Pṛthā moved with chilling resolve. She fabricated a tale of necessary forest meditation, a deceit that earned her parents' solemn pride but tasted like ash to her. Dismissing all but the trusted maid Shanta, she retreated into a desolate ravine where the shadows could hold her secret.
For nine months, the solitude amplified her internal war. Her initial shame slowly began to erode under a rising, primal tide of maternal feeling. She was carrying a life, her son, and the physical bond sparked fierce, protective love, immediately followed by deep, wrenching grief for the life he would never have, and the life she had already lost.
Every strong kick was a profound reminder of the secret that would ruin her, compounding her terror with the sweet agony of connection.When the time came, there were no blessings or palace comforts, only the stark reality of the isolated cave and the terrified presence of Shanta.
The labor was an agonizing, lonely ordeal, steeped in a chilling sense of isolation. It was a birth without joy, marked by Pṛthā's silent screams and the maid's trembling hands. The pain was twofold: the physical agony of delivery, and the crushing awareness that this sacred act was destined to be erased the moment it was finished.Then, he was born.
He didn't cry immediately, but radiated a silent, breathtaking presence. Pṛthā looked upon him and her soul was instantly consumed by hopeless love. His face was unspeakably beautiful, possessing a calm, sculpted perfection.
Most startling was his Surya-like tej (splendor): a luminous, golden aura that filled the dark cave, confirming his divine heritage. Fused to his skin were the brilliant, naturally formed Kavacha (armor) and the shining Kundala (earrings)—proof of a destiny too grand and too dangerous for the mortal world.
For a fleeting moment, Pṛthā forgot ruin, forgot shame, seeing only the miracle of her son. But the sight only deepened her despair, knowing such splendor could never be kept.