On the banks of the sacred Tungabhadra river, there once stood a splendid city, radiant in its prosperity. Its people, belonging to all four varnas, were devoted to truth and virtuous deeds, each following their own dharma with sincerity. In this city lived Atmadeva, a brāhmaṇa renowned for his profound learning. He was thoroughly versed in all the Vedas, expert in both śruti and smṛti, shining like a second sun among men. Though he lived as a beggar, he possessed worldly wealth, and his beloved wife was known as Dhundhuli. She was steadfast in her words, beautiful, and born in a noble family. However, Dhundhuli was deeply attached to worldly affairs, often cruel, and mostly talkative. She excelled in household duties, was miserly, and fond of quarrels. Despite these differences, the couple lived together in love and enjoyed their life, but their wealth and desires failed to bring happiness to their home or other matters. Later, yearning for progeny, they began to practice dharma with greater fervor. They gave away cows, land, gold, and garments to the needy, hoping their generosity would bless them with children. Half their wealth was spent in the path of dharma, yet neither son nor daughter was born. This absence troubled them deeply, filling their hearts with anxiety. One day, unable to bear his distress, Atmadeva 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 for having no children. As he sat there, a certain renunciant—a wandering ascetic—arrived. Seeing the renunciant, Atmadeva went near, bowed at his feet, and stood before him, sighing deeply. The renunciant asked, “Why are you weeping, brāhmaṇa? What is this powerful anxiety of yours? 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 must drink hot water instead of cool, for I have no children to perform their rites. 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.” He lamented, “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 also becomes fruitless. Any fruit that comes to my house quickly perishes; what use is life to me, unfortunate and without a child?” Having spoken thus, Atmadeva wept loudly, afflicted by sorrow at the renunciant’s side. Compassion arose in the heart of the ascetic, who, knowing all through his yogic power and the garland of letters on his forehead, spoke in detail to the brāhmaṇa. The renunciant 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 replied, “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 the brāhmaṇa’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?” Despite seeing her reluctance, the ascetic gave Atmadeva 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 decided not to eat the fruit. When her husband asked, she lied, saying, “I have eaten it, I have eaten it.” Once, her younger sister came to her house of her own accord. In her presence, Dhundhuli confided everything, saying, “I am greatly troubled. I am weak from this distress—what shall I do, sister?” Her sister replied, “I am pregnant; I will give you the child after birth. 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. Now, for the sake of testing, offer the fruit to the cow; all this was done just so, as is the nature of women.” Thus, the story unfolded, revealing the tangled web of desire, deception, and the workings of fate in the lives of Atmadeva and Dhundhuli.