In the realm where the consequences of actions are woven into the fabric of existence, the soul finds itself surrounded by those it once cherished—mother, father, sons, wives, and loved ones. In the throes of suffering, the soul cries out repeatedly, “Alas! Save me, save me, O son!” Yet, these desperate pleas echo into emptiness, for the bonds of family cannot shield one from the results of their own deeds. Tormented, the soul endures blows from fists and whips, and even serpents are placed upon the body. Such agonies are not random; they are the repeated fruits of one’s own actions, coming in relentless succession. There are four principal sins, and through conduct, a fifth is added, deepening the soul’s entanglement. With each new beginning, the soul enters a path shaped by another quality, and thus, it is born among immobile beings—plants or trees. For sixty thousand and six hundred years, the soul endures this existence. When the effects of those actions are finally exhausted, it is reborn as a creature generated from sweat, passing once again through all the species of birds. Eventually, the soul attains human birth, entering the world as a Śūdra. If content with this station, it remains so. But, by virtue of further actions, a Śūdra may become a Vaiśya, then a Kṣatriya, and finally, a Brāhmaṇa. Yet, a poorly trained mind leads one to self-harm, and a man is born, carrying the weight of previous actions, to be shaped accordingly. Some are born as drinkers of liquor, with darkened teeth, foul odors, and evil deeds. One who steals gold is considered equal to a slayer of a Brāhmaṇa, so grave are such actions. For as long as the results of these deeds persist, the soul remains in the houses of departure, where even the earth is covered and the rivers seem to have vanished. In this realm, a great cry arises—shouts of “ha-ha” mingle with confusion. Blows from iron rods and fierce weapons rain down, while the laborers and messengers, exhausted and bewildered, carry out their duties. At such times, these messengers must inform the mighty Citragupta, the divine scribe who records the deeds of all beings. Thus concludes the two-hundredth chapter of the Śrī Varāha Purāṇa, describing the nature of hellish torments in the endless cycle of samsara. Now, a new scene unfolds—a battle between the Rākṣasas and the attendants. These beings, united and ever delighting in one another, prepare for what is to come. The messengers declare, “We will perform another exceedingly difficult task for you, master.” Others may do as they please, but these messengers are resolute. Suddenly, with bloodshot eyes and incensed by their words, Citragupta beholds a formless man nearby. Moved by anger, the wise Citragupta emerges, surrounded by terrifying beings who assume many forms and wear diverse ornaments. Citragupta, mighty-armed and ever mindful of the welfare of all worlds, surveys the scene. The Rākṣasas, of various appearances and flesh-eating in nature, stand ready, clad in armor fashioned from bound iguana skin and wielding an array of weapons. Rejoicing, they call out, “Command swiftly, O Lord!” Hearing their words, Citragupta addresses them: “Ho, ho! Brave Mandehakas, guardians of my will! Thus, having slain and bound them, return again as before. Slay those evildoers who act contrary to my wishes.” The Rākṣasas respond, “The ministers alone should be recognized as servants, though they number in the hundreds of thousands. These have been designated for destruction by you yourself, O great-souled one.” Thus, the cosmic order is maintained, and the consequences of actions are meted out, as decreed by the mighty Citragupta, under the watchful gaze of the divine.