In the sacred assembly where the stories of Bhagavata were being recited, something extraordinary was happening. Vaishnavas from Vaikuntha, such as Uddhava and others, had descended to earth, taking on hidden forms, simply to hear these divine tales. At that moment, cries of victory resounded throughout the hall; a supernatural fullness of rasa, the flavor of spiritual ecstasy, permeated the atmosphere. Showers of powdered flowers fell repeatedly from above, and the sound of conch shells echoed, marking the occasion as auspicious and otherworldly. Those gathered in the hall became so absorbed in the stories that they forgot their bodies, homes, and even their sense of self. Witnessing their deep absorption, the sage Narada spoke to them. He said, “O sages, today I have witnessed a glory beyond compare, arising from this seven-day event. Even the ignorant, the deceitful, the beasts and birds present here are utterly freed from sin.” Narada continued, “In the world of men, especially in Kali Yuga, nothing else purifies the mind or destroys heaps of sin as does the hearing of these stories. Who, indeed, is purified by this seven-day sacrifice of storytelling? Has any compassionate soul, considering the welfare of the world, revealed a new path?” The four Kumaras responded, saying, “Those humans who always commit sins, constantly engage in wicked conduct, stray from the path, are burned by anger, crooked and lustful—they are purified in Kali Yuga by the seven-day sacrifice. Those devoid of truth, who insult their parents, overwhelmed by desire, lacking ashrama-dharma, hypocritical, envious, and violent—they too are purified by this sacrifice. Even those who commit the five grave sins, act deceitfully, are cruel and merciless like demons, who live off Brahma’s wealth and engage in adultery—they are purified in Kali Yuga by the seven-day sacrifice. Those who constantly sin by body, speech, and mind, who are stubborn and deceitful, enriched by others’ wealth, impure, and harbor evil intentions—they are purified by this seven-day storytelling.” The Kumaras then said, “Let us recount to you an ancient story, by the mere act of hearing which sin is destroyed.” On the banks of the Tungabhadra river, there once was a splendid city. Its people, belonging to the four varnas, were devoted to truth and virtuous deeds, each following their own dharma. In that city lived Atmadeva, a learned brahmin, thoroughly versed in all the Vedas, expert in both śruti and smṛti, shining like a second sun. Atmadeva was a beggar in name but wealthy in the world. His beloved wife, Dhundhuli, was steadfast in her words, beautiful, and born in a noble family. Yet, she was attached to worldly affairs, often cruel, very talkative, skilled in household duties, miserly, and fond of quarrels. The couple lived together, enjoying each other’s company, but despite their wealth and desires, happiness eluded their home. Later, seeking progeny, they began to practice dharma, always giving cows, land, gold, and garments to those in need. Half their wealth was spent on the path of dharma, yet no son or daughter was born, and so they were deeply troubled by anxiety. One day, the twice-born Atmadeva, distressed, left his home and wandered into the forest. At midday, overcome by thirst, he came to a pond. After drinking water, he sat down, emaciated by the sorrow of childlessness. After a short while, a certain renunciant arrived there. Seeing the renunciant, Atmadeva approached him, bowed at his feet, and stood before him, sighing deeply. The renunciant asked, “Why are you weeping, brāhmaṇa? What is the source of your powerful anxiety? Quickly, tell me the cause of your sorrow.” Atmadeva replied, “O sage, what can I say of the sorrow accumulated through past sin? My ancestors drink hot water instead of cool. The gods and twice-born do not accept my offerings with pleasure. Emptied by the sorrow of having no children, I have come here to give up my life. Fie on a life without children, fie on a home without offspring; fie on the wealth of one without a son, fie on a lineage without continuity. The cow I tend becomes barren in every way; the tree I have planted bears no fruit. Any fruit that comes to my house quickly perishes. What use is life to me, unfortunate and childless?” Having spoken thus, Atmadeva wept loudly, afflicted by sorrow at the renunciant’s side. Great compassion arose in the heart of the ascetic. Knowing all through his yogic power and the garland of letters on his forehead, the ascetic spoke in detail to Atmadeva. He said, “Give up ignorance in the form of longing for children; the course of karma is powerful. Attain discernment and abandon desire for worldly existence. Hear, brāhmaṇa, today I have seen your destiny: for seven lifetimes, you will not have a son, not at all. In the past, Sagara suffered for the sake of offspring; so now, give up hope for family—there is happiness in renunciation in every way.” Atmadeva pleaded, “Of what use is discernment to me? Give me a son, even by force; otherwise, I will give up my life before you, overwhelmed by grief. Renunciation without the happiness of children and the like is truly dry; the householder, surrounded by sons and grandsons, is lively in the world.” Seeing Atmadeva’s insistence, the ascetic, rich in austerity, spoke, “Citraketu suffered hardship by erasing the lines of fate. You will not find happiness from a son, as effort opposed by fate fails; since you are obstinate, what can I say to one so intent on his desire?” Seeing the reluctance in Atmadeva’s wife, the ascetic gave her a single fruit and said, “Eat this, together with your wife; then you will have a son. Truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eating only once a day—these should be observed by the woman for one year; by this, the son will be exceedingly pure.” Having spoken thus, the yogi departed, and Atmadeva returned home. He placed the fruit in his wife’s hand and then went somewhere himself. The young woman, crooked in mind, wept before her friends, saying, “Oh, I am troubled with anxiety; I will not eat this fruit.