The movement of transmigration, propelled by the very essence of the mind, spreads far and wide, reaching the ends of all directions—just as a blade of grass is swept along by the force of the wind. In this ceaseless journey, the subtle thread of existence is released from the mouth of the loom, drawn out swiftly and beautifully, much like a woman, joined with her heart, gives birth through her own effort and higher inspiration. As the juice of this higher filling works its way, the needle opens up the heart of the cloth, continually emitting the thread’s delicate end into the loom. Even things worn and tattered are filled anew without thought, pierced and mended instantly by sharp instruments; here, a ragged cloth is made whole in a moment by the needle’s touch. With each ray of thread drawn out, the needle captures the heart of the cloth, and through this higher filling, brilliance is woven swiftly, shining like the rays of the sun. Yet, suddenly, by the established form—the exhausted filling—the demon-needle is tormented within the heart, suffering as if from the consequences of karma. The needle pierces, making a sound like a hoof when moved slightly. Even by its own nature, when put to work, it brings fatigue. It moves the thread through the cloth in fourfold piercing, just as the long thread of impressions moves through the body, akin to the sensation of experience. Driven swiftly, the needle runs through the cloth, its face unseen—so too do the wicked strike at hidden vital points. Threaded with a skein of yarn, the sharp-eyed needle surveys its task, pondering with ease, “How shall I pierce this?”—such is the desire of the keen. Whether it encounters silk or linen, the sharp needle passes through both equally; only the foolish fail to see the difference between virtue and vice. Pressed between thumb and finger, the needle bears its shining thread, gazing ahead as if spitting out an endless cord. Yet, because of its sharp and heartless nature, even when threaded, it struggles to penetrate soft things, moving forward sluggishly among objects. Though exceedingly sharp, if threaded through the mouth of a donkey, the needle remains unfortunate and heartless, like a princess deprived of her fortune. Without harming others, the sharp one seeks no path; after piercing, the needle is restrained and hangs from the ear-lobe. Fallen from the hand, it lies beautifully in the cotton, resembling friendship—who would not delight in a friend that mirrors their own nature? Among ordinary people, whose minds are mixed with deluded tendencies, who wishes to abandon companionship with those who are their equals? Once abandoned, the inner-moving force becomes restless in the iron chamber, stirred by the winds of the bellows, 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, extremely fierce, arises like the force of the living soul. By the opposition of samāna, it moves with samāna; by the reversal of udāna, it moves with udāna. When situated in vyāna, the generator of disease, it circulates through all the limbs, causing pain in the heart and throat, swelling, discoloration, and madness. Most often, the needle is found in the hand of the cleaner, asleep in the hollow of the nails, delighting solely in piercing the fingertip of a child’s hand. Entering the foot, spreading through the blood and channels of excretion, it is excessively satisfied by trivial food, with trivial food. It lies in the muddy cavity, face down for a long time; once it attains what it desires, who abandons such a dwelling place? One whose mind is seized by cruelty displays it through many means; even in celebrations, conflict brings pleasure to the base. A person who treasures a coin hidden in a box esteems it greatly; for the marvel of ego is difficult to uproot from beings. With a mind captivated by a pair of dice, a person brings about their own ruin; yet, in pursuit of self-interest, folly does not arise in the clever. By the breaking of a thread in cloth, ultimate destruction is quickly obtained—thus arises a thought that is utterly pure. A needle, when set aside, gathers dirt without friction; in the absence of external piercing, disease arises in it. Subtle and barely visible, the piercer may bring forgetfulness in an instant; sharp, penetrating, and cruel, it acts like a divine needle. Satisfied when another is harmed merely by piercing a thread, the wicked person knows only that by which he destroys, not his own wickedness. The needle sinks in mud, moves through the sky, plays with the winds of space, lies on the ground, on the road, in the house, in the market, in the forest, in the inner chamber; in the hand, in the lotus of the ear, or in soft woolen balls at home, in holes, in wood or clay, in the channels of the heart—such is the very substance of things. After the sage had spoken thus, the day drew to its evening close. The sun set, and the assembly, having offered their salutations, departed to bathe, accompanied by the sun’s fading rays. Then, after a long time, the demoness named Karkati truly attained satisfaction from consuming all human flesh. Indeed, on the previous day she had been satisfied by a mere drop of blood; but how can the needle of thirst be filled within, when it is so hard to endure? She reflected in sorrow: “Alas, how wretched is this state I have reached, reduced to a needle’s form! I am subtle, my strength is gone, and I cannot even consume a morsel. Where have my vast limbs gone, O foolish mind? Like leaves withered in the forest by the play of dark clouds, they have vanished. In me, so unfortunate, not even a trace remains of the delight in consuming sweet, juicy flesh or the intoxication of fat and blood. I sink into the mire, I fall upon the ground; I am destroyed by the multitudes of people, I am crushed by thieves. Alas, I am ruined, I am helpless, I have no comfort, no refuge; I sink from sorrow into deeper sorrow, from hardship into even greater hardship.