One such moment is when we become aware how helpless we are, how utterly meaningless is our life, how helpless is man, how he is absolutely nothing, nothing. Hardly anybody knows his tomorrow, the next moment.

There is no certitude about anything: wealth, position, relations, power, health. Nothing is certain. Anything can happen at any moment. The sense of stability is an illusion. Our ideals, our hopes and dreams seem as unsubstantial as a mirage in a desert. There is nothing to hold onto. All roads seem to lead to nowhere. Our little lives are like little sparks from a flame, dead no sooner it is born. We are crushed by an inexorable fate. Yet something in us desperately cries, “My dream is not a lie, there is life, there is hope.” We are powerless, but the world goes on. From a whirling ball of fire this earth has become a peaceful globe covered with water and green land. Life has blossomed, birds, animals and man have come and who knows what is yet to come. Behind the wild fury of our mad restless life there is a vast plan, a mystery slowly unfolding itself in time. Man thinks he is the king of the earth but forgets that he too is a product of the slime just as the worm. He too is just a flower among many other flowers in the vast garden of nature. Yet he is privileged to contemplate the Mystery that surrounds his birth and the birth of the world and the stars and the universe. Will he ever penetrate the Mystery? What is this universe? Where is it going? What moves it and gives it a direction?

One day he stumbles on a hidden door not far from him but deep within his own being. He becomes dumb with amazement. His hopes and dreams are true in their essence. He realises that they are distorted and deformed in the prism of his little mind. He has been cutting up the vast eternal symphonic movement into little microscopic bits and pieces. He has been taking a minute part of the drama and imagining it to be the whole, leaving out the immeasurable rest. There is the key to all the problems of life deep deep within but as long as we are tied to the little lake of our village we cannot fathom the sea or sail the ocean. If we are daring, if we love adventure, if we would willingly break every bond and boundary, then the hidden spring, the eternal fountain of life may gush out from the unsounded depths of our being in the mystic heart. Unless we become aware of the whole, the infinity, the totality, we can never find a way out of our absurd hopelessness, utter chaos and confusion, our fruitless vain struggle for a respite, for a solution. When we touch the hidden spring, the inexorable fate sheds its dreadful mask and we are in the Presence of the Supreme musician, incarnation of beauty and harmony, the One who alone is infinitely, eternally, in each face and form in stillness and in movement, the endless, measureless symphony of self-revelation forever fulfilled.