She stood there, transformed—her body motionless, her hair rising and dark as thunderclouds, as if her very being stretched upward to seize the sky. Around her, the wind had worn her skin thin, leaving her body slack, swaying with every gust that made her ornaments ring out. Her hair, wild and shrouded in darkness, was adorned with a stream of pearls. In this haunting state, the Unborn One approached her. A thousand years passed in her austere penance. Even the fiercest fire, fed with filth, was subdued by the chill of her resolve. Then, the Grandfather—Brahma himself—came to her. She bowed to him in her mind, stood firm, and said, “So be it.” Within, she pondered deeply: “What boon is enough to end hunger?” Her mind resolved: “Let me become both effortless and made of iron, the needle of life. By this request, becoming a twofold needle, I will enter unnoticed and vanish. Along with the breath, let me enter the heart of all beings as fragrance does, so that by this means I may consume all people as I wish.” She reflected further, “Gradually, the destruction of hunger brings supreme happiness.” At this, the lotus-born Brahma spoke to her. She beheld another vision—a cloud of nectar—and Brahma addressed her as “Daughter Karkaṭikā, garland of the mountain of the demon clan.” He said, “Arise, I am pleased with you; choose whatever boon you desire.” She replied, “Lord, master of past and future, may I become Jīvasūcikā. Let my boon be that I may be both effortless and made of iron, and may I have the power of choice.” Brahma granted her wish, saying, “So be it,” and continued: “In creation, you shall become Viṣūcikā, the needle-like one; with subtle illusion, you will cause harm to all the worlds. You will afflict those who eat poorly, undertake difficult actions, are foolish, unstable, dwell in bad places, or are reckless. Entering the heart with the life-breaths, piercing the spleen and other organs, you will become Viṣūcikā, a disease of wind in the form of a subtle line. You will approach people whether virtuous or not; but for the virtuous, I now declare this mantra for your treatment. On the northern side of the Himalayas, there is a demoness named Karkati, also called Viṣūcikā; she is a maiden who obstructs what is right. Reciting this mantra, the great mantra, place it in the left side of the belly; then, with that hand, gently stroke the patient, maintaining composure. Imagine that Karkati, shrieking harshly, is fleeing toward the Himalayas, crushed by the power of the mantra as if pounded to dust. Visualize the patient as situated in the moon, in a lake of elixir—ageless, deathless, liberated from all diseases and disturbances. Indeed, the practitioner, having become pure and inwardly calm, with focused mind, by this method gradually destroys all forms of Viṣūcikā.” Thus, the Lord of the three worlds, moving through the sky, with the mantra perfected and received from the accomplished ones of the heavens, honored by Indra and others, returned to his own imperishable, supreme, and radiant city. Thereafter, that great black demoness, shining like the peak of a cat’s-eye gem and poised to become thin, appeared like a streak of lampblack cloud. She took the form of a tree, then abandoned her cloud-like shape and became the size of a man, then the size of a hand. Next, she shrank to the size of a span, then a finger, then a grain of lentil, and finally, a needle. She attained the state of a silken needle, beautiful like the filament of a lotus, standing upright, resembling the peak of a mountain of thought. This black needle shone—smooth, flawless, coiled by the subtle body, moving through the sky, carried by the wind. Though visible, there was no substance of iron; it was only a play of consciousness, appearing like a needle in a dream. Smooth as a jeweled needle, joined with the mind’s imagination, beautiful as a line of beryl’s radiance, graceful as a string of rods—it was like a tendril of a black-lotus stamen carried by the wind, with a tiny, clear aperture, as if a pupil of the sky, subtle and transparent to sight. With a thread grasped by its own tip, a smooth tail, and shining point, it became visible for the sake of vast tranquility, entering a supreme vow of silence. Seen from afar like a lamp, it attained the state of pure being; from a distance, with a charming mouth, it seemed to utter forth into the sky. With eyes half-closed, she resembled a delicate lamp-flame, her hair soft as silk, her forehead still moist from a recent bath, appearing as a playful young woman. Her thread, rising like a lotus-fiber out of curiosity for the world outside, was poised like the chief channel, beautiful as a moonbeam extending outward. With her senses restrained, her own life-force seemed to move outward, unnoticed like the stream of awareness in a Buddhist ascetic. Her understanding, subtle as the doctrine of emptiness, was like a faint breath of wind through a crevice, or a needle with its light nearly gone, sharp yet imperceptible. She had been pointed out for the sake of being seized, but the one who saw her did not make use of her; nor did she herself consider this—ah, how ignorance reveals itself! With the tip of the needle, she reflected not on its emptiness, but simply gazed at her own mental intention, sitting at ease. Without any reflection, the needle’s purpose was desired by her dull mind; for one whose mind is scattered among various objects, prior and subsequent reasoning does not arise. A thing, though capable and effective, takes on a different nature through imagination; just as a mirror, filled with the forms one wishes, is altered by a breath. For this rakshasi, who had assumed the form of a needle and abandoned her ample body, even great death was experienced as perfectly pleasant. Indeed, how difficult is the fate of those attached to a single object! The rakshasi, by her own will, cast off her body as if it were mere straw.