Ātmadeva, a brāhmaṇa, approached a holy renunciant, his heart heavy with sorrow. He lamented, “The gods and twice-born no longer accept my offerings with pleasure. My life is emptied of joy by the anguish of having no children. I have come here, resolved to give up my life.” His grief poured forth: “Fie upon a life without children! Fie on a home with no offspring! Fie on the wealth of one without a son, and on a lineage with no one to continue it. Even the cow I care for is barren in every way, and the tree I have planted bears no fruit. Any fruit that does come to my house quickly withers away. What use is life to me, so unfortunate and childless?” Having spoken thus, Ātmadeva wept loudly at the ascetic’s side, his heart overwhelmed by sorrow. Seeing this, great compassion arose in the heart of the renunciant. With the power of his yoga and the sacred garland of letters on his forehead, the ascetic, knowing all, spoke gently and in detail to Ātmadeva. He said, “Let go of this ignorance, this longing for children. The force of karma is very powerful. Cultivate discernment and abandon desire for worldly existence. Listen, O 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. Now, give up hope for family—there is happiness in renunciation in every way.” But Ātmadeva replied, “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 Ātmadeva’s insistence, the ascetic, rich in austerity, spoke again: “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 so obstinate, what more can I say to one so intent on his desire?” Perceiving the reluctance of Ātmadeva’s wife, the ascetic gave her a single fruit and said, “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. Ātmadeva returned home and placed the fruit in his wife’s hand before leaving again. But his young wife, Dhundhuli, was crooked in mind and, weeping before her friends, said, “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 will I manage the household? If a tax collector comes, how will a pregnant woman escape? What if the fetus stays like a parrot inside me—how will I cast it out? 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 truthfulness, purity, and the like seems very hard to observe. There is suffering in raising and caring for a child, and also in labor. In my mind, a barren or widowed woman is happier.” Thus, by such faulty reasoning, she decided not to eat the fruit. When her husband asked, she lied, “I have eaten it, I have eaten it.” One day, her younger sister came to visit. Confiding in her, Dhundhuli said, “I am weak from this distress—what shall I do, sister?” Her sister replied, “I am pregnant; after my child is born, I will give it to you. 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 testing, offer the fruit to the cow. All this is just as women do.” In due course, the younger 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 arisen for all, for Ātmadeva has begotten a son.” Ātmadeva gave gifts to the twice-born and performed all the birth rites; there was much auspicious singing and music at the doorway. Before her husband, Dhundhuli 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 Ātmadeva for the sake of protecting his son. The mother named the child Dhundhukari. After three months, 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 delighted brāhmaṇa himself performed the rites. All the people gathered, marveling at the wonder: “Behold, 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. Seeing the child with ears like a cow, they named him Gokarna. In due course, both sons grew up. Gokarna became learned and wise, while Dhundhukari was exceedingly wicked. Dhundhukari neglected bathing and purity, ate improper food, was devoid of anger, engaged in wrongful acquisitions, and ate with hands defiled by corpses.