At the side of the wandering ascetic, the brāhmaṇa poured out his grief, his voice rising in loud, anguished weeping. The renunciant, moved by deep compassion, felt his heart stir for the suffering man before him. Through his yogic powers and the sacred garland of letters on his forehead, the ascetic understood all that had transpired and all that was to come. With gentle authority, he began to address the brāhmaṇa in detail. He said, “Cast off your ignorance, which takes the form of longing for children. The workings of karma are immensely powerful. Cultivate discernment and let go of your 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 King Sagara suffered greatly in his quest for offspring. So now, abandon your hope for family. In every way, true happiness lies in renunciation.” But the brāhmaṇa, overwhelmed by longing, cried out, “Of what use is discernment to me? Give me a son, even by force, or else I shall end my life before you, consumed by sorrow. Renunciation without the joy of children and family is truly dry. The householder, surrounded by sons and grandsons, is vibrant and alive in this world.” Seeing the brāhmaṇa’s stubborn insistence, the ascetic—rich in austerity—replied, “Citraketu himself endured great hardship by trying to erase the lines of fate. You will not find happiness from a son, for effort that goes against destiny brings only failure. Since your heart is fixed on this desire, what more can I say?” Perceiving the wife’s reluctance, the ascetic finally relented. He gave the brāhmaṇa a single fruit and instructed, “Eat this together with your wife; then you will have a son. But she must observe truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eat only once a day for one year. By this discipline, 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 went out again. Left alone, the young woman, whose mind was crooked, wept before her friends, confiding her anxiety. “Oh, I am tormented with worry; I will not eat this fruit. If I eat it, I will conceive, and my belly will swell. Eating so little, I will be weak—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 like a parrot, how will I remove it 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 observe. There is suffering in raising a child and in labor. In my mind, a barren or widowed woman is happier.” Thus, through 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. In her presence, the troubled woman poured out her heart. “I am weak from this distress—what shall I do, sister?” The younger replied, “I am pregnant; after I give birth, I will give you the child. 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, just to test, offer the fruit to the cow—this is the way of women.” In due course, the younger woman gave birth to a boy. The father brought the child and, in secret, gave him to Dhundhuli, his wife. She announced to her husband, “A healthy boy has been born; joy has arisen for all, for Ātmadeva has begotten a son.” The brāhmaṇa gave gifts to the twice-born and performed all the birth rites; the house resounded with auspicious singing and music. Before her husband, however, she complained, “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 to protect his son, and the mother named the boy 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. Amazed, the delighted brāhmaṇa performed the proper rites himself. People from all around gathered to witness this marvel, saying, “Now, good fortune has come to Ātmadeva: a child has been born from the cow, and, being divine in form, it is a wonder!” By fate’s arrangement, the secret remained hidden. Seeing the child’s ears, which resembled those of a cow, they named him Gokarna. In time, both sons grew to young manhood. Gokarna became learned and wise, while Dhundhukari was exceedingly wicked. He neglected bathing and purity, ate improper food, was devoid of self-control, engaged in wrongful activities, and even ate with hands defiled by corpses. He became a thief, hated by all, set fire to others’ houses, and, in cruel play, threw children into wells. He grew violent, carried weapons, oppressed the poor and the blind, always consorted with outcastes, held a noose, and kept company with dogs. Through association with prostitutes, he squandered his ancestral wealth. Once, after beating his own parents, he even took their vessels for himself. His pitiable father, now destitute, cried aloud in despair, “Such a wicked son, who brings only suffering, deserves to be killed!