Renunciation, when it is bereft of the joys that come from children and family, is indeed dry and lifeless; but the householder, surrounded by sons and grandsons, is vibrant and engaged in the world. In the story, a brahmin named Ātmadeva longed intensely for a son. Observing the brahmin’s insistent pleas, a great ascetic, renowned for his austerity, spoke to him. He explained that Citraketu, too, had suffered greatly by striving to change his destiny, and that seeking happiness from a son, when fate opposes, is futile—for effort alone cannot overcome destiny. Yet, seeing Ātmadeva’s unwavering desire, the sage relented. Sensing the reluctance of Ātmadeva’s wife, the ascetic gave her a single fruit and instructed, “Eat this together with your wife, and you shall have a son.” He further advised that the woman should observe truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eat only once daily for a year; by such discipline, their son would be exceptionally pure. Having spoken thus, the yogi departed, and the brahmin returned home, placing the fruit in his wife’s hand before going out again. But Ātmadeva’s wife, whose mind was crooked, wept before her friends. “Oh, I am afflicted with anxiety; I cannot eat this fruit,” she lamented. She thought, “If I eat the fruit, I will become pregnant; my belly will swell, yet with little food, I will lack strength—how will I manage the household? If, by fate, a tax collector comes, how will I, pregnant, escape? If the fetus lingers like a parrot, how will I cast it out from my womb? If the child emerges sideways, I will surely die; childbirth brings terrible pain—how can I, so delicate, endure it? If I am slow, my co-wife will seize everything. Such vows of truth and purity seem impossible to maintain. There is suffering in raising a child, and in pregnancy itself; 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, saying, “I have eaten it, I have eaten it.” Some time later, her younger sister came to visit. In her presence, the troubled wife confessed everything, saying, “I am greatly distressed—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 and pretend to be pregnant; live happily. Give my husband some wealth, and he will give you the boy. People will believe the child died at six months; I will come daily to your house to raise the boy. For now, as a test, offer the fruit to the cow. All of this has been arranged, as is the way of women.” In due course, the younger sister bore a son. The father brought the child and secretly gave him to Dhundhuli, Ātmadeva’s wife. She announced to her husband, “A healthy boy has been born; joy has come to all, for Ātmadeva now has a son.” Ātmadeva gave gifts to the twice-born and performed the birth rites; there was much auspicious singing and music at the doorway. In her husband’s presence, Dhundhuli claimed, “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 nurse your child.” All this was done by the husband to protect his son. The mother named the child Dhundhukari. Three months later, the cow who had eaten the fruit gave birth to a calf—beautiful in every limb, divine, spotless, and shining like gold. Delighted, the brahmin himself performed the rites, and people gathered in wonder to see this marvel. They exclaimed, “Behold, good fortune has come to Ātmadeva: a child has been born from the cow, and its divine form is a wonder!” By fate’s design, no one knew the secret; seeing the child’s ears like a cow’s, they named him Gokarna. In time, both sons grew to manhood. Gokarna became learned and wise, but Dhundhukari turned out exceedingly wicked. He neglected bathing and purity, ate improper food, was devoid of 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. Violent and armed, he oppressed the poor and blind, consorted with outcastes, carried a noose, and kept company with dogs. Through association with prostitutes, he 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 only suffering deserves to be killed! Where shall I go? Who will relieve my sorrow? I will end my life in this misery—alas, how wretched is my state!” At that time, Gokarna, wise and compassionate, approached his father and instructed him on the path of detachment. He said, “This worldly life is insubstantial, full of suffering, and deludes the mind. Whose son, whose wealth, whose affection truly endures? Even Indra, king of the gods, and universal monarchs find no happiness—true happiness belongs only to the dispassionate sage who lives in solitude. Abandon ignorance, which appears as attachment to offspring; through delusion, one treads the path to hell. This body will fall, leaving all behind—go to the forest.” Hearing these words, his father, resolved to depart, asked, “My child, tell me in detail what should be done in the forest.