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  Under the broad shadow of the venerable banyan, in the fond care of Mother Gautami, Shakuntala grew to loveliness and womanhood; and in due time Father Kanva went abroad to seek a bridegroom for her, leaving her to show the hospitality of the hermitage during his absence.

  Shakuntala’s mother was the fair nymph Menaka, and her father none other than the greatest royal Sage, Vishvamitra; but their heartlessness made them utter strangers to her. She thought of Father Kanva as her father, and of Mother Gautami as her mother, and the hermit-pupils were her brothers; as for her kine and calves, they too shared her love, and even the wild plants and creepers about the hermitage were dear to her. She cherished two girlfriends, Anasuya and Pryamvada; but closest to her heart was a motherless baby fawn, as unquiet as a baby well could be.

  The three girls were never idle. Besides the usual household work, they served the guests at the hermitage, watered the plants and creepers in their little garden-plots, and amused themselves by marrying mallika creepers to mango trees. Further, Anasuya and Pryamvada had set themselves an interesting task—daily by turns they had to water and watch a particular madhavi creeper, because they had vowed that Shakuntala’s bridegroom was to come the very day the madhavi should flower.

  After caring for the plants, which were almost as dear to them as their own sisters, the three friends would wander from wood to wood, gathering flowers, or would sit and chat and sing beneath the groves, murmuring like humming bees, or would swim and frolic swan-like in the crystal waters of the Malini. In the evening, when the sky wore crimson and gold, these little wood-nymphs would return to the hermitage.

  Time passed, and lo! one day there came a soft vernal breeze, unfolding the golden buds of their beloved madhavi creeper. ‘The madhavi has flowered,’ said Anasuya and Pryamvada, jestingly, to Shakuntala. ‘Thy bridegroom comes today.’

  The king of the country was named Dushmanta, and there was no greater Prince than he. He was king over the East, the West, the North, the South, over all the seven seas and all the thirteen fabled rivers that encircle the Earth. He was sole Overlord of the World and King of Kings. He had unnumbered troops in his barracks, unnumbered elephants in his elephant-yards, countless horses in his stables, a myriad gold-and-silver carriages and chariots standing ready, and a host of serving-men and women in his golden palace, which spread for many a mile. A brahmin youth, Madhavya, was his companion and bosom friend. The name and fame of Dushmanta reached to the far ends of the earth.

  The very day the madhavi flowered the King of the Seven Seas and Thirteen Rivers said to his friend Madhavya: ‘O Madhavya, let us go forth to hunt today.’ The brahmin shivered at the word ‘hunt’ as if he had the ague. He lacked nothing at the palace, where he could get enough cakes and sweets and milk and curd and honey to glut his appetite, but the fear of having to contend with bears and tigers in the woods almost took away his senses. He dared not oppose the king, for brahmin though he was, it was not in his power to dispute his wish. So there was much stir and bustle: the elephants and horses were got ready, the wrestlers girt up their loins; the shikaris came out, carrying long spears; the fowlers came out with their bows and arrows, the fishermen with their fishing nets and rods; and last of all the charioteer of the king drove a golden chariot up to the golden lion-crowned palace gate, which swung open with a musical sound.

  King Dushmanta went out to hunt in his golden chariot. On either side of him walked two tuskers, fanning him with chamars or chouris (bushy yak-tails). An officer of rank held over his head the gem-handled royal umbrella, fringed with pearls. The royal musicians went ahead, beating drums of victory and proclaiming the event to all and sundry, and last of all in the procession trotted Madhavya on a limping mare.

  The king drew one wood after another until at last the hunt began. The fowlers set their bird-traps in every tree, the fishermen cast their nets into every stream and lake, the beaters surrounded the wood, and there was much rushing to and fro of its panic-stricken denizens.

  The birds flew in terror through the trees; their young ones were fluttering their wings, green as leaves, and peeping timidly through the foliage. Some of them hung to the boughs by their legs like golden fruits, some sought their nests in the hollows of the trees, while others kept hopping from branch to branch, keeping up a loud and terrified screaming, for the fowlers were busy with their traps and snares. The wild buffalo were rolling over in the mud or standing up to the horns in water in the heat of the day; when they scented danger, they fled into the forest with horns lowered in menace. The elephants were at their bath, sprinkling water over their bodies through their trunks; some of them stood rubbing themselves against the shala trees while others were waving branches to and fro about their flapping ears to drive off the flies and mosquitoes. Suddenly they stood quiet a moment, listening, with their trunks raised, then stampeded, bellowing aloud, treading down the golden lotuses, tearing to shreds the nets of the fishermen, spreading destruction wherever they passed. The wood rang with the growls of the tigers; the lions roared fiercely in their mountain-dens; the whole forest was in commotion.

  Many birds were caught in the traps, many pigs felt the points of the spears, many tigers were pierced with the arrows, many bears fell to the swords; a cry of mingled pain and panic filled the wood. The unwounded tigers fled into the thicker jungle; the fishes and crocodiles dived into the deeper waters; the birds sought refuge in the heights of the sky.

  The fowlers pursued the birds with their traps, the hunters pursued the tigers with arrows ready on the bowstring, the fishermen pursued the fish with sweeping nest, and the king in his golden chariot raced after a gazelle. Away bounded the gazelle with long leaps, lightly skimming the ground, the king pursuing with lightning speed. The troops, the hunters, the horses, the elephants, and even his dear friend Madhavya, all were left far behind. Now by the winding stream, now through the heart of the wood, now over field and meadow the king pursued the panting deer.

  While such scenes of cruelty made hideous the wood, all was quiet and peaceful about the hermitage of Father Kanva. The parrots in its sacred groves were busy splitting open ears of golden paddy with their ruby bills; the swans were floating majestically in the Malini; the fawns were frisking and bounding on the kusha grass beside the hermitage; and the three girl friends, Shakuntala, Anasuya and Pryamvada, were prattling sweetly beneath their madhavi bower.

  Every creature in the hermitage was at ease and happy; within its sacred precincts none could think of harm and cruelty. The panther drank water at the Malini with the hind, and both lay down in the shade together, while the baby-fawns played with the lion-cubs—such was the hermitage of Father Kanva. The king’s quarry, the gazelle, ran for her life into this sanctuary and stood beside Shakuntala, gasping and looking behind her in terror. The king threw down his bow and arrows, alighted from his golden hunting car and walked towards the hermitage to do reverence to the great sage. On the way he chanced to overhear a conversation between the three girls in their bower, A bee had just left a madhavi blossom and had begun buzzing round the rosy face of Shakuntala. ‘O drive the bee away,’ she cried to Pryamvada at her side.

  ‘Call on King Dushmanta, the sole chastiser of the wicked,’ said her friend, smiling. ‘He will deliver thee from the dreadful bee.’

  Dushmanta could have found no better time to present himself before the playmates. He rushed into the bower, saying: ‘Ah! while King Dushmanta yet governs the world, how dares a bee molest the lovely daughters of the pious hermit?’ In another moment the king had caught the bee. ‘How wouldst thou have me punish this wicked bee, O large-eyed maiden?’ he asked of Shakuntala, who blushed to the roots of her hair and pointed to a lotus floating in the Malini. ‘Ah! I understand thee,’ said the king. ‘I must imprison the bee within the petals of yonder lotus.’ He made it captive in the flower and turned to Shakuntala, but she was too tongue-tied by maiden bashfulness to say a word of thanks to him, and the lilies of her cheeks were mingled with the rose.

/>   Thus did the King of the Seven Seas and Thirteen Rivers meet the beauteous Shakuntala in the madhavi grove, and their lives were knit in love from that hour.

  It is time to return to the king’s companion, the young brahmin, Madhavya. He fancied himself every minute in danger of his life, and longed to return to the palace. He was used to delicate food, he slept on a soft downy bed, and never went out except in a sedan chair. What a contrast was his life in the jungle! All day he had to remain in the saddle, following the hunters; the cries of ‘There runs a bear! There goes a tiger!’ perpetually rousing his fears. For drink he had only the dirty water of the pools; for food he had to eat the half-roasted flesh of the game; and how could he sleep on a bed of leaves with the mosquitoes ever about his ears? He was famished and worn out, and his bones were well nigh shaken out of their joints. His long rides after the wild beasts made his limbs stiff and swollen with pain; and worse than all these sufferings was his terror of bears and tigers ready to spring on him from every bush. He was haunted by the dread of a bear catching him by the nape of the neck, or of a tiger snapping off his head as one breaks a piece of sugarcane.

  At last Madhavya limped up to the king and said, ‘I am hungry and weary, and my strength is gone from me. I can endure no longer.’

  But his plaint was cut short by Vadrasena, the officer in charge of the king’s hunting arrangements, who suddenly made his appearance. He found the king rather morose, so he began to dwell upon the pleasures of the chase. ‘What pleasure, O king,’ said Vadrasena, ‘can equal that of the proud archer when his arrow strikes his flying quarry? How he delights in the chase, happy as he beholds his prey turning in rage or fear! Shall we not, then, push onward through the forest?’

  Aching for the ease and fleshpots of the palace, Madhavya protested. ‘O king,’ the Brahmin cried, ‘why should we linger in the wood? The kingdom suffers by thy absence, and thy health is menaced by such hardships. Pay no heed then to Vadrasena, who lives but for the chase, and let us all retrace our steps homeward.’

  The king turned a deaf ear to both counsels; to be near Shakuntala was all he now desired, and he proposed to stay on at the hermitage like a king turned hermit, abandoning the hunt, and leaving his State to take care of itself. ‘We are encamped hard by a sacred hermitage O Vadrasena,’ said the king, ‘where we do ill to celebrate the joys of taking life. Let the antelopes browse without fear, and my bow repose with slackened string.’ Sooth to say, he had no longer the heart to shoot at those beautiful antelopes whose soft large eyes reminded him of his beloved Shakuntala.

  However, since Madhavya could not bear the hardships of a forest life, that served as an excuse to send the brahmin home, together with the large hunting-party whose presence disturbed the peace of the hermitage. The whole party had soon withdrawn from the wood, leaving the king alone.

  ‘Ah, now am I Prince regnant,’ said Madhavya to the king as he left the wood, strutting like a peacock. ‘I go in procession with my retinue, while not a fly is left behind to buzz about thee.’

  Thus he returned to his old comforts at the palace and began to play the king, while the king himself wandered about the wood crying, ‘Shakuntala! Shakuntala!’ The bow had dropped from his hand, the arrows had fallen out of his quiver, the royal dress had become tattered, exposure to the sun had made swarthy his handsome complexion, and the king of the World had become a vagabond in the forest!

  As for Shakuntala, she lay on a cool bed of soft lotuses in one or other of her favourite bowers by the Malini, sighing for her royal lover and writing love-messages on lotus leaves with her pearly nail. For she had lost her heart to the king, and at the thought that she might never see him again her breast would heave with sighs and her large eyes fill with tears. On either side of her sat her friends, Anasuya and Pryamvada, fanning her with lotus-leaves, wiping away her tears or consoling her, their arms thrown fondly round her neck, saying: ‘O Shakuntala, the long dark night will soon be over for thee. The king will return to thee with the returning sun.’

  The long night came to an end at last for Shakuntala. There was a gleam of golden light in her bower, a flutter of golden wings, and a stirring of the madhavi leaves. The lilies in the Malini spread out their golden petals to the sun, the birds broke forth into song, the fawns, her favourites, came frisking towards her, and then into her bower came her royal lover.

  There the King of the World and the Queen of the Wood met and exchanged garlands. Anasuya and Pryamvada stood witnesses to the marriage, for this was the gandharva form of union, the privilege of princes.

  The king dwelt with his bride at the hermitage until the time came for him to return to his realm. One golden evening he sped away in his golden chariot to his golden palace; and Shakuntala, weeping, was led back by her friends to the hermitage through the darkened wood. ‘Stay, O Anasuya and Pryamvada,’ cried Shakuntala, looking back after the king. ‘My foot is hurt by this pointed blade of kusha grass, and my vest of bark has caught on a branch of the kuruvaka!’

  With such pretences she thought to conceal her yearning for a last look at her departing lover.

  So the king returned to his golden palace, and Shakuntala went back to her wooden cottage and began to count the tedious days.

  At the time of parting the king had presented Shankutala with a memorial ring engraved with his name, Dushmanta, saying: ‘O beloved! count every day one letter of my name, and when thou hast counted out the last letter, a golden chariot shall come to fetch thee to my golden palace with befitting honours.’

  All the letters of his name were counted over, and yet there came no golden chariot for Shakuntala. Day followed day and night followed night, and the golden letters of Dushmanta’s name had been spelled out and counted over and over again, but still there returned not the golden chariot that had carried away her lover many, many golden evenings ago.

  The King of the World was seated in splendour on his golden throne, and the Queen of the Wood crouched by her cottage door, lonely and brooding, well-nigh broken-hearted. Neglected were her guests, her pets, her bowers, even her bosom friends. There was no smile on her lips, no sparkle and lustre in her eyes. At night she lay tossing sleeplessly on her bed of leaves. By day she would sit motionless as a statue at her cottage door, looking anxiously towards the road for the coming of the royal chariot.

  The months went by, and yet it came not. ‘What!’ she mused to herself, with a pang at her heart, ‘has the king so soon forgotten his hermit-bride? Alas! how shall a forest blossom, a woodland beauty, hope to rival those garden flowers, his high-born palace dames?’

  One day, while Shakuntala was sitting there, musing on her absent lover, with her lovely head buried in her arms, Durvasha, a master-curser, passed by and cried, ‘Ho, there! give me alms!’

  Shakuntala did not hear his words, for she was unconscious of his presence and rose not to welcome him. Durvasha flew into a rage at her neglect of so mighty a guest as himself. He shook with passion and cursed her, saying: Thou hast failed to recognize thy guest before thee; so shall thy lover fail to recognize thee when next thou meetest him.’

  Even this curse Shakuntala heard not, but it was heard by Pryamvada and Anasuya, who were gathering flowers near at hand. They ran to fall at his feet and intercede on behalf of their friend, who was still seated motionless, supporting her languid head with her left hand.

  ‘The word of a sage cannot be recalled,’ said Durvasha, relenting, ‘but her lover shall recognize her when he sees his ring.’

  Shakuntala had the ring, her lord’s parting gift, on her finger, so her friends thought no more of the curse for the present. Yet it was because of this curse that the king forgot to send his golden chariot for her.

  Durvasha went away, and Father Kanva returned to the hermitage soon after. He had wandered over the world in quest of a bridegroom for Shakuntala—but none could be found worthy of her hand. It was with thankfulness, therefore, that he learnt that Shakuntala was already married to Dushmanta, the Overlor
d of the World. He now made preparations to sent her to her royal husband, whom she was about to present with an heir.

  Father Kanva embraced his daughter and blessed her. Shakuntala wept half in joy and half in sorrow. Father Kanva’s love had made an oasis in the desert of her heart. She flung herself into his arms and wept, her head buried in his bosom.

  Father Kanva consoled her and bade her take courage. He called her friends, Anasuya and Pryamvada, and asked them to help her to array herself befittingly, for she was to be sent to her royal husband. They took her hand and led her away, and put upon her a new robe of bark, scarlet as the dawn. Pryamvada wove her a keshora wreath, Anasuya fetched her scented oil, the essence of wild flowers. They dressed her hair and adorned it with amaranths; they put vermilion in the parting of her hair, the sign of a wedded wife; they painted red her feet, which glowed like lotus-blooms.

  Thus on her body she wore tree-stems for bangles. On her neck she had a keshora garland for a chain; in her hair wild flowers took the place of jewelled combs—alas! what mean apparel for the Queen of the World! Anasuya and Pryamvada were not content, yet where could these poor daughters of the hermitage find pearls, or diamond bangles, or silken robes, or golden anklets for their friend?

  Shakuntala was kind to the beasts and reverent to the nymphs of her woods, so they were all sad to lose her, and still more so to see her go thus, sorrily dressed. And lo! the silkworms wove her a rich silken robe; the oysters of the Malini offered her a chain of pearls; and the nymphs of the woods gave her jewels of every hue, beyond all price. Her graciousness had won her treasures to rejoice the heart of any princess.