Bound in the dark pit of worldly existence by the snare of affection, I am lame, deceitful, and fallen through my own actions. O ocean of compassion, please lift me up. 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, a certain man 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 sacred 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. But, when the father had passed away, tragedy struck the household. The mother was severely beaten by her own son, who demanded, “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, in the darkness of night, threw herself into a well and met her end. Gokarṇa, the other son, established in yoga, departed on pilgrimage. He was untouched by sorrow or happiness, and had neither enemies nor friends. Dhundhukārī, however, remained at home, surrounded by five courtesans, performing extremely cruel deeds, his mind deluded by the desire to maintain them. One day, those courtesans, desiring ornaments, incited Dhundhukārī, who, blinded by lust and forgetting death, left the house to obtain them. Gathering wealth from here and there, he returned home and gave those women fine clothes, ornaments, and various things. Seeing the accumulation of much wealth, the women whispered among themselves at night, “He steals daily; because of this, the king will arrest him. After taking the wealth, the king will certainly kill him; therefore, to protect our interests, why should we not secretly kill him ourselves?” Having resolved thus, they bound him with ropes while he slept, killed him, took the wealth, and left for somewhere else. Placing a noose around his neck, they began to kill him; though they acted quickly, he did not die, and they became anxious. They threw heaps of burning coals into his mouth; tormented by the extreme pain of the flames, he perished. Those reckless women abandoned his body in a pit; the secret of this was not known to anyone. When questioned by the people, they would say, “He has gone far away, for he is dear to us; he will return this year, drawn away by greed for wealth.” A wise person should never place trust in wicked women; the fool who relies on them is overwhelmed by suffering. The words of lustful women are like nectar, enhancing pleasure, but their hearts are as sharp as a razor—who, among men, is truly dear to them? Having seized his wealth, those promiscuous women, with many husbands, departed; then Dhundhukārī became a great ghost, tormented by his evil deeds. Assuming the form of a whirlwind, he constantly ran in all ten directions, afflicted by cold and heat, without food, and thirsty. He found no shelter anywhere, repeatedly crying out, “Alas, fate!” After some time, Gokarṇa learned of his brother’s death from the world. Recognizing him as helpless, Gokarṇa performed the Gaya funeral rites; wherever he traveled to a holy place, he conducted the rites there. Thus wandering, Gokarṇa returned to his own city; at night, he came to sleep in the courtyard of his house, unnoticed by others. There, perceiving Gokarṇa asleep, Dhundhukārī revealed himself to his relative in the dead of night, displaying a most terrifying form. He became, in turn, a sheep, an elephant, a buffalo, Indra, Agni, and again a man—each form only once. Seeing this reversal, Gokarṇa, composed and resolute, determined that this was someone in a miserable state, and then spoke to him: “Who are you, so fierce at night? From where have you come to this condition? Are you a ghost, a goblin, or a demon? Tell us.” Thus questioned, the being cried out loudly again and again, unable to utter words, making only gestures of consciousness. Then Gokarṇa, taking water in his hands, raised him up; freed by that single act, the sinner began to speak. The ghost said, “I am your brother, named Dhundhukārī; by my own fault, I have destroyed my human birth. There is no count of my deeds, transformed by great ignorance; I am one who harmed the worlds, killed by women through suffering. Therefore, I have become a ghost and bear this wretched state; I live on air, receiving results only as fate allows. Oh friend, ocean of compassion, brother, quickly release me!” Hearing these words, Gokarṇa replied, “For your sake, I have duly offered the ancestral oblation at Gayā. How is it that you have not been liberated? This is truly astonishing to me. If liberation does not come even from the Gayā śrāddha, then there is no other means here. What should I do for you, O departed one? Tell me the truth in detail.” The departed one answered, “Even with a hundred Gayā śrāddhas, I will not attain liberation. Consider now some other means for my release.” Hearing these words, Gokarṇa was amazed. If liberation is not gained even by a hundred śrāddhas, then your release is indeed difficult.