The venerable Kumaras once spoke of the unique power of the seven-day sacrifice in the age of Kali. They explained that even those humans who are constantly engaged in sinful acts—who stray from the righteous path, are consumed by anger, are crooked and lustful—can be purified in Kali Yuga through this sacred observance. They continued, describing how people devoid of truth, who insult their parents, are overwhelmed by desire, neglect the duties of their stage in life, act as hypocrites, harbor envy, and commit violence, too, can be cleansed by the seven-day sacrifice. The Kumaras went further: even those who have committed the five most grievous sins, who act deceitfully, who are cruel and merciless like demons, who live off wealth meant for Brahmanas, and who engage in adultery, find purification in Kali Yuga through this same sacrifice. They added that those who constantly sin by body, speech, and mind—who are stubborn, deceitful, who grow rich from the wealth of others, who are impure and harbor evil intentions—are also purified by this practice. Then, with compassion, the Kumaras said, “Now, listen as I recount an ancient story. By merely hearing it, one’s sins are destroyed.” Long ago, on the banks of the sacred Tungabhadra river, there was a splendid city. Its people, belonging to all four varnas, were devoted to truth and to their own dharma, performing virtuous deeds. In that city lived a Brahmana named Atmadeva. He was thoroughly learned in all the Vedas, expert in both śruti and smṛti, and shone with wisdom like a second sun. Despite his learning, Atmadeva lived as a beggar, though he possessed worldly wealth. His beloved wife, Dhundhuli, was steadfast in her speech, beautiful, and born into a noble family. Yet she was deeply attached to worldly affairs, often cruel, talkative, skilled in household work, miserly, and fond of quarrels. Though the couple lived together in affection and enjoyed their prosperity, neither wealth nor pleasure brought happiness to their home. In time, longing for a child, they began to practice dharma diligently, giving cows, land, gold, and garments to those in need. Yet, despite spending half their wealth in acts of charity, no son or daughter was born to them, and they were consumed by anxiety. One day, unable to bear his sorrow, Atmadeva left his home and wandered into the forest. At midday, overcome by thirst, he approached a pond, drank, and sat down, emaciated by grief over his childlessness. After a short while, a certain renunciant arrived at that spot. Seeing him, Atmadeva went to the sage, bowed at his feet, and stood before him, sighing deeply. The renunciant asked gently, “Why are you weeping, Brahmana? What is this powerful anxiety that troubles you? Tell me the cause of your sorrow.” Atmadeva replied, “O sage, what can I say of the sorrow that has come from my past sins? My ancestors must drink hot water instead of cool, for I have no son to offer them libations. The gods and the twice-born do not accept my offerings with pleasure. Consumed by the pain of childlessness, I have come here to give up my life. Fie on a life without children! Fie on a home without offspring, on wealth without a son, on a lineage without continuity! Even the cow I tend becomes barren, and the tree I have planted bears no fruit. Any fruit that does come to my house quickly perishes. What use is life to me, so unfortunate and without a child?” Having spoken thus, Atmadeva wept loudly, his sorrow pouring out before the renunciant. Great compassion arose in the heart of the ascetic. Perceiving all through his yogic power and the sacred garland of letters on his forehead, the renunciant spoke to Atmadeva in detail. He said, “Give up this ignorance that takes the form of longing for children. The course of karma is powerful—attain discernment and abandon desire for worldly existence. Hear me, Brahmana: today I have seen your destiny. For seven lifetimes, you will not have a son—not at all. In the past, even King Sagara suffered for the sake of progeny. Now, give up hope for a family; there is happiness in renunciation in every way.” But Atmadeva protested, “Of what use is discernment to me? Give me a son, even by force! Otherwise, overwhelmed by grief, I will give up my life before you. 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, replied, “Citraketu himself suffered hardship by trying to erase the lines of fate. You will not find happiness from a son, for effort opposed by destiny fails. Since you are so obstinate, what can I say to one so intent on his desire?” Yet, seeing the Brahmana’s desperation, the ascetic relented. He gave Atmadeva a single fruit and said, “Eat this with your wife, and you will have a son. Let her observe truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eat only once a day for one year. By this, the son will be exceedingly pure.” Having spoken, the yogi departed. Atmadeva returned home and placed the fruit in his wife’s hand before going out again. But Dhundhuli, crooked in mind, wept before her friends, saying, “Oh, I am troubled with anxiety. I will not eat this fruit. If I eat it, I will conceive, and my belly will swell. Eating little, I will lack strength—how will I manage the household duties? If, by fate, a tax collector comes to the village, how will a pregnant woman escape? If the fetus remains stuck, how will I cast it out from my womb? If the child is born sideways, I will die—childbirth brings terrible pain. How can I, so delicate, endure it? If I am slow, my co-wife will seize everything. The vow of truth, purity, and the like is very hard to observe. There is suffering in raising and caring for a child, and in labor for a woman. In my mind, a barren or widowed woman is happier.” Thus, by such faulty reasoning, Dhundhuli did not eat the fruit. When her husband asked, she simply replied, “I have eaten it, I have eaten it.