Listen as I recount to you an ancient tale, whose very hearing brings about the destruction of sin. Long ago, on the banks of the sacred Tungabhadra River, there stood a resplendent city. Within its walls, people of all four varnas lived in harmony, each devoted to truth and virtuous deeds, faithfully following their own dharma. In this city lived a learned brāhmaṇa named Atmadeva. He was thoroughly versed in all the Vedas, an expert in both śruti and smṛti, shining in wisdom like a second sun. Though he appeared a beggar, he possessed great wealth in the world. His beloved wife was Dhundhuli, a woman steadfast in her words, beautiful, and born into a noble family. Yet, Dhundhuli was deeply attached to worldly affairs. She was often harsh, mostly talkative, skilled in managing the household, miserly, and fond of quarrels. Though the couple lived together, enjoying their wealth and fulfilling their desires, true happiness eluded their home. Their prosperity and pleasures did not bring them contentment. In time, longing for a child, they began to practice dharma with even greater fervor. They gave cows, land, gold, and garments to the needy, hoping for a blessing. Half their wealth was spent in this pursuit, yet no son or daughter was born to them, and their hearts grew heavy with anxiety. One day, overwhelmed by sorrow, Atmadeva left his home and wandered into the forest. At midday, parched with thirst, he came upon a pond. After drinking the cool water, he sat down, his body emaciated by the grief of childlessness. As he rested, a wandering renunciant approached. Seeing the sage, Atmadeva rose, bowed at his feet, and stood before him, sighing deeply. The renunciant, perceiving his distress, asked gently, “Why are you weeping, brāhmaṇa? What is the cause of your powerful anxiety? Quickly, tell me the reason for your sorrow.” Atmadeva replied, “O revered one, what can I say of the sorrow accumulated by past sins? My ancestors now drink hot water instead of cool, for I have no son to perform the proper rites. The gods and the twice-born do not accept my offerings with joy. Stricken by this grief, I have come here to give up my life. Fie on a life without children, fie on a home without offspring; what is the use of wealth without a son, or a lineage that ends with me? Even the cow I tend becomes barren, and the trees I plant bear 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 at the renunciant’s side. Moved by compassion, the ascetic, his yogic powers evident in the garland of sacred letters on his forehead, spoke to Atmadeva with deep understanding. He said, “Give up this ignorance, this longing for children. The power of karma is immense. Seek discernment and abandon desire for worldly existence. Hear me, brāhmaṇa: today I have seen your destiny— for seven lifetimes, you will not have a son. In the past, even Sagara suffered for the sake of offspring. Give up hope for family, for happiness is found in renunciation.” But Atmadeva pleaded, “Of what use is discernment to me? Give me a son, even by force! Otherwise, I will end my life before you, overwhelmed by grief. Renunciation without the happiness of children is truly dry; a householder surrounded by sons and grandsons is lively in the world.” Seeing the brāhmaṇa’s insistence, the ascetic, rich in austerity, replied, “Even Citraketu suffered hardship by trying to erase the lines of fate. You will not find happiness from a son, for effort opposed by fate is fruitless. Yet, since you are so determined, what more can I say?” Perceiving Atmadeva’s wife’s reluctance through his insight, the renunciant handed him a single fruit and said, “Give this to your wife to eat, and you will have a son. She should observe truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eat only once a day for one year; by this, your son will be exceedingly pure.” Having spoken, the yogi departed. Atmadeva returned home and placed the fruit in his wife’s hand before leaving again on his own affairs. But Dhundhuli, her mind crooked with worry, wept before her friends, saying, “Oh, I am troubled with anxiety; I cannot eat this fruit. If I eat it, I will conceive, my belly will swell, and eating little, I will lack the strength to manage the household. If a tax collector comes, how will I, pregnant, escape? If the fetus remains like a parrot, how will I cast it out? If it 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 take everything. The vows of truth and purity seem impossible to observe. There is suffering in raising a child and in labor; in my mind, a barren or widowed woman is happier.” Thus, by such faulty reasoning, she refused to eat the fruit. When her husband inquired, she lied, saying, “I have eaten it, I have eaten it.” One day, her younger sister came to visit. In her presence, Dhundhuli confessed everything, saying, “I am greatly troubled. I am weak from this distress—what shall I do, sister?” Her sister replied, “I am pregnant; after my child is born, I will give him to you. Meanwhile, stay at home, pretending to be pregnant, and live happily. Give my husband some wealth, and he will give you the boy. People will say the child died at six months; I will raise the boy, coming daily to your house.” Thus, the two sisters conspired, setting in motion a story whose consequences would unfold in the days to come.