In the village, Dhundhuli, the wife of Ātmadeva, was troubled by deep anxieties. She reflected, “If, by fate, a tax collector visits the village, how will a pregnant woman escape his notice? If the fetus remains lodged in my womb like a stubborn parrot, how will I ever deliver it?” Her worries grew. “If the child comes out sideways, I will surely die. Childbirth brings terrible pain—how can I, so delicate, possibly endure it?” She feared her co-wife would seize everything if she was slow, and the vows of truth and purity seemed impossibly hard to keep. She considered the suffering that comes with raising and caring for a child, and the agony a woman endures in labor. In her mind, she thought that a barren or widowed woman was happier. So, by such flawed reasoning, Dhundhuli did not eat the fruit her husband had given her. Yet, when Ātmadeva asked, she falsely claimed, “I have eaten it, I have eaten it.” One day, her younger sister came to visit her. In her presence, Dhundhuli revealed everything, saying, “I am greatly troubled. I am weak from this distress—what shall I do, sister?” Her sister replied, “I am pregnant; after I give birth, I will give you the child. Meanwhile, stay at home, pretending to be pregnant, and live happily. Give your husband some wealth, and he will give you the boy.” She explained further, “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, the sister gave birth to a boy. The father brought the child and secretly gave him to 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, and there was much auspicious singing and music at the doorway. Yet Dhundhuli claimed before her husband, “There is no milk in my breast; another has drawn out the milk, so how can I nourish the child?” She suggested, “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 Ātmadeva for the sake of protecting his son. The mother gave the child the name Dhundhukari. After three months had passed, the cow, to whom the fruit had been offered, gave birth to a calf—beautiful in every limb, divine, spotless, and shining like gold. Seeing this, the pleased brahmin himself performed the rites, and all the people gathered, marveling at the wonder. They declared, “Good fortune has arisen for Ātmadeva: a child has been born from the cow, and, being divine in form, it is a marvel.” 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. Dhundhukari 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 play, would throw children into wells. Violent and armed, he oppressed the poor and the blind, always consorted with outcastes, held 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!” 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 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, even though 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, directly 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. When Ātmadeva 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!” Frightened by his words and distressed for her son, the mother, at night, threw herself into a well and met her end.