The minister, acting swiftly, dismounted from his horse and entered the house with a few soldiers. There, they found the barber lying on his bed. At the minister’s command, the soldiers seized the wicked man, dragging him by his hair and lifting him roughly from his sleep. Startled and muttering in confusion, “What, what?” the barber opened his eyes. But as soon as he saw the soldiers before him, memory of his own terrible deed—the sin he had committed in the night—came crashing down on him. He stood for a moment, head bowed in shame, for in his mind’s eye, he saw Yama, the god of death, looming above him. The minister, having secured the barber, brought him before the king and addressed his sovereign: “O king, here stands the murderer of a brāhmaṇa, this fierce and sinful barber. Command me, master, and I will carry out your will at once.” The king replied, “O wise minister, heed my words. The river Candrabhāgā is pure and renowned among rivers. Those who surrender their lives here attain the abode of the gods. Therefore, this sinful barber must not be killed on this sacred ground. If, however, he is taken beyond the river’s boundary, into the region of Pañcakośa, and crosses that limit, let this murderer of a brāhmaṇa meet his fate and descend quickly into the dreadful hells.” Thus instructed, the minister sent outcaste men to execute the king’s order. They led the barber across the far bank of the Candrabhāgā, two yojanas away, and there they severed his head. By this act, the sinner was reborn as a serpent in the region of Māra, taking on a fearsome form that embodied Time itself. He dwelt within the hollow of a dhava tree, his mouth blazing with venomous flames. From his presence, the entire grove withered—just as a dry dhava tree is consumed by fire, or a pond dries up beneath the sun’s heat, so too did all grasses and plants useful for cattle vanish from that place. One day, a caravan from the southern regions arrived, journeying toward the holy hermitage of Nārāyaṇa at Badarī. Among them was a brāhmaṇa who, having paused along the path, carried a wooden box reinforced with iron rods—without holes—containing the bones of his father and mother. He bore the box on his shoulder, intent on immersing these sacred remains in the waters of the Gaṅgā, which even grants fulfillment to sinners. This brāhmaṇa, too, entered the forest where the serpent resided. In a quiet spot, he set down the box. The serpent, perceiving an opportunity, struck one of the iron rods with his hood. The box opened slightly, and the serpent slipped inside. The rod returned to its place, and the coiled serpent remained motionless and venomous within the box. At dawn, the caravan prepared to leave. The brāhmaṇa wrapped the box in a blanket, placed it on his head, and continued toward the Gaṅgā. After several days, the travelers reached the sacred land of Kośalā. There, on the auspicious bank of Ayodhyā, the brāhmaṇa, chilled by the cold, unwrapped his blanket and uncovered the box. The serpent, having fasted and survived only on air, emerged by lifting the well-barred lid. As he slithered out, the people saw him and cried out in alarm, “Snake! Snake!” Grabbing clods of earth, they rushed at the serpent. As he tried to escape, someone struck him down. In the presence of all the pilgrims, the serpent gave up his life. His soul, leaving the serpent’s body, attained a rare and divine state. Ascending a celestial aerial chariot, he addressed the people: “O brāhmaṇas from the south, listen to my words. In a former life, I was a barber named Caṇḍaka, a wretched slayer of a brāhmaṇa. Because of that terrible sin, I became a serpent in this desert, suffering the torments of hell for five hundred thousand years, and then spending twenty thousand more in the serpent’s womb. Now, by the grace of this holy place, I have attained divinity. Therefore, let none abandon this sacred site called Kośalā, for it fulfills all desires. Even a sinner like me has reached heaven because of it.” Nārada continued: Thus, that sinful barber, after suffering a condemned birth, ascended to heaven in a celestial chariot by the power of this holy place. The southern ascetics, moved by what they had witnessed, remained there as mendicants, their minds fixed on the lotus feet of Govinda, beholding his glory. The foremost brāhmaṇa, having seen the greatness of that holy place, cast the bones of his parents into the sacred waters. Immediately, his parents ascended a splendid celestial chariot and appeared before all in divine form. In the hearing of the assembly, they addressed their son: “Dear child, may you live long in this world, blessed with wealth, grain, and happiness. Because you have granted us liberation, you too shall attain release—this is no falsehood. The merit gained by offering rice-balls in the Gaṅgā, and the destiny attained there by ancestors, both are granted here by the mere casting of bones.” Thus concludes the two hundred and eleventh chapter, “The Story of Mukunda,” in the section on the Glory of the Yamunā, in the Uttara-khaṇḍa of the great Padma Purāṇa. Nārada then spoke again: “Hear, O king Śibi, as I recount to you the supreme glory of Kāśī—a place that bestows merit, fame, and long life. On the banks of Indraprastha, in the sacred age of Kṛta, there once stood a solitary tree, the Śiṃśapā.