O King, just as the senses are delighted by the proper worship of Govinda, so too is there great happiness simply from hearing about the greatness of Dvaraka. Indeed, the merit earned by giving twenty measures of gold during a solar or lunar eclipse is gained by one who listens to this account. When one hears the pure story of the attainment of a son, a son is granted here; and the supreme devotion achieved by Govinda’s friend is also bestowed. Whoever hears with faith about the liberation of the demonesses attains, like them, a splendid chariot and journeys to the abode of the gods. The greatness of the noble king and of the city of Dvaraka—revered by the people of the three worlds and situated at Indra’s holy place—has now been described. What further supreme merit shall I narrate before you? Speak, for in the pursuit of the highest good, there should be no delay. Thus concludes the two hundred and eighth chapter, entitled ‘The Story of Dvaraka,’ in the section describing the greatness of Kalindi, within the Uttarakanda of the glorious Padma Purana, which comprises fifty-five thousand verses. Then, Yudhishthira spoke: “O sage, which holy place’s greatness did Narada describe to King Shibi when he visited Indra’s sacred site? Therefore, O foremost of sages, I am eager to hear; tell me the virtuous conversation between Shibi and Narada, for I bow and thirst for your nectar-like words.” Saubhari replied: “O king of righteousness, King Shibi, having listened to Narada’s account of Dvaraka’s greatness, respectfully asked him further.” King Shibi addressed Narada: “O best of gods, son of Brahma, I have heard the supreme greatness of Dvaraka, which stands on the bank of Indraprastha, and it fills me with wonder. If there is anything pure in Ayodhya, O sage, please tell me that story, for I am thirsty for your immortal words.” Narada responded: “There is here a virtuous tale that destroys great sins, concerning a barber and a twice-born named Mukunda, both of whom acted recently. O king, the barber—a slayer of a Brahmin—and the twice-born who died prematurely, both attained heaven by the grace of Kosala. On the bank of the river Chandrabhaga, that city was established. There lived a sinful barber named Chandaka, despised by all. By theft, he seized the wealth of others, committing wicked deeds; he was a killer, robbing travelers with weapons, ropes, and other means. He was ever addicted to gambling and liquor, lustful for other men’s wives; he even broke the wall of a temple and sold its bricks and stones. Near his dwelling lived a Brahmin named Mukunda, endowed with wealth and skilled in Vedic rites. One night, Mukunda, embracing his young wife, slept deeply, his body slack from the fatigue of lovemaking, without fear. In the middle of the night, Chandaka entered that house, seeking to take whatever ornaments and valuables were in Mukunda’s mansion. He took whatever was kept outside for use, went home, and then returned to the Brahmin’s house. He tried with great effort to break open the door, but it was secured with an iron mechanism, and he could not force it open. So he climbed up and entered the house from above. Entering, the cruel man placed his hand on the poor Mukunda. Ascending to the upper story, Chandaka saw the two spouses, deeply distressed and asleep. He approached them, desiring their gold ornaments, and took many ornaments lying on one part of the bed. As he stretched out his hand to take them, the Brahmin, frightened by the touch of the thief, awoke. He said nothing, keeping his eyes closed and lying still; when the wicked thief took the ornaments from his body, Mukunda, unable to bear the loss of his wealth, seized Chandaka with both arms as the thief tried to leave. Then, O King, Chandaka killed the Brahmin with a dagger; his belly torn open, Mukunda cried out for his father and mother. People rushed to his side, asking, “What happened? What is this?” They saw him, his entrails protruding, his body smeared with blood. They asked Mukunda, “By whom was this deed done?” With great difficulty, he told his relatives: “This is only the ripening of my own past actions; no one is the giver of happiness or sorrow to any embodied being. Righteousness and unrighteousness both have their root in previous actions.” Having spoken thus, greatly afflicted by pain, Mukunda gave up his life in the presence of his friends. At that time, his mother, the noble Brahmin lady, lamented. Placing his head, adorned with earrings, on her lap, she cried: “Alas, I am destroyed by you, my child, as you depart at the final moment. Just as the beauty of the day is lost when the sun sets behind the western mountain, so your body, O wise one, fit to be anointed with sandal, now has become covered with dust, plunging me into the ocean of pain and grief. The habit of chewing betel that you established is indeed the cause of this mixture of blood and phlegm being expelled; those eyes of yours, which once surpassed the beauty of lotuses, are now covered by a mass of darkness. Arise, arise, dear one, instruct your students yourself. Just as, at the conclusion of the Vaiśvadeva rite, one worships a guest who has arrived, so too your friends are standing at the door, calling for you—go to them. Give to them what should be given, and accept what should be accepted; alas, give me a reply, I fall at your feet.” Thus the tale unfolds, revealing the profound workings of karma and the transformative power of sacred places.