Other minds, deluded by excessive pride in a single object, often meet their end without even realizing it. But this rakshasi, intoxicated by her own power to devour, paid no heed even as her own body was destroyed. For the ignorant, even destruction feels like pleasure when they are hopelessly attached to one thing. Thus, the rakshasi, though her body was gone and she had become as fine as a needle, remained entirely content. Then, another entity became bound to that needle-form, and thus arose the living needle: subtle as space itself, formless, with the very activity of space as her body. She appeared as a stream of radiant threads, her essence woven from vital strands, taking the shape of a sharp and beautiful pain—like a sunbeam piercing through a narrow opening. She was like the separate edge of a sword, or a line of atoms; like a streak of floral fragrance, she took on the form of subtle artistry. Sinful in her nature, she was but a movement of the mind, ever intent on piercing into the state of another’s life, seeking the ultimate reality in that act. In this way, her body arose, composed of two needles—slender as the husk of wild rice, delicate as a strand of cotton. With this twin-needle form, she entered the hearts of men, piercing them deeply, and then, fierce and restless, she wandered throughout all ten directions. By the force of her own intention, she could become light or heavy as she wished. She left behind her fierce, crab-like form and assumed the simple state of a needle. Even the smallest thing becomes highly coveted by those of little strength; and so, through her austerities, the demoness attained this needle-like ghosthood. Even those with meritorious bodies cannot escape the bondage of birth; the demoness, too, became a needle-like ghost as a result of her own actions. As she began to roam across the ends of the directions, carried by the winds, her gross body dissolved right there, like an autumn cloud vanishing in the sky. She would enter the bodies of the helpless, the emaciated, or the corpulent, and within them, the wind-needle would become an intense, cholera-like affliction. Even when entering the subtle body of someone pure and wise, the needle of life within would bring about an internal disease like cholera. Sometimes, this misguided heart would find satisfaction; at other times, it would be destroyed by virtue, through the power of mantra and medicine. For many years, it wandered, devoted solely to roaming, moving with two bodies—one in the sky, one upon the earth. On the ground, it was hidden by dust; in the hand, concealed by the finger; in the sky, veiled by radiance; in cloth, obscured by threads. Within, it dwelled in the stream of sinews, in the unfortunate, in pale dust; in the dry-lined riverbed, and in the subtle-lined old grass. It was found in places meaningless, shadowless, empty, yet breath-giving; where flies are swept by the wind, where no auspicious tree stands. It lingered in bulky, knotted bones, on the ever-trembling, quivering ground, and in illusions cast by the pure rays of another’s garment. It rested at the tip of a stalk, in the buzzing wind of flies; in the harsh, sapless wind, on the wavering branches of fingers. It moved through worlds streaked with filth, in the pits of wounds on one’s own fingers; in sweat, dew, and corrupted fluids, atop mountains of joints and anthills. Sometimes it was found in dust, water, and delusion, among nails rough as a serpent’s skin; sometimes on a path beside a well, dreading the river and infested with lice. It lingered in sparse, dry, cracked places, with muddy pools, swept by cold winds even in the middle of the path. It bore lice, stains, and blood, with blood-filled, nail-marked mouths; pressed by thumb and axle, it was dragged everywhere by whoever pulled it. With various designs, it moved through towns like a painted cloth, weary from its travels, resting for a long time. In each city, burdened with bundles of threads and tools, when it reached a forest of palms, it was turned about by the oxen. Hidden, it would slip a little from the hand to rest; worn out by the pull of the thread through the mouth, it would break apart somewhere. Though hard, even when pressed to the ear, it would not pierce; for when the mind is dull, even a sharp thing cannot act sharply. That weary needle, bent by the needle of the mind, wandered about; like a heavy stone in water, it did not sink, though bent downward. The movement of transmigration, powered by the mind’s essence, spread to the ends of the directions, just as a blade of grass is moved by the wind. With its mouth, it released the subtle thread to the very end—swiftly, in the beautiful loom, by the effort of the higher filling, just as a woman, joined with her heart, gives birth. By the juice of the higher filling, a needle opens up the heart widely, and so it continually emits the subtle thread’s end in the loom. Even things long worn out are filled up without deliberation by sharp things—just as a tattered cloth is instantly filled by a needle. With rays of thread drawn out, the needle acquires the heart of the cloth, and by that higher filling, brilliance is quickly woven, like the rays of the sun. Suddenly, by that established form—the exhausted filling—the demon-needle is tormented in the heart, as if by the result of karma. It makes a piercing, just like the sound of a hoof when moved slightly; even by its own nature, when employed, it brings about fatigue. It moves the thread through the cloth in fourfold piercing, and the long thread of impression in the body, just like sensation. Driven swiftly, the needle runs in the cloth, its face unseen—just so, wicked people strike at vital points, hidden from view. Threaded with a skein of yarn, the sharp-eyed needle looks on with ease, ever desiring: “How shall I pierce this?”—such is the yearning of the keen.