Long ago, Sagara himself endured great suffering in his quest for offspring, yet it brought him only pain. Therefore, it is wise to set aside hope for family, for true happiness is found in renunciation in every way. But the brāhmaṇa, consumed by longing, pleaded, “What use is discernment to me if I have no son? Give me a child, even by force, or I will surrender my life before you, overwhelmed by grief.” He insisted that renunciation, if it lacks the joy of children and family, is truly dry and lifeless. A householder surrounded by sons and grandsons is vibrant and full of life in the world. Seeing the brāhmaṇa’s desperate insistence, the ascetic—rich in austerity—spoke gently: “Even Citraketu suffered hardship when he tried to erase the lines of fate. You will not find happiness in a son, for effort that opposes fate is doomed to fail. Still, since you are so intent, what more can I say to one who is so fixed on his desire?” Noting the wife’s reluctance, the ascetic gave her a single fruit. “Eat this, together with your wife,” he said, “and you will have a son. For one year, let the woman observe truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eat only once a day. By these vows, the son born will be exceedingly pure.” Having spoken thus, the yogi departed. The brāhmaṇa returned home, placed the fruit in his wife’s hand, and then went elsewhere. But the young woman, her mind troubled and crooked, wept before her friends. “Oh, I am filled with anxiety; I will not eat this fruit.” She reasoned, “If I eat the fruit, I will conceive, and my belly will swell. Eating little, I will lack strength—how then 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 in the womb, how will I cast it out? If the fetus 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. These vows of truth and purity are very hard to keep. There is suffering in raising and caring for a child, and for a woman in labor. In my mind, a barren or widowed woman is happier.” Thus, by such flawed 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 visited her. In her presence, the wife confessed everything, saying, “I am greatly troubled and weak from this distress—what shall I do, sister?” The younger sister replied, “I am pregnant; after my child is born, I will give him to you. 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; I will raise the boy, coming daily to your house. And now, to test the matter, offer the fruit to the cow. All this is done as is the nature of women.” In due time, the younger sister gave birth to a boy. The father brought the child and secretly gave him to his wife, 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 the birth rites; there was much auspicious singing and music at his door. In front of her husband, the wife said, “There is no milk in my breast; another has drawn it out, 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 the husband for the sake of protecting his son, and the mother named the child Dhundhukari. After three months, the cow who had eaten the fruit gave birth to a calf—beautiful in every limb, divine, spotless, and shining like gold. Seeing this wonder, the pleased brāhmaṇa himself performed the rites, and the people gathered in amazement, eager to witness the marvel. “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 wonder.” By the arrangement of fate, no one learned 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 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, in his cruelty, would throw children into wells. He was 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, Dhundhukari squandered his ancestral wealth; once, after beating his parents, he even took their vessels. His pitiable father, now destitute, cried out in anguish, “Such a wicked son who brings suffering deserves to be killed. Where shall I stay, where shall I go, who will remove my sorrow? I will give up my life in this misery—alas, how wretched is my state!” At this moment, Gokarna, endowed with wisdom, came to his father and instructed him, showing him the path of detachment. He explained, “This worldly existence is insubstantial, full of suffering, and deludes all. Whose son, whose wealth, whose affection truly burns constantly? There is no happiness even for Indra, nor for a universal monarch; happiness exists only for the dispassionate sage who lives in solitude.