In the sacred discourse of the Varāha Purāṇa, it is proclaimed that liberation is not bound to the practice of Sāṃkhya or Yoga alone—one may indeed attain release without them, without any doubt. Especially, it is Mathurā that bestows such liberation upon those who relinquish their lives there; no holy place can compare to Mathurā, nor is there any deity greater than Keśava. With the conclusion of the chapter on the greatness of atonement for offenses, the narrative continues as Śrī Varāha addresses the Earth: “Listen, O Earth, to an ancient tale that unfolded at Dhruva-tīrtha.” In this city, there once lived a king renowned for his righteousness and steadfast devotion to truth. He had two hundred wives, each hailing from noble families, upright in character and mature in age. Among them was Candraprabhā, a heroic woman and mother of heroic sons. Yet, not all the king’s wives followed the conduct prescribed for wives; many strayed from the path of virtue. Because of their own faults, these women fell toward hell. In time, a great soul among the living beings also fell from there. Those who had fallen took on dark forms, resembling mosquitoes, and wandered about in such shapes. In their delusion, they neglected vows and sacred recitations; not even a quarter of the day remained when this lapse occurred. From the eastern, western, and southern directions, others arrived—joyful, satisfied, their bodies well-nourished. In groups, they ascended to the heavens, adorned with fine garments and ornaments, their bodies strong and their hearts full of delight. Some departed as they had come, only to return again, gathering and dispersing, wishing each other blessings with joy. Some, with slender bodies and sunken bellies, were nevertheless honored with fine palanquins as they journeyed. Witnessing what seemed like a great festival, a sage rose in amazement. The solitary and constant holy place appeared as if it were surrounded by a shore. Yet, the sage trembled—his eyes hollow, his body thin and bent. His voice, faint as the cry of a small bird, was barely heard. To those who had come without effort, he said, “You do not go to your proper place. Today, my daily act at this holy site is lost, both night and day. Having seen you in this form, my ritual has in effect been offered to you.” One of these creatures spoke: “Whoever performs the śrāddha ritual again at this fixed holy place, offering water mixed with sesame seeds, ensures that the ancestors who are satisfied by sesame attain heaven through their descendants. Yet, due to the fault of mixed lineage, some are subjected to hell. For me, there is no path or movement; I am afflicted by threefold suffering. Those endowed with strength have reached heaven—how can the powerless find a way? It is through sons who honor their ancestors with offerings of svadhā that the highest state is attained. You, O knower of the three times, have seen those who have gone to heaven with your divine vision.” The sage then asked about those who perform śrāddha among the śūdras, whether born in direct or reverse lineage. Thus questioned by the brāhmaṇa, the creature began to explain the cause of his condition: “O dear one, your lineage too does not exist as prescribed by fate. Tell me everything; if my word is true, I will do as you say.” He continued, “These thin mosquitoes you see within my body—I am their thread-mantra; I am, for them, made of thread, as I once was. And there is always a maid named Prabhāvatī, who is sent with messages to the queen.” Thus, the sacred narrative unfolds, revealing the mysterious workings of karma, lineage, and ritual at the holy tirtha, and the subtle interplay of fate and devotion in the journey of souls.