When the sage saw the woman’s reluctance, he gently handed her a single fruit, saying, “Eat this with your husband, and you will have a son.” He instructed that, for one year, the woman should observe truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eat only once a day; by following these vows, their son would be born exceedingly pure. Having spoken thus, the yogi departed. The brahmin returned home, placed the fruit in his wife’s hand, and then left for his own affairs. Yet, the young woman, whose mind was crooked, wept before her friends, lamenting, “Oh, I am troubled with anxiety; I will not eat this fruit.” She reasoned, “If I eat the fruit, I will conceive; then my belly will swell with pregnancy. Eating so little, I will become weak—how can I manage the household?” She worried further, “If by fate the king’s tax collector comes to the village, how will a pregnant woman escape? If the fetus stays like a parrot in my womb, how will I cast it out? If the child comes out sideways, I will die; childbirth brings terrible pain—how can I, so delicate, endure it?” Her fears continued: “If I am slow, my co-wife will seize everything. The vows of truth, purity, and the rest seem impossible to observe. There is suffering in raising a child, and for a woman 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 woman confessed everything, saying, “I am greatly troubled and weak from distress—what shall I do, sister?” The younger replied, “I am pregnant; after I give birth, I will give you my child. Meanwhile, stay at home, pretend to be pregnant, and live happily. Give my husband some wealth, and he will give you the boy. When people ask, say the child died at six months. I will come daily to your house and raise the boy.” She added, “Now, just to see, 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 boy. The father brought the child and, in secret, gave him to Dhundhuli, the brahmin’s wife. She told her husband, “A healthy boy has been born; joy has arisen for all, for Ātmadeva has begotten a son.” The brahmin gave gifts to the twice-born and performed the birth rites; 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 my 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.” The husband did all this to protect his son, and 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. Seeing this wonder, the pleased brahmin himself performed the rites. All the villagers gathered, amazed at the marvel, saying, “Good fortune has arisen for Atmadeva: a child has been born from the cow, and, being divine in form, it is a wonder.” By fate’s arrangement, no one knew the secret. Seeing the child with ears like a cow, they named him Gokarna. In time, both sons grew to manhood. 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 acts, and ate with hands defiled by corpses. He became a thief, hated by all, set fire to others’ houses, and, for play, threw children into wells. Violent and armed, he oppressed the poor and blind, kept company with outcastes and dogs, and carried a noose. Through association with prostitutes, he squandered his ancestral wealth. Once, after beating his parents, he even stole their vessels. His pitiable father, now destitute, cried out, “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!” Then Gokarna, endowed with wisdom, came and instructed his father, showing him the path of detachment. He said, “This worldly existence is insubstantial, full of suffering, and deludes. Whose son, whose wealth, whose affection truly endures? There is no happiness even for Indra, nor for a universal monarch; happiness exists only for the dispassionate sage who lives in solitude. Abandon ignorance, which takes the form of attachment to offspring; through delusion comes the path to hell. This body will fall, leaving all—go to the forest.” Hearing these words, his father, wishing to depart, said, “My child, tell me in detail what should be done in the forest. Bound in the dark pit by the snare of affection, I am lame, deceitful, and fallen through my actions—O ocean of compassion, please lift me up.” Gokarna advised, “Abandon your attachment to this body made of bones, flesh, and blood, and always give up possessiveness toward wife, children, and others. See that this world is ever fleeting and perishable—be one who delights in detachment and devotion. Constantly practice true dharma, forsake worldly duties, serve saintly persons, and renounce desire and craving. Quickly give up thinking of others’ faults and virtues, and deeply drink the nectar of service and sacred stories.