In days gone by, a yogi gave wise counsel to a brahmin and his wife, longing for a child. He instructed that the woman should observe truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eat only once a day for a year, for by such discipline, their son would be born exceedingly pure. Having spoken thus, the yogi departed, and the brahmin returned home, placing the sacred fruit in his wife's hand before leaving again. Yet the woman, troubled and cunning, wept before her friends. “Oh, I am anxious—I will not eat this fruit,” she lamented. She feared that eating the fruit would bring pregnancy, her belly would swell, and her strength would fail, making household duties impossible. She worried that if fate brought a tax collector to the village, she would not escape, and if the fetus remained like a parrot, she could not expel it from her womb. If the child came out sideways, she would die; childbirth brought terrible pain, and she, so delicate, could not bear it. She fretted that if she was slow, her co-wife would seize everything, and the vows of truth, purity, and the like were too difficult. She reasoned that raising a child and enduring labor brought suffering, and in her mind, a barren or widowed woman was happier. Thus, with 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 came to visit. In her presence, the troubled woman confessed everything, saying, “I am greatly troubled and weak—what shall I do, sister?” Her sister replied, “I am pregnant; I will give you my child after birth. Meanwhile, stay at home, pretend 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. And, to test, offer the fruit to the cow; all this is just as women do.” In due course, the 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.” Gifts were given to the twice-born, birth rites were performed, and auspicious singing and music filled the doorway. Before her husband, Dhundhuli claimed, “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 to protect his son, and the child was named 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. The pleased brahmin performed the rites himself, and the villagers gathered in wonder to see the marvel. Good fortune had indeed arisen for Atmadeva: a child had been born from the cow, divine in form, and astonishing to all. By fate’s arrangement, no one knew the secret. Seeing the child’s cow-like ears, they named him Gokarna. Both sons grew up in time. Gokarna became learned and wise, while Dhundhukari turned exceedingly wicked. He neglected bathing and purity, ate improper food, lacked anger, engaged in wrongful acquisitions, and ate with hands defiled by corpses. He became a thief, hated by all, set fire to others’ houses, and cruelly threw children into wells for sport. Violent and armed, he oppressed the poor and the 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 took their vessels for himself. His pitiable father, now destitute, cried aloud, “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, Gokarna, wise and compassionate, came to his father and showed him the path of detachment. He taught, “This worldly existence is insubstantial, full of suffering, and deludes. 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. Abandon ignorance, which appears as 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 replied, “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.” Thus, even though compelled by his son’s words, Atmadeva left his home, resolved firmly at the age of sixty, and went to the forest. There, daily engaged in service to Hari, he attained Śrī Kṛṣṇa through the recitation of the Tenth Canto, finding liberation and peace.