In the age of Kali, even those who are devoid of truth, disrespectful to their parents, overwhelmed by desire, neglectful of the duties of their ashrama, hypocritical, envious, and violent—such people find purification through the seven-day sacrifice. Likewise, those who commit the five grave sins, act deceitfully, are cruel and merciless like demons, misuse Brahma’s wealth, and engage in adultery—all are purified by this sacrifice in Kali Yuga. Even those who constantly sin through body, speech, and mind, who are stubborn and deceitful, enriched by the wealth of others, impure, and harbor evil intentions, can be cleansed by the seven-day sacrifice. Now, let me recount to you an ancient tale, for merely hearing it brings the destruction of sin. On the banks of the sacred Tungabhadra river stood a splendid city, where people of all four varnas lived devoted to truth and virtuous deeds, each following their own dharma. In that city dwelled Atmadeva, a brāhmaṇa thoroughly learned in all the Vedas, expert in both śruti and smṛti, shining like a second sun. He was a beggar, yet wealthy in worldly possessions, and his beloved wife was Dhundhuli, steadfast in her words, beautiful, and born in a noble family. However, she was deeply attached to worldly affairs, often cruel, mostly talkative, skilled in household duties, miserly, and fond of quarrels. Despite living together in love and enjoying their wealth and desires, happiness eluded them in their home and other matters. Later, seeking progeny, they began to practice dharma, generously giving cows, land, gold, and garments to the needy. Half their wealth was spent in the path of dharma, yet no son or daughter was born, and so anxiety weighed heavily upon them. One day, the twice-born Atmadeva, distressed by his childlessness, left his home and wandered into the forest. At midday, overcome by thirst, he approached a pond. After drinking water, he sat down, emaciated by sorrow. Soon, a certain renunciant arrived there. Seeing the ascetic, Atmadeva approached him, bowed at his feet, and stood before him, sighing deeply. The renunciant asked, “Why are you weeping, brāhmaṇa? What is this powerful anxiety? Quickly tell me the cause of your sorrow.” Atmadeva replied, “O sage, what can I say of the sorrow accumulated by 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, the tree I have planted is fruitless. 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. 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.” But 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, said, “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?” Yielding to Atmadeva’s persistence, the ascetic gave him 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. Dhundhuli, crooked in mind, wept before her friends, saying, “Oh, I am troubled with anxiety; I will not eat this fruit. By eating the fruit, I will conceive; with pregnancy, my belly will grow; eating little, I will lack strength—how then will I manage the household duties? By fate, if a tax collector comes to the village, how will a pregnant woman escape? If the fetus remains like a parrot, how will I cast it out from my womb? If the fetus comes out 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 appears very hard to observe. There is suffering in raising and caring for a child, and also for a woman in labor; in my mind, a barren or widowed woman is happy.” Thus, by such faulty reasoning, she did not eat the fruit. When her husband asked, she said, “I have eaten it, I have eaten it.” Once, her younger sister came to her house of her own accord; in her presence, Dhundhuli told everything, saying, “I am greatly troubled.