A certain renunciant once came upon a brāhmaṇa who was weeping bitterly, his face drawn with powerful anxiety. Filled with compassion, the ascetic asked, “Why are you weeping, O brāhmaṇa? What is the cause of this sorrow that so overwhelms you? Please, tell me quickly what troubles your heart.” The brāhmaṇa replied in anguish, “O revered sage, what can I even say of the sorrow that has accumulated from my past sins? My ancestors must drink hot water in the afterlife, deprived of the cool and satisfying offerings that a descendant should provide. The gods and the twice-born do not accept my offerings with any pleasure. Consumed by the sorrow of having no children, I have come here, resolved to give up my very life. “Fie on a life without children, fie on a home without offspring! Fie on the wealth of a childless man, and fie on a lineage that cannot continue! Even the cow I tend has become barren in every way; the tree I have planted bears no fruit. Any fruit that does come to my house quickly perishes. What use is life to me, so unfortunate and without a child?” Having spoken thus, the brāhmaṇa wept loudly, his sorrow pouring forth at the side of the renunciant. Great compassion arose in the ascetic’s heart at the sight of such suffering. Through his yogic power and the sacred garland of letters upon his forehead, the ascetic understood all that had come to pass. He spoke gently and in detail to the grieving brāhmaṇa: “Give up this ignorance, this longing for children. Know that the force of karma is powerful. Cultivate discernment and abandon your desire for worldly existence. “Listen, O brāhmaṇa, for today I have seen your destiny: for seven lifetimes, you will not have a son—not at all. Even in the past, King Sagara suffered for the sake of offspring. Now, let go of your hope for family. There is happiness in renunciation, in every way.” But the brāhmaṇa would not be consoled. “Of what use is discernment to me?” he cried. “Give me a son, even by force! Otherwise, I will give up my life before your very eyes, overwhelmed by grief. Renunciation without the happiness of children and the like is truly dry. The householder surrounded by sons and grandsons is vibrant in this world.” Seeing the brāhmaṇa’s insistence, the ascetic, rich in austerity, spoke again: “Citraketu suffered hardship by erasing the lines of fate. But you will not find happiness from a son, for effort opposed by fate is bound to fail. Still, since you are so obstinate, what more can I say to one so intent on his desire?” Moved by the brāhmaṇa’s wife’s reluctance, the ascetic gave her a single fruit and said, “Eat this together with your wife, and you will have a son. But let her observe truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eat only once a day for one year—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 left again on some errand. But the young woman, whose mind was crooked, wept before her friends. “Oh, I am troubled with anxiety! I will not eat this fruit. If I eat the fruit, I will conceive, and then my belly will grow. Eating little, I will lack strength—how will I manage the household? If, by fate, a tax collector comes to the village, how will a pregnant woman escape? If the fetus remains inside me like a parrot in a cage, how will I ever cast it out? 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 vows of truth, purity, and the like seem 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 happier.” Reasoning thus, she did not eat the fruit. When her husband asked, she lied and said, “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, sister. I am weak from this distress—what shall I do?” Her sister replied, “I am pregnant; after I give birth, I will give you the child. Meanwhile, stay at home, pretend 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, to test things, offer the fruit to the cow. All this is just the way of women.” In due course, the younger 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.” Ātmadeva gave gifts to the twice-born and performed the birth rites; there was much auspicious singing and music at his doorway. In front of her husband, the wife 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 the husband did for the sake of protecting his son, and the mother gave the child the name Dhundhukari. Meanwhile, after three months had passed, the cow to whom the fruit had been given gave birth to a calf—beautiful in every limb, divine, spotless, and shining like gold. Seeing this, the pleased brāhmaṇa himself performed the rites. It was such a wonder that all the people gathered, eager to see. “Now, behold,” they said, “good fortune has arisen for Ātmadeva: a child has been born from the cow, and, being divine in form, it is a marvel!” By the arrangement of fate, no one knew the secret of these events. Seeing the child with ears like a cow, they named him Gokarna.