A great wrong had been committed: much wealth had been taken unjustly, and the people appealed to their king for justice. “You are our protector, our ruler over the wicked,” they implored. “If it is proper, let what was taken be restored.” Hearing their words, the king’s anger flared—his eyes reddened with righteous fury. He turned to his minister standing nearby and said, “What are these people saying? Listen carefully. Quickly bring the wicked one before me, or I will hold you responsible. Arise, arise, O most sinful one! Let the welfare of the virtuous be ensured. For in whose realm the subjects suffer at the hands of fierce robbers, that king, if he does not protect them, surely falls to hell.” At the king’s command, the minister acted swiftly. Together with the king, he mounted a horse, accompanied by hundreds of foot soldiers, and rode out. They came to the house of Mukunda and questioned his relatives: “By whom was Mukunda killed? Speak the truth before me. By the king’s order, I will destroy that wicked one.” Mukunda’s relatives replied, “Mukunda was killed by the fierce barber. As he fled, his turban fell off. Mukunda’s wife saw him with her own eyes, committing the crime. What can we do now with that sinner, drowned as we are in an ocean of grief?” Upon hearing this, the minister hastened to the house of the wicked barber. Dismounting quickly, he entered the house with a few soldiers and found the barber lying in his bed. At the minister’s command, the soldiers dragged the barber out by his hair, lifting him from his bed. Startled, the barber muttered, “What, what?” and opened his eyes. Seeing the soldiers before him, he remembered his dreadful deed committed in the night; his head hung low in shame, for he saw Yama, Lord of Death, standing above him. The minister seized the barber and brought him before the king. “O king,” he announced, “here is the murderer of the brāhmaṇa—the fierce barber. Command me, master, and I will do as you wish.” The king replied, “Listen, wise minister. The river Candrabhāgā is pure and sacred among rivers. Those who give up their lives here attain the abode of the gods. Therefore, this sinful barber must not be executed here. If, however, he is killed outside the river’s boundary, in the region of Pañcakośa, beyond its limits, then this murderer of a brāhmaṇa will go swiftly to dreadful hells.” Following the king’s instructions, the minister ordered outcaste men to carry out the execution. They took the barber to the far bank of the Candrabhāgā, two yojanas away, and there, they severed his head. Because of his terrible crime, the sinner was reborn as a serpent in the region of Māra. He took the dreadful form of Time itself, dwelling in the hollow of a dhava tree, his mouth blazing with poisonous flames. Wherever he went, the grove was scorched as if by fire, or as if a pond had dried up from the sun’s heat. The entire grove became barren; all the grasses and plants useful for cattle were destroyed. One day, a caravan traveling from the south arrived in that region, making their way toward the holy hermitage of Nārāyaṇa at Badarī. Among them was a brāhmaṇa carrying a wooden box—solid, without holes, and bound with iron rods—containing the bones of his father and mother. He bore it on his shoulder, intending to immerse their remains in the sacred Gaṅgā, which fulfills even the wishes of sinners. The brāhmaṇa entered the very forest where the serpent resided. In a secluded spot, he set down the box. That night, the serpent approached, struck the iron rod with his hood, and, as the box opened slightly, slipped inside. The rod fell back into place, and the serpent remained coiled within, motionless and full of venom. At dawn, the caravan continued its journey, and the brāhmaṇa, wrapping the box in a blanket, took it up once more. He carried it on his head as they traveled toward the Gaṅgā. After several days, they reached the sacred land of Kośalā. There, on the auspicious bank of Ayodhyā, the brāhmaṇa, shivering from the cold, unwrapped the blanket and uncovered the box. The serpent, having survived by consuming only air, emerged, pushing up the well-barred lid. At the sight of the snake, the people shouted in alarm, “Snake! Snake!” They rushed toward it, hurling clods of earth. As the serpent tried to escape, one of the people struck it down. Before the eyes of the pilgrims, the serpent gave up its life. Leaving behind the serpent’s form, the soul attained a rare and divine state. Ascending a celestial aerial chariot, the soul addressed the people, saying, “O brāhmaṇas from the south, listen to my words!” “Formerly, I was a barber named Caṇḍaka, a wretched slayer of a brāhmaṇa. Because of my sin, I became a serpent in the desert. I endured the torments of hell for five hundred thousand years, and then spent twenty thousand years more in the serpent’s womb.” Thus, the story of sin, retribution, and eventual liberation unfolded, witnessed by all who were present.