When the king, deep in contemplation, heard the words of the rakshasi, she assured him, “You will certainly meet me again, once your meditation comes to rest. Even among those who are false, a friendship once formed does not fade.” The king’s response was fitting—he welcomed her words warmly, acknowledging their appropriateness and the value of true friendship. “Who would not welcome the words of one who acts from friendship?” he said. Having spoken thus, the rakshasi, adorned with necklaces, armlets, bracelets, girdles, and garlands, stood before them, her charm undiminished. Then, inviting the king, she said, “O king, let us go.” She set out with the king and his minister; the two men walked ahead, and she followed them through the night’s darkness. At last, they reached the royal residence. There, together in a single delightful chamber, they spent the night in honored company and pleasant conversation. When dawn arrived, the rakshasi remained within 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 the condemned prisoners from his own city and from his circle of vassals. He assembled three thousand such prisoners and entrusted them to the rakshasi. At night, she assumed her fierce, dark form and, with her powerful arms, seized the thousands of condemned, gathering them as a cloud collects streaming rain. Having taken leave of the king, she departed for the summit of the Himalayas, much like a poor woman who, having found gold, returns home—her form fierce, but her purpose fulfilled. There, she satisfied her hunger and rested comfortably for two days. Upon awakening, refreshed and clear, she once again became absorbed in deep meditation. So she remained, sometimes for five years, sometimes for three, dwelling in that state. When she emerged, she would return to the king’s assembly and be honored by him. After spending time in conversations filled with trust, she would take the condemned ones and return to her abode. Even now, that demoness—liberated while living—remains in that forest on the same mountain, her mind at peace, free from all absorbed contemplation. When the king attained tranquility and abandoned all desires, she continued to enjoy her meals for a long time, maintaining her friendship with the ruler of the land. In that region of the Kirātas, she established the highest friendship with all the local kings. There, the yogically accomplished demoness protected the people, warding off great calamities, fears from spirits, and diseases. For many years, she did not abandon her meditation; whenever she arrived, she would devour the sacrificial victims that had been gathered for her. Even today, those destined for sacrifice are offered by the king as a mark of friendship—who would not be steadfast in such a custom? While she sits absorbed in meditation among the tribes of hunters, not emerging for long periods, the faults of the people are pacified. This goddess, known as Kandarā and also called Maṅgaletarā, was established with great honor in a deep cave within the city. From that time onward, every king who ruled there would himself install the goddess Kandarā. Any lesser king who neglected her installation would be destroyed by his subjects through a multitude of calamities. Those who worship her receive the results they desire; those who neglect her worship, driven by their own inclinations, meet with misfortune. The goddess, though worshipped with the customary rites for the condemned, remains present in her image, continuing to bestow the fruits that reside in the heart. Long-honored and revered by forest-dwellers, endowed with supreme knowledge, she brings auspiciousness to all worlds and devours those destined for destruction—her victory is celebrated here. Thus, this blameless tale of the demoness Karkati has been told, just as it happened, in proper sequence. But how did this black demoness, spoken of in the caves of the Himalayas, come to be called Karkati? Among the many lineages of demons—black, white, green, and radiant—there was one named Karkata, resembling a crab. From him was born this black demoness, called Karkati, who bore the form of a crab. Recalling Karkati’s question, this story has been recounted as part of spiritual instruction and the exposition of the nature of consciousness. From one cause, both the completed and the uncompleted are clearly manifest; this world, without beginning or end, arises from the supreme cause, step by step. Just as waves, though appearing and disappearing in water, are nothing but water, so too all these diverse creations, though seemingly present, truly abide in the Supreme. As fire, though not visibly blazing in wood, still serves its purpose—removing cold for monkeys and others—so Brahman, ever serene and unchanging, brings forth this manifold world, as if engaging in various actions, yet never abandoning its essential tranquility. Even before it has arisen, this creation is already present—like the awareness of a wooden statue of a woman, which exists within the wood itself. Just as from a seed, though not different from it, a fruit appears as if distinct, so too from consciousness, though not other than it, the object of consciousness seems to arise as something else. Because reality is indivisible, there is truly no separation between seed and fruit, or between consciousness and its object, just as there is none between water and its waves. Except through lack of inquiry, no division between these two can be established; whatever distinction seems to appear, vanishes upon investigation. This delusion has arisen as it has, O descendant of Raghu; let it depart in the same way. When you awaken, you will know this—simply abandon it.