Whether clothed in silk or linen, the sharp needle pierces both with equal ease; yet, who but a fool would ignore the distinction between virtue and vice? The needle, pressed between thumb and finger, gleams as it carries a shining thread—spitting out an endless cord, ever gazing forward. Yet, owing to its sharp and unfeeling nature, even when threaded, it hesitates to enter soft things, moving sluggishly among objects. So sharp is it, but if threaded through the mouth of a donkey, the needle—unyielding and heartless—remains unfortunate, like a princess denied her due. The needle, ever seeking a path, cannot proceed without piercing; but once its work is done, it is restrained and hangs quietly from the ear-lobe. When it falls from the hand, it rests beautifully amidst the cotton, much like friendship: who would not delight in a companion whose nature mirrors their own? Among ordinary people, whose minds are clouded by deluded tendencies, who would wish to abandon the company of those who are like themselves? When the inner-moving force is cast aside, it becomes restless within the iron chamber, stirred by the bellows’ winds, eager to rise skyward. Situated in the flow of prāṇa and apāna, moving within the lotus of the heart, the fierce power of suffering arises—like the very force of the living soul. It moves with samāna by opposition, and with udāna by reversal. Rooted in vyāna, the generator of disease, it circulates through all the limbs, causing pain in the heart and throat, swelling, discoloration, and even madness. Most often, the needle is found in the hand of the cleaner, sleeping in the hollow of the nails, delighting only in piercing the soft fingertip of a child’s hand. When it enters the foot, it spreads through the blood and the channels of excretion, finding excessive satisfaction in the most trivial of foods. It lies face down in muddy hollows for a long time; and having found a dwelling it desires, who would abandon such a place? A mind seized by cruelty displays its nature in many ways; for even in times of celebration, the base find pleasure in conflict. Just as a person treasures a coin hidden in a box, esteeming it greatly, so too is ego—a marvel difficult to uproot from living beings. 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. With the breaking of a thread in cloth, destruction comes swiftly; from this, a pure thought arises. When a needle is set aside, it gathers dirt without friction; in the absence of outward piercing, disease arises within it. Subtle and barely visible, the piercer can bring forgetfulness in an instant; sharp, penetrating, and cruel, it acts like a divine needle. The wicked person, satisfied only when another is harmed—even by the mere piercing of a thread—knows only the means of destruction, blind to their 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; it rests in the hand, the lotus of the ear, or in soft woolen balls at home, in holes, in wood or clay, and even in the channels of the heart—such is the very nature of things. After the sage had spoken in this way, the day drew to a close. The sun set, and the assembly, offering their salutations, departed to bathe, accompanied by the sun’s fading rays. Then, after a long time, the demoness Karkati at last found satisfaction from consuming all human flesh. On the previous day, she had been content with just a drop of blood; but how can the needle of thirst be filled within, when it is so hard to endure? She thought to herself, “Alas, how wretched is this state I have reached, reduced to the form of a needle! I am subtle, my strength is gone, and I cannot even consume a morsel.” She lamented, “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 former delight in consuming sweet, juicy flesh or the intoxication of fat and blood. I sink into mire, I fall upon the ground; I am destroyed by multitudes, 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. “I have no friend, no servant, no mother, no father; I have no relative, no attendant, no brother, no son. I have no body, no dwelling, no one at all to rely upon; I wander, trusting in no single place, like a leaf in the forest. I bear the burden of calamities, settled in great distress; I long for nonexistence, yet even that does not come to me. “My own body was abandoned by me in deluded consciousness, with a mind clouded, like a fool letting a wish-fulfilling gem slip from his hand. Misfortune first brings delusion to the mind, then arrives itself; afterwards, it expands in the form of ever-increasing adversity. I have slept on the ground, I have been tossed along the roads, I have been thrust into wounds within—alas, my endless succession of sorrows! “Always serving others, always moving about for others, I have reached utter wretchedness; I have become subject to others’ will. I earn a meager wage, and even that is marked by hardship; alas, for one as unfortunate as I am, even misfortune is hard to come by. The fierce Vetala has arisen, bringing me only destruction as I attempt to find peace; ruin has come upon me as I set out to give away my wealth. Why did I, so blind, abandon that great body? When destruction is inevitable, such inauspicious thoughts arise.” Thus, the needle’s journey—sharp, subtle, restless—mirrored the inner turmoil and lamentation of Karkati, who, having once been mighty, now wandered helpless, her sorrow deepening with every reflection on her lost state.