The Recognition of Sakuntala (Oxford World's Classics)

by Kalidasa

  Lord of the gods? Well, Indra, a sacker of cities,

  Feared that ascetic, so fired up by his practice—

  Feared his power to oust him from heaven.

  So he took aside Menakā

  And said something like this:

  ‘In you, above all, I can see all the divine qualities

  Of a heavenly nymph. Be good to me, lady,

  And do as I ask…

  Viśvāmitra has tapped the power of the sun.

  His practice has such charge, it makes my mind spin.

  Slender lady, this Viśvāmitra is your target:

  He’s been piling up terrible austerities—

  So terrible, I’m afraid he’ll topple my throne. 25

  Go to this sage who has filed his soul

  To an invincible core,

  And seduce him.

  Block his asceticism—do it for me!

  Beguile him with your beauty, your youth, your sweetness,

  Your gestures, your smiling, your sweet conversation—

  Divert his austerities, like the nymph you are!’

  Menakā replied:

  ‘As you well know, my lord, that reverend man

  Is a great ascetic, packed with energy,

  And bad-tempered to boot.

  If you’re afraid of his power,

  His penance, and his temper,

  Shouldn’t I fear them too?

  This is the man who parted the venerable Vasiṣṭha*

  From his beloved sons, who was born a warrior

  And, by sheer force, became a brahmin*

  Who turned the sacred river Kauśiki 30

  Into an impassable torrent

  Just for a wash …*

  This man has really done these things 35

  And he fills me with dread.

  ‘So perhaps you can tell me, my lord,

  How I can escape being burnt by his rage,

  When with his kind of power

  He could kindle the universe,

  Splinter the earth by stamping,

  Knead great Mount Meru* like a clay-fired top,

  And set it spinning through the sky?.

  How could a girl even dare to touch

  Such a smouldering, concentrated saint?

  ‘His mouth is the pit for the offering,

  His eyes are the moon and the sun,

  His tongue is Time—

  So how can I hope to move him?

  If Yama and Soma,* if the greatest seers,

  If all the demigods and guardians of the sun

  Stand in such fear, why shouldn’t I?

  ‘Yet if you will it, 40

  Then I shall have to approach him …

  But for a serious attempt

  You must take care to protect me.

  I’ll need a wind to part my skirt,

  Just as I’m dancing before him,

  And, by your favour, help from the God of Love.

  Yes—and a fragrant breeze should blow through the forest

  At the crucial time.’

  ‘Of course.’

  And so it was arranged,

  And so she left for Viśvāmitra’s grove.

  As Menakā had wanted, 1.66.1

  Indra ordered up the restless wind

  To help her. Warily, she approached Viśvāmitra,

  Performing penance in his ashram—

  Practising still, although all his sins

  Had long since turned to ash.

  She greeted him,

  Began to dance;

  The mind whipped in,

  Removed her moon pale skirt;

  Stooping, hut against the breeze,

  She made to save it, smiling coyly.

  And so it was that that supreme ascetic 5

  Saw Menakā naked,

  Clutching her skirt,

  Seeming so nervous,

  Young, and beautiful beyond description.

  He couldn’t help it,

  The power of her beauty

  Engulfed him.

  Suddenly in love,

  He longed to possess her.

  She accepted

  Without inhibition.

  They were lost in the woods,

  Making love as it took them,

  Months may have passed,

  But, for them,

  Time had stopped.

  And it was there, in a beautiful

  Himālayan valley, by the Mālinī river,

  That they engendered Śakuntalā,

  Their daughter—no sooner born

  Than abandoned on the banks of that torrent,

  When the nymph, her mission accomplished,

  Flew back to heaven.

  It was the great birds that saved her: 10

  Seeing a baby, alone in the wilderness,

  At the mercy of marauding lions and tigers,

  They surrounded Menakā’s child to shield her

  From carnivores, from beasts of prey.

  And it was there that I found her,

  When I came to bathe in the river—

  A child in a desert place,

  Surrounded by birds …

  I took her home,

  Adopted her, made her my daughter*

  And because the birds of the wilderness

  Had saved her,

  Called her ‘Śakuntalā’.*

  So you can be sure, good brahmin, 15

  Śakuntalā is my daughter,

  And considers me her father

  In the most innocent way.

  ‘Such is the history of my birth

  As KAṆVA described it to the seer.

  So you see, my lord, I am Kaṇva’s daughter,

  For I think of KAṆVA as my father,

  Never having known my own.

  ‘And now I’ve told you my story,

  Just as I heard it.’

  ‘Beautiful girl, 1.67.1

  From what you’ve said, it’s clear

  That you’re descended from princes …*

  Marry me,

  And then say what I can give you.

  Golden necklaces and earrings,

  Clothes, and gems from the world’s four corners

  Are yours for the asking—

  Breastplates, hides, anything at all.

  Indeed, my kingdom itself

  Can be yours, today!

  So marry me, lady!

  Come to me by the gāndharva rite—*

  For, as everyone says,

  A gāndharva marriage is best.’

  ‘Lord, my father is out of the hermitage, 5

  Gathering fruit. Wait just a while, and he himself

  Will give me away.’*

  ‘You must love me—

  Don’t doubt my commitment—

  I’ve given my heart.

  ‘You are your own kinsman,

  You can, of your own volition, have what you want—

  You can, quite legally, give yourself away.*

  There are eight established

  And lawful forms of marriage;

  Among them, the gāndharva,

  Prescribed for princes.*

  And since we love each other,

  The solution is obvious:

  You should become my wife

  By the gāndharva rite.’

  ‘If this is legal, and if I am my own mistress, 15

  Then, Puru Lord, before I give myself away,

  You must meet this condition:

  Promise me faithfully that you’ll honour

  This contract, made in private between us:

  That any son I give birth to

  Shall be your immediate heir.

  Swear it on oath!

  And then, and only then, Duṣyanta,

  May you lie with me.’

  Without hesitation, the king replied:

  ‘I swear it! Moreover,

  You shall come to my city, sweet-smiling girl,

  As is your right—you have my word.’

  And so he took that graceful
lady’s hand

  And led her to bed.

  And later, before his departure, 20

  He assured and reassured her

  She could trust him—

  That he would send an army,

  Four divisions strong,

  To bring her to his palace—

  ‘Sweet-smiling girl’.

  This was how he left her.

  But on his journey back, he wondered

  How Kaṇva would take the news

  Of what had happened in his absence—

  He had such powers …

  And with this on his mind,

  Entered his city.

  Meanwhile, Kanṣva Kāśyapa himself

  Returned to the hermitage,

  But Śakuntalā was too embarrassed

  To go out and greet him.

  Kaṇva, however, a great ascetic;

  Had access to knowledge

  Through divination;

  He knew everything already.

  And what he saw pleased him:

  ‘Your making love with this man, 25

  Without my permission,

  Doesn’t violate law.

  You are, after all, a prince’s daughter,

  And a gāndharva marriage

  Is the one for your class: “done in secret

  Between two lovers, unaccompanied by mantras”,

  In the words of the book.

  ‘In Duṣyanta, you’ve chosen a man of stature,

  Noble and close to the Law.

  He loves you, Śakuntalā—between you,

  You’ll give the world a brilliant son,

  Who shall rule the earth from sea to sea;

  An invincible emperor, with universal sway.’

  The hermit was weary— 30

  She took his burden,

  Sorted the fruit,

  Washed the dust from his feet,

  Then addressed him:

  ‘Since you agree I’ve chosen

  The right kind of husband,

  Please grant his ministers

  And my lord himself

  Your favour.’

  ‘For your sake

  I have been good to them already.

  For his sake, now,

  Whatever wish you wish,

  I shall grant it.’

  And because she wanted to help Duṣyanta,

  Śakuntalā asked that the descendants of Puru

  Should always act virtuously

  And never fall from their kingship.

  Duṣyanta, his promises promised, 1.68.1

  Had been back in his capital

  A full three years before Śakuntalā gave birth—

  But, to what a son!

  Quite boundless in vigour,

  Radiant as fire, Duṣyanta’s true heir,

  With all the royal virtues

  Of beauty and bounty.

  Kaṇva, best qualified by merit,

  Performed the boy’s birth rites,

  And his other rites too.

  He was a boy with leonine power,

  Teeth that gleamed like mountain peaks,

  Huge strength, a domed and noble head;

  And on his palms,

  The world-emperor’s wheel.*

  He grew rapidly, that godlike child,

  Raised in the forest. At six, 5

  He had a menagerie of boars,

  Buffaloes, lions, tigers, and elephants;

  He tied them to the trees of Kaṇva’s hermitage,

  Broke them in and and rode them ragged—

  Just for amusement.

  So the hermits called him ‘Sarvadamana’—

  ‘All Tamer’; and such was his vigour,

  His courage and strength,

  The name became his.

  Watching this boy

  And his prodigious behaviour,

  The seer told his mother:

  ‘Now is the time to make him

  Heir to the kingdom.’

  And seeing how the child strengthened, 10

  Almost minute by minute,

  Kaṇva said to his pupils:

  ‘Be swift—take Śakuntalā and her son

  From the hermitage to her husband,

  Where she may be honoured

  For all her best qualities.

  Besides, it’s not good for women

  To live too long with their kinsmen:

  Their reputation, conduct, and morals

  Are called into question.* Therefore,

  Escort her now, without hesitation.’

  ‘At once’, they replied, setting out,

  With Śakuntalā and Sarvadamana at their head,

  For ‘The Elephant City’, Hastināpura.*

  In this way, the beautiful lady

  Took her lotus-eyed boy,

  So like the child of Immortals,

  From the forest where Duṣyanta

  Had met her, to the king in the city.

  And there, in the city,

  She was given recognition,

  And with her son,

  Dazzling as the light at morning,

  Ushered in to see the king.

  Śakuntalā paid him the expected honours, then spoke: 15

  ‘This is your son, sir. Consecrate him

  As your heir. For it was you, great man,

  Who begot this godlike child on me.

  Now honour your promise—

  That promise you made

  As we lay entwined

  In Kaṇva’s forest retreat,

  One afternoon, so many years ago.’

  As she spoke, he remembered it

  Clearly, but said: ‘I recall no such thing.

  Whose woman are you, disgraced ascetic?

  I remember no business with you at all,

  For Law, love, or profit.*

  Go, or stay, if that’s what you want—

  But you can go to hell, for all I care!’

  Even a woman of such spirit 20

  Was confounded; stunned

  With grief, she stood there

  Fixed like a pillar.

  Then her eyes turned coppery

  With ire, her pursed lips

  Began to tremble,

  She fired glances at the king

  That should have burnt him.

  But, somehow, though broiling with anger,

  She controlled her expression,

  And held back the power

  She had acquired through penance.

  Reflecting a moment,

  In sorrow and chagrin,

  She faced her husband directly,

  And said this through her fury:

  ‘You know what you know, great king!

  So why deny it, so cooly,

  Lying like a commoner,

  Like one of the people?

  Your heart knows the difference 25

  Between truth and deception.

  You, alas, are your only witness—

  Don’t lie to yourself!

  The hypocrite, who knows he’s one thing

  And pretends he’s another,

  Is a thief who steals his very own soul—

  No crime is beyond him.

  ‘You think, “I am alone”,

  Forgetting that silent, primaeval seer

  Who lives in your heart.

  He knows your bad deeds!

  He sees your deceit!

  ‘An evil-doer thinks, “None knows it was me.”

  But he’s wrong!

  The inner self knows,

  The gods know,

  The Sun and Moon know,

  Wind and Fire, Heaven, Earth and Water,

  Day, Night, Dawn and Dusk, the Law,

  Death and the Heart

  All know his business,

  And that of every man.

  The God of Death dissolves a man’s bad deeds 30

  If his all-seeing conscience is clear.

  But if that inner witness is anguished,

  Torn by its soul’s wickedness,


  Death bears the miscreant away.

  ‘So the soul is no help, and the gods of no benefit,

  To the hypocrite who denies himself

  And dissembles to others.

  ‘I’ve been a faithful wife—

  Just because I’m here alone,

  Don’t try to discount me.

  You’ve neglected what was due to any guest,

  Let alone your own spouse,

  Here of her own free will!

  Why do you ignore me before your assembly,

  Am I a commoner?

  Is this a void?

  Am I talking to myself?

  Why don’t you listen?

  Pay attention, Duṣyanta, or— 35

  I’m warning you—

  Your head will burst into a hundred pieces,*

  Before I’ve finished this speech!

  ‘A husband enters his wife,

  And, as a result, is born again.

  According to the ancient poets,

  That is what wives are for.

  By bearing children to the man who enters her,*

  She extends his lineage

  And saves his ancestors who died before.*

  (Svayaṃbhū, himself, has said a son is called putra

  Because he saves his father from the hell called Put.)*

  ‘What is a wife?

  A woman who is useful in the house,

  Who bears children,

  Whose husband is her very life,

  Loyal—a man’s other half, 40

  And his closest companion,

  The root of his life’s unfolding,

  His solace when dying.

  Those who marry can do their ritual duty,*

  Set up a household, be fortunate and happy.

  A sweet-spoken wife is a friend to the solitary,

  A father in ritual, a mother in suffering;

  In the wilderness, she brings ease

  To the man who is journeying.

  A man with a wife is a man to be trusted;

  Therefore a wife is the prize above prizes.

  ‘The faithful wife alone follows her husband

  Through dangers—through death itself,

  And beyond, into transmigration;

  She is always his wife:

  If she dies before him, 45

  She halts and awaits him:

  If he goes first, then she follows after.

  This, sir, is why men want to get married:

  To gain a wife here

  And hereafter.