Who will come to my aid? I am burned within and diminished, more insignificant than the wing of an insect, lost amid heaps of dust. My hopes have been shattered; how can they possibly arise again in the mind of one who is inwardly detached? It is as unlikely as blades of grass from a village path appearing atop a mountain. How can there be progress for those who remain in ignorance? Even the smallest spark of light will not appear for one who follows only fireflies, mistaking their glow for the sun. Thus, I do not know how long I must continue to roll in these pits of misery, bereft of hope. When, I wonder, will I become like Anjana, the daughter of the great mountain, standing between heaven and earth as a pillar of radiant beryl? When will I possess arms like banks of clouds, eyes steady as lightning flashes, veiled in mist, with unbound hair and dark garments? When will my belly be like a rain-filled cloud, my crest feather dancing, my long, swinging breasts dark as the monsoon sky, my movements flowing like liquor? When will my laughter veil the sun itself with ashes, blocking its light, as I assume the form of one intent on devouring the very end of all things? When will I wear a garland heavy with pestles, mortars, winnowing baskets, and ropes, roaming from mountain to mountain, placing my foot upon each peak? When will my belly shine vast and black as a thundercloud? When will my nails be as dense as a mass of rainclouds? When will my smile drive away mighty demons, and, intoxicated, I dance wildly in the forest, 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, grow exhausted and, after my dance, fall into deep, sealed sleep? When shall I burn my radiant body in my own funeral fire, embracing the state of ash, marked as if with gold? How far removed is that body I once had—dark as the collyrium mountain, filling all directions—from my present state, now as insignificant as a mouse’s burrow, as fragile as 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 my radiant form. Alas, my vast belly, like the misty caves of Mount Vindhya—why do you not today bring an end to lions, elephants, and other beasts? Alas, my arms—once strong, their peaks bent under burdens, nails like the moon—why do you not now, with sacrificial intent, pursue the moon itself? Alas, my chest—once beautiful as the slopes of crystal and beryl mountains—why do you not now hold the forest of hair as you once held the dwellings of lions and others? Alas, my eyes—once shining like a forest ablaze in the dark night—why do you not now adorn the quarters with a garland of fiery glances? Alas, my shoulder-joint, you are lost, fallen to the earth, pressed down and ground by time within the hollow of stone. Alas, my 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? 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 are you now? 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 mere drop of water? Truly, this drama of my own destruction is wrought by me alone. Now, endowed with the power of speech, the needle reflected upon herself and resolved: "I shall again become an ascetic, quickly regaining that former body." With this determination, she withdrew her mind from the cycle of birth and death and journeyed to the very summit of the Himalayas, steadfast in her resolve for austerity. Perceiving her needle-form as a creation of her own mind, she, composed of vital air, entered the body that had lost its mind. Then, recognizing her needle-nature within, she, made of mind with a body of vital air, reached the Himalayan summit. There, in a place devoid of all living beings, on hard, uneven, rocky ground covered with dust and scorched by a fierce forest fire, she stood upright and alone, appearing suddenly in the desert like a dry blade of grass. Balancing on one and a half toes of her subtle foot, she began her austerities, relying on her own awareness as the single support of her stance. With the tip of her subtle foot, she blocked the narrowness of the earth’s dust and, with effort, stood upright, raising her foot with difficulty. She bound her foot amid the tightness of dust, sand, and pebbles, enduring darkness, nonviolence, sharpness, a round mouth, and subsisting only on air. In the forest, she followed a restless snake, which had risen to see far and swayed, poised at the tip of its tail. The sun’s ray, emerging from the snake’s mouth, became her companion, resembling a needle, guarding only the rear part. Even in something so small, when it becomes one’s own, affection arises; so too did the sun’s ray, acting as a friend, become attached to the needle-like companion. Her second companion was a hermit woman, clear and pure; but she herself became tainted by that companion, just as a needle is stained. Her face, wrinkled with a smile as the sun’s rays emerged from the tip of the needle, was later seen to be smiling only because of the dust there. Yet, even seen through the dust, trees, creepers, and others did not tire of longing to behold that ascetic needle.