Once, a brāhmaṇa named Atmadeva, weighed down by sorrow, approached a wandering renunciant. Having just refreshed himself with water, the brāhmaṇa bowed low at the ascetic’s feet and stood before him, sighing deeply. The renunciant, perceiving the brāhmaṇa’s distress, asked gently, “O brāhmaṇa, why do you weep? What is this great anxiety that troubles you? Please, tell me quickly the cause of your sorrow.” The brāhmaṇa replied, “O revered sage, what can I say of the sorrow that has been heaped upon me by past misdeeds? My ancestors, instead of enjoying cool water, must drink only hot, for my offerings do not please them. Neither the gods nor the twice-born accept my offerings with joy. My heart is emptied by the grief of having no children, and so I have come here, resolved to end my life. “Fie on a life without children, fie on a home without offspring! What use is wealth to one without a son? What value is a lineage that ends with me? Even the cow I tend has become barren, and the tree I planted bears no fruit. Any fruit that does come to my house quickly perishes. What use is such a life to me, so unfortunate and childless?” Having spoken thus, the brāhmaṇa wept loudly, his heart broken beside the renunciant. Moved by great compassion, the ascetic, endowed with yogic vision and marked by a sacred garland of letters on his forehead, spoke to the grieving brāhmaṇa. “Give up this ignorance, this longing for children,” he counseled. “The course of karma is powerful and cannot be easily changed. Seek discernment, and abandon your desire for worldly existence. “Listen, brāhmaṇa. Today, through my inner sight, I have seen your destiny: for seven lifetimes, you will not have a son. In the past, even King Sagara suffered greatly for the sake of offspring. Now, give up your hope for family. There is happiness in renunciation in every way.” But the brāhmaṇa replied, “Of what use is discernment to me? Grant me a son, even by force, or else I will end my life right here, overcome by grief. Renunciation without the joy of children is dry and empty. It is the householder, surrounded by sons and grandsons, who lives with delight in this world.” Seeing the brāhmaṇa’s unyielding insistence, the ascetic, whose austerities were great, spoke again. “Citraketu, too, suffered hardship by striving against his fate. You will not find happiness through a son, for effort opposed by fate fails. But since you are so determined, what more can I say to one so set on his desire?” Perceiving the brāhmaṇa’s wife’s reluctance, the ascetic handed her a single fruit, saying, “Eat this together with your wife, and 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, the yogi departed, and the brāhmaṇa returned home. He placed the fruit in his wife’s hand and then went out again. But his wife, Dhundhuli, crooked in mind, 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 grow, and eating little, I will have no strength. How will I manage the household? 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 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 seems impossible to keep. There is suffering in raising and caring for a child, and labor brings pain. In my mind, a barren or widowed woman is happier.” Thus, reasoning in this way, 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. In her presence, Dhundhuli confessed everything, saying, “I am greatly troubled and weak from this distress—what shall I do, sister?” The sister replied, “I am pregnant. I will give you my 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. 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 told her husband, “A healthy boy has been born; joy has come to all, for Atmadeva has begotten a son.” Atmadeva gave gifts to the twice-born and performed all the birth rites; there was much auspicious singing and music at the doorway. In her husband’s presence, Dhundhuli said, “There is no milk in my breast—another has drawn it out, 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 Atmadeva for the sake of protecting his son, and the mother named the child Dhundhukari. Three months later, the cow to whom the fruit had been given gave birth to a calf—beautiful in every limb, divine, spotless, and shining like gold. The delighted brāhmaṇa himself performed the rites, and the people, amazed, gathered to see this wonder. Thus, great fortune came to Atmadeva: a child was born from the cow, and, being of divine form, it was a marvel to all.