Even those with bodies shaped by virtue are not free from the bonds of birth and death. Indeed, the demoness, through her own actions, acquired a ghostly existence, needle-like and restless. Carried by the winds, she began to wander to the farthest ends of the directions. In her roaming, her gross, physical body dissolved where she was, vanishing like an autumn cloud. Now, as a subtle, wind-like needle, she would enter the bodies of those who were helpless, emaciated, or even corpulent, bringing with her an intense affliction, like a fierce outbreak of cholera. If she entered the subtle body of someone pure and wise, she became a hidden, internal disease, still like cholera, but working from within. At times, this misguided spirit found satisfaction in her wanderings; at other times, she was subdued by virtue, through the power of mantra and medicine. For many years, she wandered ceaselessly, devoted only to roaming, moving with two forms—one in the sky, one upon the earth. On the ground, she was hidden by dust; in the hand, concealed by the finger; in the sky, veiled by radiance; and in cloth, obscured by the threads themselves. Within, she dwelled in the sinews, in the unfortunate dust of the pale and weak; she lingered in the dry riverbeds and among the old, brittle grass. She could be found in places that were empty, devoid of meaning and shadow, where only breath stirred, where flies were swept by the wind, and where no auspicious tree grew. She hid in knotted bones, on the trembling earth, and in the illusions created by the gleam of another’s garment. She rested at the tip of a stalk, in the buzzing wind of flies, in the harsh, sapless wind, and on the wavering branches of fingers. She was present in streaks of filth, in the pits of wounds on one's own fingers, in sweat, dew, and corrupted fluids, among the mountains of joints and anthills. Sometimes she wandered in dust, water, and delusion, with nails rough as a serpent’s skin. Sometimes she was found beside a well, fearful of the river and infested with lice. She moved through sparse, dry, and cracked places, among patches and muddy pools, swept by cold winds in the middle of the path. She bore lice, stains, and blood, her mouth marked by blood and nails. Pressed by the thumb and axle, she was dragged everywhere by whoever pulled her along. With various designs, she moved through towns like a painted cloth, growing weary from constant coming and going, and resting for long stretches. In each city, she was burdened with bundles of thread and tools. When she came to the forest of palms, she was turned about by oxen. Hidden, she would slip a little from the hand to rest; worn by the pull of the thread through her mouth, she would break apart somewhere along the way. Even when pressed hard to the ear, she did not pierce, for when the mind is dull, even a sharp thing loses its edge. Weary and bent by the needle of the mind, she wandered still; like a heavy stone in water, she did not sink, though bent downward. The movement of transmigration, powered by the essence of the mind, spread to the ends of the directions, just as a blade of grass is swept by the wind. With her mouth, she released the subtle thread to its very end, working swiftly in the loom, by the effort of a higher power, as a woman joined with her heart gives birth. Just as, by the juice of the higher filling, a needle opens up the heart of the cloth, so too she continually emitted the subtle thread’s end in the loom. Even things long worn out are filled up by sharp things without deliberation; so a tattered cloth is instantly filled by a needle. With rays of thread drawn out, the needle acquired the heart of the cloth, and by that higher filling, brilliance was quickly woven, like the rays of the sun. Suddenly, by that established form—exhausted from filling—the demon-needle was tormented in the heart, as if suffering the result of karma. She made a piercing sound, like a hoof, when slightly moved; even by her own nature, when put to use, she brought about fatigue. She moved the thread through the cloth in fourfold piercing, and the long thread of impression through the body, just like sensation. Driven swiftly, the needle ran in the cloth, her face unseen—just as wicked people strike at vital points, hidden from view. Threaded with a skein of yarn, the sharp-eyed needle looked ahead, pondering how best to pierce—this is the desire of the keen. Whether in silk or linen garments, the sharp needle passed equally; only a fool would ignore the difference between virtue and vice. Pressed between thumb and finger, she bore a shining thread and, as if spitting out an endless cord, gazed forward. Because of her sharp and heartless nature, even when threaded, she did not enter soft things easily, moving sluggishly among obstacles. Though exceedingly sharp, if threaded through the mouth of a donkey, the needle—unpiercing and heartless—remained unfortunate, like a princess in distress. Without harming others, the sharp one sought no path; after piercing, the needle was restrained and hung from the ear-lobe. Fallen from the hand, she lay beautifully in the cotton, like friendship; who would not delight in a friend resembling their own nature? Who among ordinary people, whose minds are mixed with deluded tendencies, would wish to abandon companionship with those who are like themselves? Once abandoned, the inner-moving force became restless in the iron chamber, stirred by the bellows’ wind, eager to rise into the sky. Situated in the flow of prāṇa and apāna, moving within the lotus of the heart, the power of suffering, fierce and intense, arose like the force of the living soul itself. By the opposition of samāna, she moved along with samāna; by the reversal of udāna, she moved along with udāna. Thus, the tale of the needle-demoness unfolds—a story of wandering, affliction, and the subtle workings of karma through the ceaseless movement of the inner wind.