Once, there lived a wealthy beggar named Ātmadeva, a man of the world whose beloved wife was known as Dhundhuli. She was steadfast in her words, beautiful, and born into a noble family. Yet, despite her lineage and beauty, Dhundhuli was deeply attached to worldly affairs. She could be harsh and was often talkative, skilled in managing the household, but miserly and fond of quarrels. The couple lived together, sharing affection and enjoying the pleasures their wealth and desires brought them. Yet, happiness eluded their home; neither their riches nor their enjoyments brought true contentment in their lives or household matters. As time passed, yearning for a child, they began to practice dharma with great devotion, giving cows, land, gold, and garments to those in need. In their pursuit of progeny, they spent half their wealth on acts of charity and righteousness. Still, no son or daughter was born to them, and this absence weighed heavily on their hearts, filling them with anxiety. One day, overwhelmed by distress, Ātmadeva—who was twice-born—left his home and wandered into the forest. At midday, parched with thirst, he came upon a pond. After quenching his thirst, he sat down, his body emaciated by the sorrow of childlessness. As he rested, a certain renunciant appeared. Seeing the ascetic, Ātmadeva approached him, bowed at his feet, and stood before him, sighing deeply. The renunciant spoke with compassion: “Why are you weeping, brāhmaṇa? What powerful anxiety troubles you? Tell me quickly the cause of your sorrow.” With a heavy heart, Ātmadeva replied, “O sage, what can I say of the sorrow that has accumulated from my past sins? My ancestors, deprived of offerings, drink hot water instead of cool. The gods and the 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; what use is wealth to one without a son, or a lineage without continuity? Even the cow I tend becomes barren, and the trees I plant bear no fruit. Any fruit that comes into my house quickly perishes. What use is life to me, so unfortunate and childless?” Having spoken thus, Ātmadeva wept loudly, his heart consumed by grief. Great compassion arose in the ascetic’s heart. Through his yogic vision and the sacred letters on his forehead, the renunciant understood all and spoke to Ātmadeva in detail. He said, “Give up this ignorance, this longing for children. The course of karma is powerful. Attain discernment and abandon your desire for worldly existence. Brāhmaṇa, I have seen your destiny today: for seven lifetimes, you will not have a son, not at all. In the past, even King Sagara suffered for the sake of offspring. Now, give up hope for family—there is happiness in renunciation.” But Ātmadeva cried out, “Of what use is discernment to me? Give me a son, even by force! Otherwise, I shall give up my life before you, overwhelmed by grief. Renunciation without the happiness of children is truly dry; the householder, surrounded by sons and grandsons, is lively in the world.” Seeing Ātmadeva’s insistence, the ascetic, rich in austerity, replied, “Citraketu suffered hardship by erasing the lines of fate. You will not find happiness from a son, for efforts opposed by fate fail. Since you are so determined, what can I say to one so intent on his desire?” Relenting, the ascetic gave Ātmadeva a single fruit, saying, “Take this and have your wife eat it; then you will have a son. Let her observe truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eat only once a day for a year—by this, the son will be exceedingly pure.” Having spoken thus, the yogi departed. Ātmadeva returned home and placed the fruit in Dhundhuli’s hand before leaving again on his own errands. But Dhundhuli, crooked in mind, wept before her friends. “Oh, I am troubled with anxiety; I will not eat this fruit. If I eat it, I will conceive, my belly will grow, and eating little, I will lack strength—how then will I manage the household? If the tax collector comes, how will a pregnant woman escape? If the fetus remains like a parrot, how will I cast it out from my womb? 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 seize everything. The vow of truth, purity, and the rest seems impossible to keep. There is suffering in raising a child and in childbirth; in my mind, a barren or widowed woman is happier.” Thus, reasoning in this way, Dhundhuli decided not to eat the fruit. When her husband asked, she lied, saying, “I have eaten it, I have eaten it.” Some time later, her younger sister came to visit. 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; after the child is born, I will give it to you. Meanwhile, pretend to be pregnant and stay at home happily. Give my husband some wealth, and he will give you the boy. People will say the child died at six months, but I will raise the boy, coming daily to your house. For now, as a test, offer the fruit to the cow; all this is just as women do.” In due course, the sister gave birth to a boy. The father brought the child and secretly gave him to Dhundhuli. She announced to Ātmadeva, “A healthy boy has been born; joy has arisen for all, for Ātmadeva has begotten a son.