata,
the Cherished, the Earth-Holder.
And the wheels of Bharata’s chariot rolled like thunder,
bright and unstoppable as those of the gods.
Through every land they turned,
subduing kings, raising dharma, spreading peace.
His fame soared across the earth.
As Chakravartin, as Sarvabhauma—sovereign of the four quarters—
he ruled with truth and splendour,
performing countless yajñas, cow-sacrifices and horse-sacrifices,
like Indra in his heavenly court.
And at his side, as the sacred fire is fed by clarified butter,
stood the wise Ṛṣi Kaṇva, chief of priests,
who received from Bharata a thousand golden coins,
a gift from king to guru, son to seer.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
It is from Bharata, the son of Duṣmanta and Śakuntalā,
that so many mighty deeds have sprung—
like rivers from a sacred mountain.
From him flows the great line of kings,
bearing his name with pride—the Bhāratas—
warriors and sages, statesmen and saints,
each one a beacon upon the darkened earth.
In that glorious race, O Janamejaya,
were born monarchs of godlike splendour,
men endowed with fiery energy,
their hearts vast as the sky,
their wisdom akin to Brahman itself.
Their number is beyond counting,
like stars in the vault of heaven,
or waves upon the ocean’s breast.
But listen now, O scion of that very line,
as I name the foremost among them—
those graced by fortune,
devoted to truth, dharma, and honour,
their lives like sacrifices lit for the good of all.