Hearing from my father the tale of the rākṣasa and the traveler with his steeds, I was deeply moved. Inspired by these stories and the sanctity of this holy place, I composed a hymn in praise of the lord who presides here. I resolved that when my father was freed from his illness, I would return home, for I had already remained in this sacred spot for ten days. But within those ten days, O father, my own father met his end. He passed away while standing in the half-submerged waters of this revered holy place. Then, a wondrous sight unfolded before me: Viṣṇu himself appeared, resplendent, riding upon Garuḍa. His form shone like a fresh rain cloud, his chest radiant with divine splendor. He was adorned in yellow garments, with four arms and lotus-red eyes. In his company were Brahmā, Indra, and other ancient deities, each surrounded by their own attendants. Hosts of virtues served him, while Kinnaras sang his praises, and the celestial musicians Hāhā and Hūhū extolled him everywhere. With great compassion, Viṣṇu granted my father a form like his own and placed him upon Garuḍa. Surrounded by Brahmā and the other gods, they ascended together to Vaikuṇṭha. Witnessing my father’s transformation into the likeness of Viṣṇu, I was filled with awe and deep reflection. In that moment, realization dawned upon me: the greatness of this supreme holy place is beyond description. One who dies in its sacred waters attains a four-armed, divine form. I resolved never to abandon this lord of holy places, whose power is steadfast and direct, dispelling all desires for wealth, disease, and worldly cravings. Therefore, I decided to remain here at my father’s shrine, until the fruits of my earthly actions are exhausted. Having performed the proper rites for my father, I stayed on in this holy place, accompanied by the rākṣasa, my heart set on liberation. Thus concludes the two hundred and fourth chapter, which celebrates the glory of the Kālindī, in the Uttarakhaṇḍa of the great Padma Purāṇa, a work of fifty-five thousand verses. Later, Saubhari spoke: The illustrious King Śibi, having listened to the words of the sage Nārada, addressed him with a delighted heart, eager to learn more from that noble sage. Śibi said, “O sage, I have heard you describe in detail the greatness of this foremost tīrtha, as proclaimed in the scriptures, and its power to remove sin. In Indraprastha, there are hundreds of holy places. If you know of another whose greatness is renowned, please tell me about it as well.” Nārada replied, “O king, within Indraprastha there is a place called Dvārakā. Listen to what happened there in ancient times. In the city of Kāmpilya lived a brāhmaṇa named Puṣpeṣur, whose beauty was such that he seemed the very embodiment of charm, captivating the hearts of all women. He was skilled in the art of music and possessed a voice as sweet as a cuckoo’s. He would often take up his vīṇā and play it again and again. With his melodious voice, he wandered through the city, singing in every street. The sound of his singing, adorned with exquisite notes and melodies, drew the women of the city from their homes, leaving their household duties behind as they flocked to him. Enchanted by his appearance and the sweetness of his song, they could not resist the surge of desire. Upon hearing him in person, they lost all self-control. It was he who tempted Brahmā’s mind toward Sarasvatī and who inspired Śiva to give half his body to Pārvatī. Except for those two, none in the world—no matter how self-controlled or wise—can conquer Kāmadeva, for women by nature are fickle. Even these women, though they tried, could not withstand the onslaught of desire. What more can I say, O king? In this world, Kāmadeva is truly hard to overcome. Wherever Puṣpeṣur went, singing and playing his vīṇā, the women followed him. Their husbands, sons, brothers, and fathers came and rebuked them, leading each woman back to her home. Yet, after searching for him, all the women would again go to him, and whenever this happened, the townspeople reported it to the king. The king summoned the brāhmaṇa in private and asked, ‘O brāhmaṇa, by what mantra have you enchanted the women of the city? Tell me this, best of brāhmaṇas, and I will give you great wealth. Otherwise, without doubt, I will expel you from my kingdom.’ Nārada continued, “Hearing the king’s words, the brāhmaṇa, an ocean of eloquence and virtue, spoke the truth before the king. He said, ‘O king, I am a beggar and possess neither mantra nor medicine. In your city, all the women are without self-control. Seeing my form and hearing my singing, the women cannot restrain their passion. What am I to do, great king? What fault is mine? I have not transgressed any command previously established, O ruler of the earth.’ Then all the citizens gathered and addressed the king together: ‘O king, by this brāhmaṇa our city’s women have been enchanted. They no longer remain in their homes, nor can we restrain them. If this enchanter of women stays in the city, O lord, then today we will leave for other lands. Our divine bull, the source of sacrificial rites, has departed from us. Just as the goddess Gaurī departs from the field of the wicked, so too, without him as refuge, those bereft of prosperity have left, O king. Then, as cows follow their bull, the women, adorned and fragrant, will follow him. How can prosperity remain in an empty house, however much one tries? Dharma, wealth, and the household—all three are under the power of women. Since dharma and wealth depend on the beloved, when they are lost, nothing remains.