Bereft of companionship and support, she lamented, “I have no friend, no servant, no mother, no father; no relative, no attendant, no brother, no son.” She found herself utterly alone—without body, without home, and nowhere to place her trust. Like a leaf adrift in the forest, she wandered, relying on nothing and no one. Calamities weighed heavily upon her, settling her in great distress. She yearned for nonexistence, yet even that would not come. In her confusion, she had abandoned her own body, her mind clouded, as though a fool had let a wish-fulfilling gem slip from his hand. Misfortune first brought delusion to her mind, then arrived in full force, expanding into ever-increasing adversity. She had slept on bare ground, been tossed along the roads, thrust into wounds within herself—her sorrows seemed endless. Always serving others, always moving about for their sake, she reached utter wretchedness, subject to the will of others. Even her meager earnings were marked by hardship; for one so unfortunate, even misfortune was hard to come by. The fierce Vetala had arisen, bringing only destruction as she sought peace; ruin befell her as she set out to give away her wealth. “Why did I, so blind, abandon that great body?” she wondered. “When destruction is inevitable, such inauspicious thoughts arise.” Burned within and diminished, more insignificant than an insect’s wing, lost among heaps of dust, she cried, “Who indeed will rescue me?” She pondered: “How can hopes that have been destroyed arise in the mind of those 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. I do not know how long I must continue to roll in pits of misery, as one whose hope has been destroyed.” She longed for transformation: “When will I become like Anjana, the daughter of the great mountain, standing as a pillar of beryl between heaven and earth? With arms like banks of clouds, eyes like steady flashes of lightning, veiled in mist, hair unbound, and dark garments. With a belly like a cloud, her crest feather dances, her long, swinging breasts dark as a rain-cloud, flowing like liquor.” She envisioned herself laughing, veiling the sun’s disk with ashes, blocking its light, assuming the form of one intent on devouring the end of all things. She would bear a garland heavy with pestles, mortars, winnowing baskets, and ropes, roaming from mountain to mountain peak. She wondered, “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? When shall my smile drive away great demons? When, intoxicated, shall I dance wildly in the forest, with my own hips resounding? When shall I fill my sweet belly with jars of strong liquor, heaps of dead flesh, and bones, abstaining from all else? When shall I, having drunk the blood of the great world, become exhausted, and then, having danced, fall into sleep, sealed in rest? When shall I, having burned that radiant body in my own funeral fire, embrace the state of ash, marked as if with gold?” She mourned her loss: “How far removed is this body, once dark as collyrium mountain and filling all directions, from its present state—its insignificance now like a mouse’s burrow, its frailty like a blade of grass. The ignorant one quickly abandons even gold, mistaking it for clay; out of desire for triviality, I too have cast aside this radiant form. Alas, vast belly, like the misty caves of Mount Vindhya—why do you not today bring to an end the lions, elephants, and other beasts? Alas, arms—once strong, their peaks bent under burdens, their nails like the moon—why do you not now, with sacrificial intent, pursue the moon itself? Alas, chest—beautiful as the slopes of mountains of crystal and beryl—why do you not now hold the forest of hair as you did the dwellings of lions and others? Alas, eyes—once shining like a forest blazing in the dark night—why do you not now adorn the quarters with a garland of fiery glances for me? Alas, shoulder-joint, you are lost, you have fallen to the earth; time has pressed you down, you have been ground within the hollow of stone. Alas, moon-like face, why do you not now, with your inner rays, perform austerity—enchanting as the moon’s disc cooled after being burned by the fire at the end of an age?” She cried out, “Alas, alas, where have my great, powerful hands gone today? Have I become a mere needle, shaken by the hoof of a fly? Alas, O hands, once strong as thunderbolts, bringers of joy, shining like a splendid horse, with hips broad as the Vindhya mountains, pure as a flawless orb. Where is that form, vast as the sky, and where is this new, insignificant body, like a needle’s thread? Where is the mouth, cavernous as a mountain cave, and where is this needle’s eye? Where is the act of eating, heavy with much flesh, and where is this subtle swallowing of a drop of water? Ah, this drama of my own destruction is indeed wrought by me alone.” Then, the needle, endowed with the power of speech, reflected thus and resolved: “I shall again become an ascetic, quickly regaining that former body.” Withdrawing her mind from birth and death, she went to the very peak of the Himalayas, steadfast in her resolve for austerity. Seeing her needle-form as a creation of her own mind, composed of vital air, she entered the body that had lost its mind. Perceiving her needle-nature within herself, made of mind and vital air, she reached the summit of the Himalayas. There, in a place devoid of all living beings, on hard, rocky, uneven ground, covered with dust and scorched by a fierce forest fire, she began her austerities, seeking transformation and restoration.