The king, addressing the formidable being before him, spoke with warmth and sincerity: “Please, do not refuse our request. For the friendship of good people flourishes simply through meeting and open-heartedness.” He invited her further, saying, “Assume a charming and delightful form, adorned with modest fortune, and come to our house, O noble one. There, stay as you please.” The rakshasi, in her own voice, replied, “You are able to give food to one who has assumed the form of a naive woman. But by what means do you satisfy me, who has taken on the form of a demoness? Only flesh can satisfy my hunger—not the ordinary fare of people. This nature of mine, established from the very beginning, continues without change until the end of creation.” The king, understanding her nature, responded, “Adorned with golden garlands, remain in my house for a few days in the form of a woman, O blameless one, as long as I desire. Then, gathering hundreds of thousands of wicked thieves condemned to death from the districts, I will give them to you as excellent food.” He continued, “Abandon your lovely form and assume the body of a demon. Take those hundreds of condemned men whom you have collected. Carry them to the peak of the Himalayas and there eat as you please; for solitary eating is pleasant to those who are great eaters. Then, abandoning sleep and slumber, become absorbed in meditation again. When you cease from meditation, return once more at another time. You will bring other condemned men, for violence is not righteous; yet, by your own duty, even violence can be equal to great compassion. You will certainly meet me again when your meditation comes to rest. Even among those who are false, a friendship once established does not fade.” The rakshasi was moved. “What you have said is appropriate, O king. I shall do so, my friend. Who would not welcome the words of one who acts from friendship?” Having spoken thus, the rakshasi, now adorned and charming, stood there, wearing necklaces, armlets, bracelets, girdles, and garlands. She said, “O king, let us go,” and set out with the king and his minister. The king and minister proceeded ahead, and she followed them through the night. When they reached the royal residence, they spent that night together in honor, conversing in a single delightful chamber. At dawn, the rakshasi remained in the inner quarters, mingling with the women of the palace, while the king and his minister attended to their own affairs. Within six days, the king gathered together, from other royal cities and his own circle of vassals, the accumulated prisoners. He gave her three thousand condemned prisoners. At night, she became that fierce, dark rakshasi. She seized those thousands of condemned ones within the circle of her arms, like clusters of streaming rain caught by a cloud in a hollow. Taking leave of the king, she went to the summit of the Himalayas, as a poor woman who has found gold returns to her home, though her body was fierce. There, after satisfying her hunger and sleeping comfortably for two days, she awoke refreshed, clear, and again absorbed herself in deep meditation. Years would pass—sometimes five, sometimes three—before she would awaken from that state. Then she would return to the king’s assembly and be honored by him. After spending some time in conversations filled with trust, she would take those condemned ones and return to her own abode. Even now, that demoness—liberated while living—remains in that forest on that very mountain, her mind free from all absorbed contemplation. When the king attained peace, having abandoned all desires, she enjoyed her meals for a long time, maintaining the friendship of the ruler of that land. In that region of the Kirātas, with all the local kings, she formed the highest friendship with each of them. There, that yogically accomplished demoness wards off all great calamities, fears from spirits and the like, and diseases. For many years she did not abandon meditation; coming there, she devours the sacrificial victims that have been well gathered. Even today, those who are to be sacrificed are given there by the king for that purpose, as a mark of friendship—who indeed would not be resolute in such a duty? While she sits absorbed in meditation among the tribes of hunters, not coming forth for a long time, the people’s faults are pacified. That goddess, named Kandarā and also called Maṅgaletarā, was established with great honor in a deep cave within the city. From that time onward, every king who rules there himself installs the goddess Kandarā. Any inferior king who does not perform the installation of Kandarā is destroyed by his subjects, who bring upon him a multitude of calamities. By worshipping her, people there obtain the desired result; neglect of her worship, driven by one’s own disposition, leads to misfortune. That goddess, though worshipped with the customary rites for the condemned, remains in the image, still bestowing the fruits that reside in the mind. She, the long-honored goddess, abode of the forest-dwellers, endowed with supreme knowledge, brings auspiciousness to all the worlds and devours all the great multitudes destined for destruction—she is victorious here. All this blameless tale has been told to you, exactly as it happened, about the demoness Karkati, in proper sequence. “O Lord,” the listener asked, “tell me precisely how that black demoness, spoken of in the caves of the Himalayas, came to be called Karkati by name.” It was explained: There are many lineages of demons by nature; among them are black, white, green, and radiant ones. There was a demon named Karkata, resembling a crab-like creature. She was born from him, black in color, called Karkati, and had the form of a crab.