By the power of her deep austerity, a blessing was spoken: “May your noble resolve bear fruit. Become once more that mighty demoness of the snowy forest.” The one who had been separated from her true form, now likened to a watery body, was assured, “Just as a tiny seed becomes a great tree, O daughter, so too shall you be reunited with your original body.” She was told, “You will again unite with that seed-form, and with it, O daughter, you will find delight, just as a creeper delights in its first tender sprout.” Because she was known to be free from affliction, it was said, “You will not bring harm to the world; your inner purity and gentle airs will be as serene as an autumnal cluster of clouds.” She was told that, absorbed in deep meditation, if ever she should manifest outwardly, her very form would be the embodiment of meditation on the Self present in all. She would become the support for concentration rooted in practical activity, and, like the wind, she would play as the subtle movements within the body. Then the promise continued: “Daughter, you will become an opponent, restraining the impulses of your own actions. By rightful means, you will inflict suffering upon beings, but only to curb their misconduct. You will act according to justice in the world, yet sometimes you will also obstruct it. As a jīvanmukta, liberated while still embodied, you will be guarded by nothing but your own discernment.” Having thus spoken from the sky, the deity departed. Sūcī, reflecting on these words, thought, “Let this be mine.” She pondered, “What is passion or dispassion when grasping the meaning of the Lotus-born’s words?” And within her, a subtle and profound contemplation arose. Suddenly, a transformation began: first a span, then a hand, then a branch appeared, followed by a garland of clouds. Swiftly, new shoots and tendrils emerged, shining forth all at once, like the rapid sprouting of a wish-fulfilling tree. From her body, the subtle elements, undiminished in power, emerged, followed by the sense organs—just as flowers burst forth all around from the seed of a wish-fulfilling tree, so too did these, though they had been hidden before. Thus, Sūcī became Karkaṭī, the demoness, once again. Subtle at first, she thickened into gross form, like a streak of cloud swelling in the rainy season. Having regained her own shape, she felt a measure of delight. With newfound realization, she cast off the pride of the great demon as easily as one discards a cloak. There, seated in the bound lotus posture, she remained absorbed in meditation, relying on pure awareness and unmoving, like a mountain peak. Six months passed in this way, and through her steadfast meditation, she attained awakening, like a peacock responding to the thunder of the monsoon clouds. With her awakening, her attention turned outward, and she became absorbed in hunger, for as long as one lives, the nature of the body cannot be denied. She pondered, “What should I consume?” Reflecting further, she resolved, “I must not take what belongs to another or is not rightfully mine. That which is condemned by the noble or not acquired justly—for such food, I consider death preferable for embodied beings.” Her resolve deepened: “If I abandon this body without obtaining what is rightfully earned, I will not eat anything unjustly; for wealth enjoyed without justice becomes impure. What use is there in consuming what is not obtained according to the ways of the world? For me, there is no reason either for living or for dying. Indeed, I was only mind, deluded by the body and its like; that delusion has been stilled by my own awareness—so where is the seer and the seen, body and non-body?” Established in this profound silence, she then heard a voice from the sky, carried by the wind and pleased with her renunciation of her demon-nature: “Go, Karkaṭī, and awaken the deluded with knowledge, for it is the very nature of the great to rescue the ignorant. But if, even after being instructed by you, someone does not attain understanding, know that he is born only for his own destruction, and it is proper for you to consume him.” Hearing this, Karkaṭī replied slowly, “I am favored by you.” Then she rose from the mountain peak and descended gradually. Swiftly crossing the uplands, she made her way to the edge of the valley and entered a settlement of the Kirata people at the foot of the mountain. There she found abundant food, livestock, crowds of people, wealth, crops, medicinal herbs, meat, endless roots, drinks, grains, deer, insects, birds, and more. It was a fine land, at the feet of the snowy mountain, resembling a moving, melting collyrium peak. Then, at night, the night-stalker set forth, moving along a path thick with deep, impenetrable darkness. In that Kirata settlement, the night became pitch-dark, as if lumps of darkness could be grasped by hand. The sky was covered with dark clouds, the moon hidden, and the darkness was like a mass of tamala forests, smeared with lampblack and swirling in circles. With the lightness of a creeper, Karkaṭī moved slowly through the dark alleys of the village, appearing as a young woman in the city, confined within the narrow courtyards of houses. In those courtyards, she was like a mass of darkness, bending the lamps aside; she was the line of lamp-flames emerging through the keyhole. She danced like the companion of a crab, a wild female spirit; like a drunken ghoul or goblin, she stood in wooden silence. She was the host of deep sleep and death, stealing away the dense fog; she was the gentle stirring of the wind, the autumnal frost and dew. In the lakes, she was the rippling water disturbed by cranes, frogs, and small waves; in the inner chambers, she was the faces of women and men engaged in playful love. In the wilderness, she was the blazing fire, her locks like bright flames; in the fields, she was the stones warmed and ripened by the sprinkling of water. In the sky, she was the unseen movement of the revolving stars; in the forests, she was the trees whose flowers and fruits were scattered by the wind. In the chasms, she was the echoing cry of the wind swallowed by an owl’s mouth; on the outskirts of villages seized by thieves, she was the harsh wailing of the villagers. In villages, the villagers were insentient; in the city, the citizens were asleep; in the forests, the winds wandered; in the nests, the birds were motionless. In caves, groups of lions slept; in thickets, the deer breathed; in the sky, the clouds drifted; and in the wilderness, silence prevailed.