Once, on the far bank of the sacred river Candrabhāgā, a group of outcastes led a man away from his home. They journeyed two yojanas from the river’s edge, and there, they severed his head. This unfortunate soul, burdened by his grievous sin, was reborn as a serpent in the bleak region of Māra. In that life, he took on the fearsome form of Time itself, lurking within the hollow of a withered dhava tree, his mouth blazing with venomous flames. As time passed, just as a dry dhava tree is consumed by fire or a pond is dried up by the sun’s heat, so too was the entire grove devastated by the serpent’s presence. All the grasses and plants that nourished cattle withered away, leaving the land barren. One day, a caravan from the southern lands arrived there, journeying toward the holy hermitage of Nārāyaṇa at Badarī. Among the travelers was a brāhmaṇa who, having paused along the path, carried a wooden box bound with iron rods and without any holes. Inside were the sacred bones of his father and mother, which he intended to immerse in the purifying waters of the Gaṅgā, hoping to grant them liberation, even though they had sinned. The brāhmaṇa entered the very forest where the serpent dwelled. In a secluded spot, he set down the box. The serpent, sensing an opportunity, struck the iron rod with his hood, just as the box was slightly opened, and slipped inside. The rod fell back into place, and the serpent, coiled and full of venom, remained motionless within the box. At dawn, the caravan prepared to depart. The brāhmaṇa wrapped the box in a blanket, placed it on his head, and continued his journey toward the Gaṅgā. After some days, the travelers reached the sacred land of Kośalā. There, on the auspicious banks of Ayodhyā, the brāhmaṇa, shivering from the cold, unwrapped his blanket and opened the box. The serpent, having fasted and survived only on air, emerged from the box, lifting the well-barred lid. Seeing the serpent appear, the people cried out in alarm, “Snake! Snake!” They rushed toward it, shouting and flinging clods of earth. As the serpent tried to escape, one among them struck it down. In the presence of all the pilgrims, the serpent gave up its life. Freed from the serpent’s body, the soul attained a rare and divine state. Ascending into the sky in a celestial chariot, the radiant being addressed the assembly: “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 this terrible act, I became a serpent in the desert. After enduring the torments of hell for five hundred thousand years, I spent twenty thousand more in the womb of a serpent. Yet, by the grace of this holy place, I have now attained the highest state of divinity. Therefore, never abandon this sacred site of Kośalā, for it fulfills all desires. Even I, though sinful, have reached heaven because of it.” Nārada continued: Thus, that sinful barber, having taken a condemned birth, ascended to heaven in a celestial chariot by the grace of that holy place. The ascetics from the south, moved by what they had witnessed, became mendicants and remained at that very site, their minds fixed upon the lotus feet of Govinda, beholding his glory. The foremost among the brāhmaṇas, filled with unwavering faith after witnessing the greatness of the place, cast his parents’ bones into the sacred waters. Instantly, his parents ascended in a splendid celestial chariot, appearing before the assembly in divine forms. In the hearing of all, they spoke to their son: “Dear child, may you live long, blessed with wealth, grain, and happiness. Because you have granted us liberation, you too shall attain release—this is no falsehood. The fruit a son gains by offering rice-balls in the Gaṅgā, and the destiny attained by ancestors there, both are obtained here by the casting of bones.” Thus concludes the story of Mukunda, as told in the section on the Glory of the Yamunā in the Uttara-khaṇḍa of the great Padma Purāṇa. Later, Nārada spoke again to King Śibi: “O king, listen as I describe the supreme glory of Kāśī, which bestows merit, fame, and long life. On the bank of Indraprastha, in the sacred age of Kṛta, there once stood a single Śiṃśapā tree. In that tree, a lone crow had built its nest, and beneath, in a hollow, dwelled a great serpent. One day, the crow’s mate, having laid two eggs, flew away and did not return. The crow, caring for the eggs, remained high in the tree. Then, one night, a great storm arose and struck the Śiṃśapā, uprooting it from its strong base. As the tree fell, both the crow and the serpent at its base were crushed and lost their lives. In the next moment, all three—the Śiṃśapā tree, the crow, and the serpent—took on divine forms, ascended three celestial chariots, and journeyed to the abode of Śrīpati. King Śibi asked, “O divine sage, by what merit did these three attain the city that grants liberation? Who were they in previous lives?” Nārada replied: “In the land of Kurujāṅgala there lived a Brahmin named Śravaṇa, his wife Kuḍā, and his brother-in-law Kuraṇṭaka. Śravaṇa, who always ate without bathing and indulged in sweet morsels, became, because of this fault, a village crow named Shravan. His brother-in-law Kuraṇṭaka, a fierce atheist who destroyed the path of scripture and tradition and blasphemed the gods, was also transformed by his actions.” Thus, through the mysterious workings of karma and the sanctity of holy places, the stories of sin and redemption, fall and liberation, unfold—revealing the boundless grace that pervades the sacred land of Bhārata.