In the course of time, the couple began to devote themselves to dharma, performing noble acts in the hope of having children. They gave generously—cows, land, gold, and garments—to those in need, striving always to follow righteousness for the sake of progeny. So steadfast were they in this path that they spent half their wealth in acts of virtue. Yet, despite all their efforts, no son or daughter was born to them, and their hearts grew heavy with anxiety and sorrow. One day, the brāhmaṇa, deeply troubled and weighed down by his childlessness, left his home and wandered into the forest. At the height of midday, parched with thirst, he approached a pond. After drinking the cool water, he sat down, his body thin and worn from the grief of having no children. As he rested there, a certain renunciant arrived at that very spot. Seeing the ascetic, the brāhmaṇa rose, approached, and bowed at his feet, standing before him with deep, sorrowful sighs. The renunciant, perceiving his distress, asked kindly, “Why are you weeping, brāhmaṇa? What is this powerful anxiety that troubles you? Tell me quickly the cause of your sorrow.” The brāhmaṇa replied, “O sage, what can I say of the sorrow that has come to me through past sins? My ancestors, deprived of proper offerings, drink hot water instead of cool. The gods and the twice-born do not accept my offerings with pleasure. Consumed by the pain of having no children, I have come here, resolved 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, and on a lineage without continuity. Even the cow I tend becomes barren, and the tree I plant bears no fruit. Any fruit that does come to my house quickly perishes. What use is life to me, so unfortunate and childless?” Having spoken these words, he wept loudly at the ascetic’s side, overcome by grief. Seeing his suffering, great compassion arose in the heart of the renunciant. Through his yogic power and the sacred mark on his forehead, the ascetic understood all, and spoke to the brāhmaṇa in detail. He said, “Give up this ignorance—this longing for children—for the course of karma is powerful indeed. Seek discernment and let go of desire for worldly existence. Hear me, brāhmaṇa: today I have seen your destiny. For seven lifetimes, you will not have a son, not at all. In the past, King Sagara too suffered for the sake of offspring. Now, give up hope for family; in renunciation there is happiness in every way.” But the brāhmaṇa, desperate, pleaded, “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 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, replied, “Citraketu too suffered hardship by changing the lines of fate. You will not find happiness from a son, for effort opposed by destiny brings no joy. Yet, since you are so determined, what can I say to one so intent on his desire?” Relenting, and perceiving the wife’s reluctance, the ascetic gave the brāhmaṇa a single fruit and said, “Eat this together with your wife, and you will have a son. But for one year, your wife must observe truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eat only once a day. By this, the son will be exceedingly pure.” Having spoken thus, the yogi departed, and the brāhmaṇa returned home. He placed the fruit in his wife’s hand and then went elsewhere for a time. But the young woman, her mind twisted with doubt, 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 with pregnancy my belly will grow. Eating little, I will lack strength—how then will I manage the household duties? 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 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 seems very hard to observe. There is suffering in raising and caring for a child, and in childbirth itself. In my mind, a barren or widowed woman is happier.” Thus, by such faulty reasoning, she did not eat the fruit. When her husband asked, she lied, saying, “I have eaten it, I have eaten it.” One day, her younger sister came to visit her. In her presence, she confessed 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 a test, offer the fruit to the cow; all this was done just so, as is the nature of women.” In due course, her sister gave birth to a boy. The father brought the child and secretly gave him to Dhundhuli, the brāhmaṇa’s wife. She told her husband, “A healthy boy has been born; joy has arisen for all, for Ātmadeva has begotten a son.” The brāhmaṇa gave gifts to the twice-born and performed all the birth rites. There was much auspicious singing and music at the doorway. Later, in front of her husband, she said, “There is no milk in my breast; another has drawn out the milk, so how can I nourish the child? But my co-wife, who has given birth, her child has died; bring her here and keep her in the house—she will nourish your child.