There once lived a couple who, despite spending half their wealth in pursuit of dharma, suffered deeply because they had neither son nor daughter. Their hearts were weighed down by anxiety over their childlessness. One day, the husband, a twice-born brāhmaṇa, overwhelmed by distress, 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 weakened by sorrow over having no children. Not long after, a renunciant happened to arrive at the same spot. Seeing the ascetic, the brāhmaṇa went to him, bowed at his feet, and stood before him, sighing deeply. The renunciant, perceiving his anguish, asked, “Why are you weeping, brāhmaṇa? What is this powerful anxiety? Tell me quickly the cause of your sorrow.” The brāhmaṇa replied, “O sage, what can I say of the sorrow born from past sins? My ancestors, deprived of offerings, must drink hot water instead of cool. The gods and twice-born do not accept my offerings gladly. Hollowed by the grief of childlessness, I have come here to give up my life. Fie on a life without children, fie on a home without offspring; fie on wealth without a son, fie on a lineage without continuity. Even the cow I tend becomes barren, the tree I plant bears no fruit. Any fruit that comes to my house quickly perishes. What use is life to me, so unfortunate and without a child?” Having spoken thus, the brāhmaṇa wept loudly beside the renunciant. Moved by compassion, the ascetic’s heart stirred. Knowing all through his yogic power and the sacred garland of letters on his forehead, the ascetic spoke: “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 me, brāhmaṇa: today I have seen your destiny. For seven lifetimes, you will not have a son—not at all. In the past, even Sagara suffered for the sake of offspring. So now, relinquish hope for family—there is happiness in renunciation in every way.” But the brāhmaṇa, desperate, 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 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 suffered hardship by erasing the lines of fate. You will not find happiness from a son, for effort opposed by fate fails. Since you are obstinate, what can I say to one so intent on his desire?” Seeing the brāhmaṇa’s wife reluctant, the ascetic gave her a single fruit and said, “Eat this together with your wife, and 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, and the brāhmaṇa returned home, placing the fruit in his wife’s hand before leaving again. But the young woman, crooked in mind, wept before her friends, saying, “Oh, I am troubled with anxiety; I will not eat this fruit. If I eat it, I will conceive; 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 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 lied, “I have eaten it, I have eaten it.” Once, her younger sister came to visit. In her presence, the wife 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 the sake of testing, offer the fruit to the cow; all this was done just so, as is the nature of women.” In due course, the sister gave birth to a boy. The father brought the child and secretly gave him to Dhundhuli, his wife. She told her husband, “A healthy boy has been born; joy has arisen for all, for Ātmadeva has begotten a son.” He gave gifts to the twice-born and performed the birth rites. There was much auspicious singing and music at the doorway. 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.” All this was done by the husband for the sake of protecting his son. The mother gave the child the name Dhundhukari.