Dhundhuli, troubled by many anxieties, pondered deeply after receiving the miraculous fruit that promised conception. She thought, “If I eat the fruit, I will become pregnant, and my belly will grow. But if I eat little, I will lack strength—how will I manage the household duties?” Her mind raced with worries: “If fate brings a tax collector to the village, how will a pregnant woman escape? If the fetus remains in my womb like a parrot, how will I ever deliver it? If the child comes out sideways, I will die; childbirth brings terrible pain—how can I, so delicate, endure it?” She feared her co-wife might seize everything if she was slow, and the vows of truth and purity seemed impossible to observe. She saw only suffering in raising and caring for a child, and in the agony of labor. In her mind, she thought, “A barren or widowed woman is happier.” So, with such anxious and faulty reasoning, Dhundhuli decided not to eat the fruit. Yet, when her husband, Ātmadeva, asked her about it, she lied and said, “I have eaten it, I have eaten it.” One day, her younger sister visited her home. In her presence, Dhundhuli confessed everything, saying, “I am greatly troubled. I am weak from this distress—what shall I do, sister?” Her sister comforted her, saying, “I am pregnant; I will give you my child after birth. Meanwhile, stay at home, pretending 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. Now, for the sake of testing, offer the fruit to the cow. All this was done just so, as is the nature of women.” In due course, Dhundhuli’s sister gave birth to a boy. The father brought the child and secretly gave him to Dhundhuli. She announced to 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 all the birth rites. The house was filled with auspicious singing and music. In front of her husband, Dhundhuli said, “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 nourish your child.” All this was done by the husband for the sake of protecting his son. The mother named the child 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. Ātmadeva, delighted, performed the rites himself. All the people gathered, marveling at this wonder: a child born from a cow, with a divine form. By the arrangement of fate, no one knew the secret. Seeing the child with ears like a cow, they named him Gokarna. In due course, both sons grew up to be young men. Gokarna became learned and wise, while Dhundhukari was exceedingly wicked. He neglected bathing and purity, ate improper food, and engaged in wrongful acquisitions. He ate with hands defiled by corpses, was a thief hated by all, set fire to others’ houses, and cruelly threw children into wells for play. 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 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!” Then Gokarna, wise and compassionate, 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 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 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, Ātmadeva, wishing to depart, asked, “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.” Thus, compelled by his son’s words, Ātmadeva left his home, went to the forest with firm resolve at the age of sixty, and, engaged daily in service to Hari, attained Śrī Kṛṣṇa through the recitation of the Tenth Canto. He resided in the celestial city, endowed with the splendor of the gods’ gardens, in the palace of Indra, built by Viśvakarmā, the abode of the fortune of the three worlds, together with all prosperity. Rich in knowledge, wealth, and noble birth, he was free from pride and arrogance. After the father had passed away, Dhundhukari’s mother was severely beaten by him. He threatened her, “Tell me where the wealth is kept, or I will kill you with this stick!