Atmadeva, a brāhmaṇa, sat in sorrow, lamenting his fate. He reflected bitterly that any fruit brought to his house would quickly spoil, and wondered what purpose his life served, so unfortunate and childless as he was. Overcome by grief, he wept loudly at the feet of a wandering ascetic, his heart heavy with longing for a son. Seeing Atmadeva’s suffering, compassion welled up in the ascetic’s heart. This ascetic, marked by a garland of sacred letters on his forehead and endowed with yogic insight, perceived Atmadeva’s plight in full detail. He spoke gently yet firmly: “Give up your ignorance, which takes the form of longing for children. The workings of karma are powerful and inexorable. Cultivate discernment and abandon desire for worldly existence.” Then, the ascetic revealed what he had seen: “O brāhmaṇa, today I have glimpsed your destiny. For seven lifetimes, you will not have a son—not at all.” He reminded Atmadeva of Sagara, who had suffered much for the sake of offspring, and advised him to relinquish hope for family, for true happiness lies in renunciation. But Atmadeva, desperate, replied, “What use is discernment to me? Give me a son, even by force! Otherwise, I shall give up my life before you, overwhelmed by grief.” He insisted that renunciation without the joy of children and family was dry and lifeless, while the householder, surrounded by sons and grandsons, thrived in worldly happiness. Seeing Atmadeva’s stubbornness, the ascetic, rich in austerity, spoke again: “Citraketu endured hardship by erasing the lines of fate. But you will not find happiness from a son, for effort opposed by fate fails. Since you are so intent on your desire, what more can I say?” Noticing the reluctance of Atmadeva’s wife, the ascetic finally offered a single fruit, saying, “Eat this together with your wife, and then you will have a son. But let her observe truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eat only once a day for a year. By this, the son born will be exceedingly pure.” With these words, the yogi departed. Atmadeva returned home, placed the fruit in his wife’s hand, and went out again. But his wife, troubled and crooked in mind, wept before her friends, voicing her anxieties: “If I eat this fruit, 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 to the village, how will I escape pregnant? If the fetus remains like a parrot, 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 truth, purity, and the rest seems impossible to keep. 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.” Thus, reasoning faultily, 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 visited. In her presence, the wife confessed everything, saying, “I am greatly troubled and weak from distress—what shall I do, sister?” Her sister, pregnant herself, replied, “I will give you my child after birth. Meanwhile, stay at home and pretend to be pregnant. Give my husband some wealth, and he will give you the boy. People will say the child died at six months, and I will raise the boy, coming daily to your house. 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 handed him to Atmadeva’s wife, Dhundhuli. She told her husband, “A healthy boy has been born; joy has arisen for all, for you have begotten a son.” Atmadeva gave gifts to the brāhmaṇas and performed the birth rites, and there was much auspicious singing and music at the doorway. In front of 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 Atmadeva did for the sake of protecting his son, and the mother named the child Dhundhukari. Three months later, the cow that had eaten the fruit gave birth to a calf—beautiful in every limb, divine, spotless, and shining like gold. Atmadeva, delighted, performed the rites himself. The people gathered, marveling at the wonder. They declared that good fortune had come to Atmadeva: a child had been born from the cow, divine in form. By fate’s arrangement, the secret remained hidden. Seeing the child’s ears like a cow’s, they named him Gokarna. In due course, both sons grew up. Gokarna became learned and wise, while Dhundhukari turned exceedingly wicked. He neglected bathing and purity, ate improper food, was devoid of anger, engaged in wrongful acquisitions, and even ate with hands defiled by corpses. He became a thief, hated by all, set fire to others’ houses, and, taking children for play, would throw them into wells. Violent, he carried weapons, oppressed the poor and blind, consorted with outcastes, held a noose, and kept company with dogs. Through association with prostitutes, he squandered his ancestral wealth; once, after beating his parents, he stole their vessels for himself. Thus unfolded the story of Atmadeva, his longing, and the fate of his two sons: the wise Gokarna and the wicked Dhundhukari.