Within the vital force called vyāna—known as the generator of disease—there moves a subtle presence, circulating through the very essence of every limb. Its journey brings pain to the heart and throat, swelling, discoloration, and even madness. Most often, it is found in the hand of the cleaner, lying dormant in the hollows of the nails, but it takes particular delight in piercing the tender fingertip of a child. When it enters the foot, it spreads through the blood and the channels of excretion, finding excessive satisfaction in the smallest morsels of food—content with the trivial, nourished by the trivial. It lies, face down, in muddy cavities for long stretches of time; and having found such a place that fulfills its desire, it does not easily abandon this dwelling. A mind seized by cruelty reveals itself in many ways; even in moments of celebration, the base find pleasure in conflict. Just as a person treasures a coin hidden away in a box, so too does the marvel of ego cling to beings, difficult to uproot. A mind captivated by the roll of dice brings about its own ruin, yet the truly clever, in their pursuit of self-interest, avoid such folly. Even the breaking of a single thread in cloth can lead swiftly to utter destruction—such is the clarity of this pure realization. A needle, when set aside, collects dirt even without friction; and in the absence of its piercing activity, disease arises within it. Subtle and almost invisible, the piercer can bring forgetfulness in an instant—sharp, penetrating, and cruel, it is like a divine needle. The wicked find satisfaction in harming others, even if only by piercing a thread; they know only how to destroy, blind to their own wickedness. This presence sinks in mud, moves through the sky, plays with the winds, and lies on the ground, on the road, in the house, in the marketplace, in the forest, and in the innermost chambers. It is found in the hand, in the lotus of the ear, in soft woolen balls at home, in holes, in wood or clay, and even in the channels of the heart—such is the very substance of things. After the sage had spoken these words, the day drew to its close. The sun set, and the assembly, having offered their salutations, departed to bathe, accompanied by the last rays of the sun. Time passed, and at length the demoness named Karkati, who had once been mighty, found a strange and bitter satisfaction in consuming all human flesh. The day before, even a single drop of blood had sufficed to satisfy her. Yet how could the needle of thirst ever be filled within, when it is so hard to endure? She thought to herself, “Alas, how wretched is the state to which I have come, reduced now to the form of a mere needle! I am subtle and weak, unable even to 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 I once knew in consuming sweet, juicy flesh or the intoxication of fat and blood. Now I sink into the mire, fall upon the ground; I am destroyed by crowds of people, crushed by thieves. “Alas, I am ruined and helpless, with no comfort or refuge. I sink from sorrow into deeper sorrow, from hardship into even greater hardship. I have no friend, no servant, no mother or father; no relative, attendant, brother, or son. I have no body, no dwelling, no one at all to rely upon. I wander, trusting in no place, like a leaf blown through the forest. “I bear the burden of calamities, settled in great distress. I long for nonexistence, yet even that does not come to me. In my deluded consciousness, I abandoned my own body, my 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 as ever-increasing adversity. I have slept on the ground, been tossed along the roads, 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 the will of others. “I earn a meager wage, and even that is marked by hardship; 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 seek peace; ruin has come upon me as I attempt to give away my wealth. “Why did I, so blind, abandon that great body? When destruction is inevitable, such inauspicious thoughts arise. Who indeed will rescue me, burned within and diminished, more insignificant than an insect’s wing, lost among heaps of dust? “How can hopes that have been destroyed arise again in the mind of those who are inwardly detached, like blades of grass from a village path appearing atop a mountain? How can there be progress for those who remain in ignorance? Even a tiny spark of light does not arise for one who follows only fireflies. “Therefore, I do not know how long I must continue to roll in pits of misery, as one whose hope has been destroyed. When will I become like the daughter of the great mountain Anjana, standing as a pillar of beryl between heaven and earth? With arms like banks of clouds, eyes like steady flashes of lightning, clothed in veils of mist, with hair unbound and dark garments. With a belly like a cloud, her crest feather dancing, her long, swinging breasts as dark as rain-clouds, and her movement as fluid as liquor. “Her laughter veils the sun’s disk with ashes, blocking its light, and she assumes the form of one intent on devouring the end of all things. She bears a garland heavy with pestles, mortars, winnowing baskets, and ropes; she roams, placing her foot from mountain to mountain peak. “When shall I possess that vast belly, shining like a great black cloud? When shall my row of nails be dense as a mass of rainclouds?” Thus, in her lamentation, Karkati poured out her sorrow and longing, reflecting on her fall from greatness and her yearning for her former, fearsome form.