O venerable sage, listen to this tale of fate and longing. On a certain day, a wise ascetic gazed upon a brāhmaṇa and spoke with solemn clarity: “Today, O brāhmaṇa, I have perceived your destiny. For seven lifetimes, you are fated to remain without a son—your hopes for offspring shall not be fulfilled at all.” He continued, recalling the story of Sagara, who too suffered torment in pursuit of children. “Just as Sagara endured hardship for the sake of progeny, so should you, now, let go of your hope for a family. In renunciation, there is happiness in every way—give up this yearning.” But the brāhmaṇa, his heart overwhelmed by longing, replied with anguish, “Of what use is discernment to me if I am denied a son? Grant me a child, even by force! Otherwise, in the depths of my grief, I will end my life before you.” He pleaded further, “Renunciation that lacks the joy of children and family is truly dry and empty. A householder, surrounded by sons and grandsons, is lively and full in this world.” Seeing the brāhmaṇa’s insistence, the ascetic, radiant with the power of his austerities, relented, saying, “Citraketu, too, endured great trial by defying the lines of fate. Yet, know this: you will not find happiness through a son, for when effort goes against destiny, it fails. Still, since you are so intent on your desire, what more can I say?” Observing the reluctance of the brāhmaṇa’s wife, the ascetic handed her a single fruit. “Eat this,” he instructed, “together with your wife, and you will have a son. But she must observe truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eat only once a day for a whole year. By this discipline, your son will be exceedingly pure.” Having spoken thus, the yogi departed on his way. The brāhmaṇa returned home, placed the fruit in his wife’s hand, and then left for his own affairs. But the young woman, her mind twisted with anxiety, wept before her friends. “Oh, I am troubled and fearful; I cannot bring myself to eat this fruit,” she confessed. “If I eat it, I will become pregnant, my belly will swell, and with such little food, I will lack the strength to manage the household. If, by fate, a tax collector should come to the village, how will a pregnant woman escape? If the fetus remains within me, like a parrot in a cage, how will I bring it forth? If it comes out sideways, I may die! Childbirth is agony—how can I, so delicate, endure such pain?” She continued, “If I am slow, my co-wife will seize all that I have. The vows of truth, purity, and the like seem impossible to maintain. There is suffering in raising a child and in childbirth itself; truly, I think a barren or widowed woman is happier.” Thus, by such faulty reasoning, 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, the wife poured out her troubles. “I am weak from this distress, sister—what shall I do?” The sister replied, “I am pregnant; after I give birth, I will give you the child. Meanwhile, pretend to be pregnant and live happily at home. Give my husband some wealth, and he will agree to give you the boy. People will say your child died at six months, and I will raise the boy, coming daily to your house.” She added, “For now, just to test, offer the fruit to the cow. All this is done as is the way of women.” In due course, the younger sister gave birth to a son. The father brought the child and, in secret, handed him over to Dhundhuli, the wife. She announced to her husband, “A healthy boy has been born! Joy has arisen for all—Ātmadeva has begotten a son.” The brāhmaṇa gave gifts to the twice-born, performed the birth rites, and there was much auspicious singing and music at the doorway. Before her husband, she said, “There is no milk in my breast. Another has drawn out the milk, so how can I nourish the child?” She suggested, “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 brāhmaṇa did, seeking only to protect his supposed 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. The delighted brāhmaṇa himself performed the rites for this marvelous calf, and all the people gathered, eager to witness such a wonder. “Behold, good fortune has come to Ātmadeva—a child has been born from the cow, and, being divine in form, it is a marvel!” By the workings of fate, no one knew the secret of these births. Seeing that this child had ears like 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, shunned anger, engaged in wrongful acts, and even ate with hands defiled by corpses. He became a thief, hated by all, set fire to others’ houses, and, in play, would throw children into wells. He was violent, armed, and oppressed the poor and blind, always keeping company with outcastes, carrying a noose, and consorting with dogs. Through association with prostitutes, he squandered his ancestral wealth. Once, after beating his own parents, he took their vessels for himself. His pitiable father, now destitute, cried out in despair, “Such a wicked son, who brings only suffering, deserves to be killed. Where shall I go, who will remove my sorrow? I will give up my life in this misery—alas, how wretched is my state!” Then Gokarna, wise and compassionate, came to his father and instructed him, showing him the path of detachment. “This worldly existence is insubstantial, full of suffering, and deludes us all. Whose son, whose wealth, whose affection truly lasts or burns constantly?” Thus unfolds the tale of fate, longing, and the search for true happiness.