The moment Pṛthā placed her divine son into the wicker basket, the weight of the gold Kavacha (armor) and Kundala (earrings) felt heavier than any crown. Shanta, the loyal maid, moved to secure the linen, but Pṛthā stopped her, her eyes fixed on the baby's luminous face. Her entire body shook with silent, fractured guilt. "Shanta," Pṛthā finally gasped, her voice thick with agony, "I cannot. I know the truth of my house, but look at his tej. He is my first son; he is a miracle. How can I sentence him to the river?
"Shanta knelt, meeting her mistress's gaze. Her own control finally broke, and tears flooded her eyes, tracing paths through the dust and grime of the hidden shelter. "Princess," Shanta whispered, her voice choking, "you must listen to what is true. If you keep him with you, his divine light will be snuffed out. His life will forever remain in darkness and shadow. You are a virgin, and the society of our ancestors will not let him live once they know the truth. Your name, your family's honor, your entire clan—all of it will be ruined with him."
She gripped Pṛthā's arm, her voice hardening with brutal, necessary logic. "If you leave him, there is a possibility of his living, of a grand destiny even. But it cannot be with you."
Pṛthā let out a raw, wounded sound that was half-cry, half-agreement. Overwhelmed, she pulled off her heavy, jeweled bracelets, the thick gold necklace gifted by her father, and the rings from her fingers. These were the last symbols of her unblemished royal status. Her hand trembled as she placed the magnificent pieces around the sleeping infant inside the basket—a desperate, final, worldly blessing. "If he must go, let the gold be his offering. Let it speak of his worth, even as his mother hides him."She began to rock the basket, and her voice broke into a reedy, choked lullaby, her last, raw act of motherhood, pleading with the celestial father who had caused her earthly ruin:
"Oh, Lord Surya, golden bright,Sweep the clouds and bring the light.Watch my child, so small and new,He is made of rays of you.Shine your grace on where he lies,Hide the pain within my eyes."The song ended in a soft, painful gasp. Shanta quickly secured the lid of the basket, sealing the divine child within his temporary ark, surrounded by the rough wicker and the princess's glistening, royal sacrifice. Pṛthā looked at the sealed basket—a final, silent prison of gold and linen—and knew the choice was irreversible. Her son, her secret, was ready for the river.