From the subtle body, radiant with undiminished power, the fine elements emerged, followed by the sense organs—just as blossoms spring forth all around from the hidden seed of a wish-fulfilling tree, so too did these faculties, once concealed, come into being. Then Sūcī, the subtle presence, once more became Karkaṭī, the demoness. Retaining her subtlety, she gradually assumed a gross, tangible form, thickening like a wisp of cloud swelling in the monsoon sky. With her own form restored, a gentle delight touched her heart. Through deep realization, she shed the pride and arrogance of her demonic nature, casting it off as easily as one discards a heavy cloak. Seated in the bound lotus posture, Karkaṭī remained there, absorbed in meditation. Rooted in pure awareness, she was as unshakable as a mountain peak. After six months of steadfast meditation, she attained awakening, her realization bursting forth like a peacock rejoicing at the thunder’s call in the rainy season. Awakened, her awareness turned outward, and hunger arose within her—an unceasing companion of embodied life. She began to ponder: “What should I consume?” Reflecting deeply, she resolved, “I must not take what belongs to another, nor what is not rightfully mine. Food that is condemned by the noble or unjustly acquired—I consider death preferable to such sustenance for any embodied being.” She continued her contemplation: “If I abandon this body without obtaining what is justly earned, let it be so; I will not eat what is unjust. Wealth enjoyed without righteousness becomes impure. What is the use of consuming what is not obtained in accordance with the ways of the world? For me, there is no reason to live or to die for such ends.” With clarity, she realized, “I was only mind, deluded by the body and its illusions. Now, through my own awareness, that delusion is stilled—so where is the division between seer and seen, body and non-body?” Established in deep silence, Karkaṭī then heard a voice from the sky—the wind itself spoke, pleased with her renunciation of her former demon-nature: “Go, Karkaṭī, and awaken the deluded with knowledge. The very nature of the great is to rescue the ignorant. But if, even after your instruction, someone fails to attain understanding, he is born only for his own destruction. It is proper for you to consume such a one.” Hearing this, Karkaṭī replied with humility, “I am favored by you.” Rising from the mountain peak, she slowly descended, crossing the uplands swiftly, and came to the edge of the valley. There she entered the settlement of the Kirata people at the mountain’s foot. This was a land abundant with food and livestock, bustling crowds, wealth, crops, medicinal herbs, meat, countless roots, drinks, grains, deer, insects, birds, and much more. It was a beautiful land, kissed by the feet of the snowy mountain, resembling a moving, melting mountain of collyrium. As night fell, Karkaṭī, the night-stalker, set out along a path thick with deep, impenetrable darkness. That night in the Kirata settlement, darkness became so dense it seemed one could grasp its lumps in hand. The sky was shrouded with clouds, the moon hidden, and the darkness was like a swirling mass of tamala forests, smeared with lampblack. With the lightness of a creeper, Karkaṭī moved slowly through the shadowy alleys—a young woman in the city, slipping through the narrow courtyards of houses. In these courtyards, she was a mass of darkness, bending the lamp flames aside, appearing as the thin line of light emerging through a keyhole. She danced like the companion of a crab, a wild female spirit; or stood silent as a drunken ghoul or goblin. She was the very host of deep sleep and death, stealing away the thick 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 waves; within inner chambers, she was the faces of men and women engaged in playful love. In the wilds, she was the blazing fire with streaming locks of flame; in the fields, she was the stones warmed and ripened by water’s touch. In the sky, she was the unseen motion of the circling stars; in the forests, she was the trees whose flowers and fruits were scattered by the wind. In the chasms, she was the echoing wind swallowed by the owl’s cry; on the village outskirts seized by thieves, she was the harsh wailing of the villagers. In villages, the people were insentient; in the city, citizens slept; in the forests, the winds wandered; in nests, birds were still. In caves, groups of lions slept; in thickets, deer breathed quietly; in the sky, clouds drifted; in the wilderness, silence prevailed. She was like the darkness at the heart of a soot-blackened cloud, resembling the hollow of a glass mountain; dense within a lump of mud, her flesh was blind, yet could be cut by a sword. Agitated by the wind of dissolution, she was restless as a mountain of soot, thick as the belly of a muddy mountain in the ocean of mire. She was rough as millions of embers, yet beautiful in the state of deep sleep; she was the fortress of ignorance and slumber, dark as the back of a bee. On that dreadful night, among the tribes of hunters, the king and his minister departed from their city, leaving the sleeping citizens behind. The wise-hearted king, named Vikrama, entered the perilous forest with heroic resolve. There, Karkaṭī saw the two—king and minister—wandering with steadfast courage, seeking the realm of the vetalas. She thought, “Today I have found food to eat. These two are foolish, ignorant of the Self; their bodies are but a burden to them. In this world and the next, the fool lives only for destruction and suffering; he should be destroyed, for there is no reason to preserve what is harmful. For one who does not see his own Self, death is life; his rise comes through death, for it is the cause of accumulated evil.” She recalled, “At the beginning of creation, the lotus-born one established this rule: the ignorant self is destined for violent consumption—not one who possesses Self-knowledge.