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Tilak of Tibet Reveals Life's Purpose, by Ann Hackett [1944], at

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High in the Himalayas Tilak found the Flower of Hidden Delight. Lovingly he plucked the flowers and wrapped them in the soft folds of a silken cloth. Many flowers Tilak gathered.

Sitting in the Chamber of the Great Potential Tilak pressed the Flower of Hidden Delight. Drop by drop a delicate liquid fell into the expectant vial. The liquid was as odorless as spring water. Only to heat would it deliver its sacred fragrance.

Tilak knelt before an altar. Three drops of the sacred essence fell upon a heated incense cone. The Chamber became filled as with the fragrance of a thousand flowers.

Tilak knelt as a suppliant. As his eager nostrils inhaled the delicate aroma his head seemed to expand until it became as a planet in space. He heard strange and sweet sounds; the rustling of silken leaves, the falling of silvern water, the songs of birds unknown.

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[paragraph continues] Before his vision burst a scene, a city. The sun appeared to brighten gilded roofs and stately spires. In the streets below leisurely moved the populace. The hum of many voices reached his ear—and then the clear notes of a maiden's voice, distinct and separated from the hum. She spoke in a tongue unknown to him, yet her words he knew: "Benza," he breathed.

"Comi, you have gone," came back the voice of the young maiden.

Then the picture with its gilded roofs and lofty spires vanished.

When Tilak regained consciousness he was lying prone on the floor in front of the altar. Beside him was the small vial containing the juices of the sacred Flower of Hidden Delight.

Tilak quickly recalled his vision. He knew that he had witnessed a scene in a former life. Fragmentary though the vision had been it was not without its message.

Tilak must prepare more; must be ready for a greater vision. He must receive the contents of many past lives, for in them is rooted the future—the future of the world.

Unbreakable hidden threads connect each with all, and all with each. He who raises himself brings additional light to a darkened globe.

Seek the Great Potential. Make actual that which is not actual, that the lives of all become benefit thereby.

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Tilak was polishing a long slender stone. The stone reflected his efforts. Hidden within this slender stone for thousands of centuries had been sweet sound—sound waiting but a caressing touch that it assume proper shape—and then the gentlest tap that the sound be released.

When the slender stone had reached a perfect length and circumference, under the ministering hands of Tilak, it was gently laid beside other polished stones, on a bed of softest cloth.

Tilak nodded. His work was complete. He counted the long delicately polished stones—eighty. With greatest care he threaded them on a long piece of tufted grass. He fastened one end of the grass to a chamber post. The other end he attached to a pole with a solid base that he had carefully prepared. With a wand, made of sandalwood, in either hand, he softly tapped on one stone and then on another.

The Chamber echoed to sweet sound. Tilak stopped and stood straight before the polished stones, strung on the tufted grass—and then, as though directed, his hands moved with assurance from one stone to another. Often two stones would be contacted simultaneously by the sandalwood wands. Melody glided throughout

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the Chamber. Harmonies, as though springing from a primal seed—world forming harmonies—world enlightening harmonies—moved freely into space, released as something freed from a confinement of ages.

The walls of the Chamber became transparent, as did the very mountain which encompassed the Chamber of the Great Potential.

As on a clear day, and at great altitude, Tilak saw a distant horizon that seemed to approach him as he gazed. When the horizon reached his very presence he saw before him a struggling people. He alone remained at peace. All before him were madly rushing hither and thither seeking the things the land produced, striving to make them personal possessions, to hold against all others; trampling under foot many that stood in their way; strained faces, unhappy faces, dissatisfied faces. All they needed was about them, but they saw it not; ever reaching, as they were, with stiffened hands, for that which crumbles as they grasp it. This mass of human beings was bringing to pass an eclipse of reason, when reason would appear to stand still, numbed by greed.

The delicate sandalwood wands slipped from Tilak's fingers. The sweet sounds retreated to their stone encasements. The Chamber became opaque. Tilak knelt before the Majesty of Law.

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Again Tilak scaled the Abode of Snow. In his hand he carried branch of tree. Stripped of the twigs and foliage it appeared as a staff.

Now and then Tilak would stop and push the branch through the snow. Tilak was seeking a hidden spring—the Spring of Ancient Water. Toward sundown he discovered that for which he sought.

Cutting away the snow and ice he opened a cavity, and saw running clear water. He filled the carefully prepared skin that was slung across his shoulder. Then Tilak slowly descended to his mountain Chamber.

In a prepared earthen bowl he poured the spring water of the mountain. Before him he placed the bowl and gazed steadily into the water.

The water became as a clear lake, and then it disappeared. In its place Tilak saw shifting continents—land disappearing beneath the water, and land rising as though from a watery grave.

The scene changed. Fertile lands appeared; many people were working in the fields gathering a harvest, singing as they worked.

Again the scene changed. Before him appeared a throne room. Seated on the throne was a king. He was called William. The king rose and addressed his nobles. He told them that on the morrow they would embark for Angloland.

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The king was William the Conqueror. The peaceful farms, the happy people, were to be attacked by the Norman ruler.

The picture changed. The Norman king led his men across a narrow channel of water and attacked Angloland. For three days and nights, on a plain, men fought. The simple peace-loving Anglo farmers were subjugated.

The picture faded. Tilak found himself gazing into a bowl of clear water, from the Spring of Ancient Water.



A delicate gray cloud, tinged with pink, appeared before Tilak in the Chamber of the Great Potential.

The cloud took shape. It was the Teacher, Tilak's Mentor. Tilak bowed and received his Teacher's blessing.

Then the Teacher spoke: "I received your call." Again Tilak bowed.

"Soon, my neophyte, you will travel in the many spaces. You will lay aside your earthly covering. It is' an impediment to your travels. Through a cord of purest light your earthly covering will be joined to your finer vehicle. When you are ready, come to me."

As the Teacher was blessing Tilak, the Teacher became as a pale gray cloud, tinged with pink. The cloud disappeared. Tilak was alone.

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Tilak was reclining on a wooden cot. The Chamber was dark and still. His body assumed an unusual lightness. As he rose the room became illuminated as at midday. Tilak turned and viewed his earthly covering, which was lying so quietly on the wooden cot. Around his physical body Tilak could see a light. As he gazed the light became multicolored. It was the aura of his physical body. Joined to the earthly covering by a silver ray was the garment Tilak stood in.

Tilak glanced around the Chamber. The walls of his cavern retreat had disappeared; in their place was blue space.

"I will seek my Teacher." Thus thought Tilak. As he thought he traveled far, and stood before his Mentor.

"I was waiting," greeted his Teacher. "Come, we will join the others."

As he placed his hand on Tilak's shoulder they moved swiftly through space, leaving the great Himalayan mountains far behind.

In a field, heavy with sweet-smelling flowers, Tilak and his Teacher met the Assembly.

Tilak was surprised when he discovered that he knew them all; that he called them all by name. As Tilak mingled with these Great Ones, sweet music reached his ear; a music that reached his ascending being.

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A great Teacher addressed the Assembly: "He who is dependent draws that to him on which he places dependence. He who is independent opens the gate of his own soul and dwells therein. That which is transitory will ever be transitory. That which is transitory must be transitory to be at all. That which is permanent is ever permanent. The permanent knows the transitory, but the transitory knows not the permanent. Both are eternal. The permanent is thyself freed from all entanglement. Only he who is free can point the way to others. This is thy work."

The great Teacher left their midst.

Tilak sat up on his wooden cot. The Chamber was dark and still. He had returned to his earthly covering, bringing a message.


"Why playeth thou with sand, when I offer thee the universe?" sayeth the sacred script.



The morrow found Tilak high on the mountain. He was clad in a woolen tunic. The ice cold wind blew round him, but touched him not. The fluid of his nerves generated heat. The nerves passed the heat to the vessels that carried the blood and regulated all physical cells. Bodily temperature rises and falls with

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the emotions. All forces that move through the body, move to balance. Only man unbalances.

On a high point of the mountain, Tilak met a man.

"Help me," the man pleaded, "I am lost."

"Who are you, friend?" asked Tilak.

"I am Robra, the moneylender. I died last night."

"What do you seek, friend?"

"Peace. My soul torments me. At my bier I saw those I had robbed. They cursed me, and I ran up the mountain for safety."

"You will be alone on the mountain," advised Tilak. "You are here. I will go with you."

"Where?" questioned Tilak.

"I care not. I cannot face those people below with hate in their eyes."

"Did you rob them?" asked Tilak.

"I loaned them silver and gold. I made them pay for the loans. Should they not pay?"

"You asked much of them for a loan?"

"All I could get," admitted the moneylender.

"You must return that which does not belong to you, friend."

"I can't! I am dead! " wailed the man.

"Should you remain dead to that which is just?" softly asked Tilak.

"What is just? Everybody cheats everybody else. I just did what others were doing. How can that be

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wrong?—And I hate them!" loudly exclaimed the moneylender.

"It is human nature, friend, to hate those whom we have injured."

"Where am I to go?" questioned the disconsolate Robra.

"Ere long you will be drawn to that which is nearest to yourself. If that self is hatred and greed, these will confront you, taking form and shape that belongs to them."

Tilak walked a way with the moneylender. Soon Tilak discovered that his companion was no longer by his side—the moneylender had slipped down the mountain.



Again Tilak reclined on his wooden cot. Again he stepped free from his earthly covering.

Moving quickly in his finer body Tilak reached the palace of the Emperor of India. Before the bronze gates of the palace were many guards. They saw him not. He passed through the vast courtyard. The trickling fountains reflected the rays of the moon, and the jetting water seemed to assume fairy shapes. The dew on the closed lotus flowers in the nearby pond glistened as a thousand gems. The fragrance of the night was everywhere.

Again Tilak passed vigilant guards, as he entered

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the massive carved doors of the palace. The great hall was stifling. He turned into the banquet room. Although the room was dim, everything was distinct to Tilak. On a cushioned divan slept the Emperor. His turban, heavy with jewels, had slipped from his head. His embroidered garment was in disarray. The heavy strings of pearls around his neck seemed to pull as though attempting to get away. The golden sandals had carelessly dropped to the floor. The Emperor was in a drunken slumber.

Around him, on the floor, slept dancing girls exhausted by the night's revel. Semi-nude, they revealed youthful forms—budding breasts rising and falling with the breathing of the sleeper; breasts that later would become full bowls and contain nourishment for babe. Many jeweled girdles had slipped aside revealing maidenhood.

Tilak pondered. Lust is contrary to beauty. On the pyre of baser passions man had placed young womanhood; man had become a slave to all that incites—the slave to woman, when he should have been her protector.

Through the banquet room moved shapes; shapes of desires and lust released from inactive and exhausted bodies. These forms were grotesque. Some appeared as gigantic horntoads, others as reptiles with the legs of animals. These shapes crawled over the sleeping forms, and seemed to receive sustenance from

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the poisons being cast off by the human beings over which they hovered.

Tilak walked down the long room and stood over a sleeping girl, a maid of twelve. Even in sleep a smile hovered over her face. Her silver anklets clasped slender ankles and seemed so large above tiny feet.

Tilak raised both arms over the sleeping child and breathed the word, "Come!"

The sleeping youth stirred not, but from the sleeping physical body there issued the finer radiant form. A pink tunic dropped from shoulder to knee.

Tilak and the young maiden in the finer radiant form glided away. Ere long Tilak and his youthful companion descended onto the Meadow of Sweet Content. While Tilak gazed upon the child she wove chains of flowers. She wove a wreath for his head.

"I am Petal," she smiled.

Tilak knew that she was to become the mother of the next Emperor of India; knew that she would temper the ruler's colder nature with a finer feeling; knew that her flower-stained fingers would add perfume to the Emperor's life.

"Who are you?" queried the child, as she continued picking flowers.

"I am Tilak."

The child laughed merrily: "What a funny name! Where are you from?"


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"High in the mountains! I have heard. I danced last night for the Emperor. I became tired. I fell asleep. This," pointing toward the meadow, "must be a dream."

"Dreams are real, Petal."

"Then why do we wake up?"

"That the dream be made complete. Your life in the palace should be hedged by dreams."

"I never met you before."

"Yes, Petal, long ago. I will tell you. Follow with me the slender thread that leads into the mysterious past where we were all nurtured."

The child sat on the grassy bank. Her expectant eyes shone. She crossed her slender hands in her lap. Her feet appeared as brown leaves that had been dropped softly by a weary tree.

"Within us, Petal, is a Light. It is the brightest Light in all the world. The Light becomes fire when we approach the earth domain. Fire, Petal, ever seeks to draw everything unto itself. We often hide our fire and withhold our heat from a cold, cold world. Far, far in the past, you were a maid, Petal, even as now. A youth entered your life. As the youth approached you, the heat within you leaped up, and sent out glowing rays. Some call those rays love. To your union with the youth came a child—a boy. He will come again, Petal. Then you gave the boy what you could; now you can give him much more. I watched you then;

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[paragraph continues] I watch you now. Through all our earthly lives, young Petal, there ever moves with us those of just affinity. Your son approaches across the field." As he spoke the child glanced quickly across the open space.

Moving toward them came a man, straight and strong. Youth was upon his cheek, in his hand a scroll.

The young man stood before Tilak and bowed, saying, "The Teacher." Then he turned and took Petal in his arms. She clung to him, as does apple to limb, as by a natural affinity, held by invisible ties; such ties ever strengthen; such ties build paths to heightless altitude.

As Tilak raised his arms in blessing, he said: "We will meet again."

Tilak stirred on his wooden cot. His physical eyes opened. The Chamber was dark and still.

In a distant city, in the palace of the Emperor, the child, Petal, opened sleepy eyes. The child felt strong arms around her. As she sat up the arms slipped away.



The sable robe of night was drawn across the heavens, punctured by many shining stars, as Tilak moved noiselessly to a distant land.

In an isolated strip of woods Tilak entered a small crudely built cabin. Seated at the table was a woman. Her thin white hair streaked pale brow. For years this woman had lived alone.

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She raised her head and saw Tilak.

"You have come for me! Am I to drop this old physical frame?"

Tilak's glance was a benediction. "I have come to visit you. A place is being prepared, built by your faith unshaken. Before you lies expansion. When last we met in that part of eternity reserved for service and preparation, upon your brow was laid the garland of expectancy; an expectancy that brings to pass that which is your chosen work. In a continent sparsely inhabited will come pioneers. You will be one of them, lending courage, shaping the destiny of a nation. You will be called Priscilla."

The old woman nodded: "I will be Priscilla, the, pioneer."

When she turned she was alone.



Tilak sat before the altar in the Chamber of the Great Potential. Raising his eyes to the darkness, he saw inscribed, in letters of light, brightening the Chamber as at noonday: HE WHO LEAVES ALL FINDS ALL. Upon his ear fell a chorus of many voices, singing paeans of praise to the Majesty of Light. The letters of light fell away. The altar became transparent. Before his quiet vision appeared a scene. Tilak saw the elements in uniform procession form

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and reform, blending, as they did so, one into the other. In the soil he saw planted seed being embraced by fertile earth. The seed stirred and sent forth a tender shoot. Eagerly the earth held and protected the shoot. Then the seed sent upward fine tendrils. The earth gave way that the tendrils reach the sun and air. Both root and tendril thrived, nourished by the brown earth which contained that needed for their growth and being. The particles in the air supported the growing twig. The wind lulled it to sleep at nightfall. Ere long a tree appeared—and then a forest. Not a harsh note anywhere.

To the trees came nesting birds; at the roots the crickets made a home. All was content to be.

Then came man. Through a clearing man entered the forest primeval. The trees, his servants, had been waiting these thousand years; waiting to protect him from the warring elements of the storm.

Man built himself a home of logs. Man gathered the fruit of the trees. Man also gathered the nuts and ate thereof. From the cut wood he built his bed, table and chair.

The birds in the tree-tops eyed uneasily the intruder. The crickets dug deeper under the roots of tree.

Man uses, and man abuses his humblest servants.

Nothing is without life. Life but moves slower through some things than through others.

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Into the Chamber walked a man. He was powerfully built. At his side hung a long curved scimitar. As he walked his muscles rippled through his light garment. In his hand he carried a metal headdress.

He greeted Tilak in a harsh voice: "Kneel vassal! I am the great commander of many fighting men!"

Tilak moved not.

"I will cut you down!" thundered the commander, reaching, as he spoke, for his scimitar.

"Lay aside your weapon, friend. You need it not."

"Who are you?" exploded the giant.

"I called you from the field of battle when you were killed."

"Ho, ho!" uproariously laughed the commander. "I dead! Who could kill a great man like me!"

"You took a quick way for body severance—a battlefield. Your rugged body was pierced with a hundred arrows. It is on the field of strife."

The big man shook himself and examined his huge chest: "Not a wound!"

"Follow me, friend."

Together they glided to the field of battle. They stood between the fighting armies. Thousands of poisoned arrows and sharpened spears passed through them.

The commander drew his scimitar and shouted to his legions: "To the enemy!"

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Shouting again, he leaped forward and struck viciously with his scimitar, right and left. No man fell at his blows. He dropped his weapon to his side, and walked back, puzzled, to his fighting men.

On the ground he saw a huge body full of arrows. The body had fallen face downward upon a shield. He looked more closely—then stepped back.

"By the thunder! It is myself! I am dead, yet I live."

Tilak joined him, saying, "It is not given unto man to kill. If a man deprives another of his earthly covering the man must return and serve that one. It is the desire to kill that must be slain, commander of fighting men."

"If I fight not, what am Ito do?"

"The cycle of necessity will draw you back again to physical birth. You must seek a different exit, friend, or the cycle will return you, time and time again."

"I will return now!"

"You have cast a mold into which you will be poured. If it pleases you not, you can remold. The hour is set for your emergence again in earthly life. The hour you have chosen by your violence. It will not be changed. The Law will be fulfilled within you. On other battlefields we shall meet."

When the giant stooped again to examine his arrow-filled body Tilak left the battlefield.

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On a silken couch lay a young man dying. Beside the couch stood his weeping parents and the doctor.

"My son has everything to live for," wept the mother.

The physician felt the pulse of the sick man. He shook his head. The pulse was feeble. He knew not the ailment.

Through the door of the richly furnished chamber moved Tilak. Those in the room saw him not. He moved to the side of the silken couch. He called the young man by name.

Slowly the finer body disentangled itself from its grosser vehicle, and the young man stood before Tilak questioningly.

"Why do you wish to die?" asked Tilak.

The young man sighed: "I have nothing to live for. My parents heap upon me rich gifts. I want them not. I love the daughter of a peasant. She I cannot wed. My parents forbid it—She, the daughter of a peasant! I will wed no other! I will die!"

Tilak led the young man from the dwelling of marble; led him to the humble quarters of the city; led him into another sick room. On a straw pallet lay a sick youth ravaged by want; ill-nourished, unkempt. Beside him stood his mother, gaunt and fearful. No doctor appeared in this simple room. Tears ran down the sunken cheeks of the woman. Sobs choked her. She

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could not secure the medicine and food needed for her ill son. The people of the town had refused her request for aid.

"Look upon that mother and son, youth. They need but the crumbs from your table of plenty. Would you die and leave your work unfinished? Could you expect to find happiness with any maid that lives, if the pincer of self squeezes your soul? Return to your home! Arise in the morning and bring food and succor to this woman and her suffering son! Thus will you find that which you seek. It will reach you in no other way."

The following morning the rich man's son left silken couch—well. Quickly he journeyed to the poorer part of town, carrying delicacies to the poor woman and her son. The gaunt woman blessed him and kissed his hand. The rich man's son wept tears of humanity.



A prisoner stood in a barred iron box facing the judge, facing the courtroom. His accusers, powerful landowners, had found favor with the court. The landowners had given perjured testimony. They sought the prisoner's life. His death and disgrace would add more land to their vast holdings.

The judge turned a deaf ear to the prisoner's plea. The prisoner was defenseless. This the judge knew. A

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bag of gold had been surreptitiously placed beneath the bench on which the judge sat, hidden from view by the garment he wore.

To the prisoner he thundered: "At the rising sun, in a fortnight, you will be executed. You have committed a heinous crime against our great land. You have stolen deeds and destroyed them."

When the prisoner protested the captors dropped the steel blinds around the cage wherein he stood.

That night the judge dreamed. In the dream he was lost in a thick forest. Before him was a faint ray of light. As he tried to reach the light the wind howled about him. The wind gained in fury, cracking the trees at their roots. As the falling trees would crush the life of the frightened man he awoke.

The next night the same dream recurred. The judge could not eat. He sought counsel of the wise men of the land. They helped him not.

For a week the judge dreamed of falling, crushing trees. "An ill omen!" he groaned. Weight slipped from his frame. He became weak. What was he to do?

Fear brings strange visitors. When darkness appeared the judge imagined he heard whisperings, accusing voices. He slept with lights in his room—candles that flickered out at sunrise.

On the ninth day his household became alarmed: "The judge is going mad," they said.

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The judge was lying awake. He heard the distant chimes—Two o'clock. One by one the candles went out.

The door of the bedchamber opened quietly. A figure entered the room. The judge trembled. His throat became dry. Fear pulled at his heart. Who was this intruder!

The figure stood at the foot of the bed and pushed aside the canopy curtains. It was Tilak.

"The light around you," gasped the judge, "is the light I see in the forest of my dreams."

"Foolish man are you, trying to hide your action from your very self. It is this self that rebukes you in dream."

"What have I done?"

"The crashing trees are your ill deeds. They would seek to squeeze all that is good out of you. You have judged men. It is yourself that you must judge—before it is too late."

"What have I done?" whined the judge.

"Cradled your conscience in gold. The gold is cutting into your very brain."

"I have taken only that which is mine," defended the jurist.

"You have sold a life."

"Sold a life!" repeated the judge, sitting upright in bed.

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"Four days hence, at sunrise, a young man dies. He has committed no offense against the land. This you know. Release him, or the trees of the forest will crush you, and you will go mad."

The judge jumped out of bed and lit the candles. He was alone. He reached in the drawer and drew out a paper. This he signed, and then affixed his seal—a paper freeing the prisoner that was to die four days hence at sunrise. The judge returned to bed and slept. That night he did not dream.



In the higher spaces Tilak mingled with the people of the City of Everlasting. He entered a white and glistening Temple. Within were gathered radiant men and women.

As Tilak entered a beautiful young woman approached him. Her eyes were clear and soft. Her face was carved by good deeds. Her voice was low. Harsh words never passed the curved lips.

"Across the spaces arms reach to me—a mother's arms. I am needed."

Tilak's glistening robe reflected her intent.

"The universal whisper reaches your waiting ear. Again, blessed Idion, you will join the mortals far below."

Then Tilak and Idion descended to the earth below.

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[paragraph continues] Before a wide fireplace sat a sweet-faced woman knitting baby clothes. Her nimble fingers paused as she gazed into the glowing logs. As she gazed she tried to visualize her expectant baby. Through her body ran delicate tremulations. She pressed the unfinished garment to her heart.

Beside her stood Idion, caressing the woman's hair with slender hand. The hands that held the knitting dropped into the woman's lap, and the woman dropped into a peaceful sleep. As she slept a smile hovered over her delicate features.

Idion drew her hand slowly across the little garment. She could feel the love that had been woven there. She leaned over and kissed the cheek of the sleeping woman—the young woman with golden hair who was to be her mother.




In the high Himalayas Tilak removed a vase from its icy bed. On the vase were strange inscriptions. Long past this high point in the Himalayas had been a valley wherein a people had dwelt. The vase had adorned the altar of their Temple.

In his Chamber Tilak studied the inscription. As he did so he was carried back to the valley, to the Temple, to the altar on which the vase had rested in quiet splendor.

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As Tilak's fingers slipped over the surface of the vase there welled up within him a feeling of sacred things. The vase had these million years past represented the receptive part of life—nature—feminine. In the vase so long ago had been placed prayers written on parchment leaves. The parchment leaves had passed. The prayers and their fulfillment alone remained.

"Oh, Sacred One, deliver us thy children," issued from the opening of the vase.

Tilak placed the vase upon his little altar. Into the vase he dropped his written script:

"May I be worthy of the Sacred Trust."

Again there issued from the opening of the vase soft words: "Cover thine enemies with cherry blossoms, that the fragrance soften their hearts."

Tilak knelt in prayer.



The Teacher again visited Tilak in the Chamber of the Great Potential.

"Tilak," said the Teacher, "ancient causes have run their course in present effects. New causes are forming. It is with these that we will work. In the world's year 1914 many nations will be at war. These nations will fight and destroy for four years. This fighting will not exhaust the tendency remaining in multitudes to take

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by force that which they covet. Short-lived physical man thinks that when he departs from a physical life, whatever be the cause of the departure, that such conditions cease for him. Man has been grossly misled. His ignorance has placed him in chains. He has become a slave to greed, to custom, and to race. We must prepare for his emergence from chains. In thy preparation, Tilak, quickly permit that to pass which if repeated would not give joy. Man husbands that which destroys him. Mind is free. When body drags mind as a kite the mind cannot use its power. All physical actions however complex are numbered. This the thinking mind knows. When the mind permits itself to be drawn through an endless repetition of physical events it is encompassed by a narrow sphere. It has never been given, Tilak, that we can reach all. We can but stand by ready to respond to a cry in the night of a soul. When a soul cries out it has become fallow soil, and then we can plant a seed."

With that the Teacher departed.



Tilak sat in his Chamber amidst the hush of Destiny. Before him appeared the city Benares. As though in perfect freedom the people moved within the city, apparently guided by their whims and desires.

In the market place were the dealers in merchandise

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and food. Dealer cheated dealer, only looking askance that he not be caught in such transaction. Women with absent husbands stole out furtively to meet their lovers. The husband, in a distant city, amused himself with chance companion. Princes plotted the overthrow of ruler. Healthy beggars infested the streets. Fear filled the coffers of the Temple. In back lanes robbers waylaid wealthy merchant. Drilling soldiers cursed their officers.

Joined to every person was an invisible thread, stronger than iron band. These threads reached into an unseen and unknown land. They crossed and recrossed one another until they formed a web enmeshing the city and all that dwelt therein.

A pull of this slender invisible thread and an individual was drawn toward destructive action. The individual's action was known, but its source remained unknown to the individual. How few sought to break the hidden thread and stand free! The populace had sold themselves into slavery. Any unexpected event was called an accident. Oft repeated was the statement: "If I had taken the other road, this would not have happened."

Should man expect a beautiful future, if so much of his present must be so carefully hidden? Should man expect a quiet mind, when he fills his life with a disregard for all that is good? Can man gather roses from thistles? Could any individual, however holy,

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approach any one in the city and direct his course? How few individuals will give up those things they want for those things they need. Suffering only comes from seeking out that which contributes not to greater understanding.

Tilak could not approach anyone who was not seeking the good. Goodness is not in time. If time were required to obtain goodness it would never be obtained. Time but contains those things that apparently oppose goodness.

MAN'S TENDENCIES ARE HIS HERITAGE. What man's tendencies are, is what man is becoming to be.



Through the Chamber door came a priest. Tilak greeted him.

"My son," said the priest, "I have lost my way. Will you direct me?"

"What do you wish to find, friend?"

"Heaven," replied the priest.

"Which heaven, friend?"

The stern visage of the priest relaxed somewhat, as he said: "The Heaven of the Saints."

"You are a Saint?"

"I am," admitted the priest.

"When did you die?"

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"A week ago."

"And you have not found Heaven! "

"I lost my way. I saw your light and came here."

"Sainthood, friend, is beautiful."

"It has been a struggle. Earthly temptations nearly drove me to the mouth of Hell."

"You conquered them?"

"All but one—I hated my brother."

"He was a wicked man?"

"He robbed the church and would not relent. I prayed for him. He laughed at my prayers. He called me an old fool. Me, a holy man! It was blasphemous."

"There is no hate in any heaven, friend."

"My goodness will overcome that. I gave money to the poor. I baptized many babies. I visited the sick."

"How much of you, friend, was in your work?" "All of me."

"Did you do these things for a reward?"

"For Heaven!" exclaimed the priest.

"You did not like to do them, friend?"

"I did them, and now I am ready for heaven," firmly replied the priest.

"I will lead you part way—after that you must journey on alone."


"You will find others, friend, that have done things solely to secure a place in heaven. They will understand you and you them."

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Tilak moved with the priest through space. As they were entering a city Tilak stopped and said: "I will leave you here, friend. Just follow the road and you will find your destination."

"This can't be Heaven!" exclaimed the priest, "It is too much like the city I left when I died."

"Cities change, wherever they are, as we do, friend." Tilak watched the priest as he trudged toward the city.



In the Chamber of the Great Potential Tilak lit his oilless lamp. Tilak had brought the lamp from the Temple of the Living Flame. By balancing the requisite forces the lamp could reduce light to a form of heat and light. As long as these forces remained balanced the lamp would burn.

On the table beside the flickering lamp Tilak laid a knife. On the handle of the knife was inscribed in Tibetan characters the word Severance.

Before the table Tilak sat in meditation. At first thoughts poured through his mind. Tilak selected from the teeming guests of the mind one thought, "Let all be quiet." Holding this thought Tilak dismissed all other thoughts that were not related to quiet. Soon his whole being became at rest, and as he thought, "let there be quiet," the thought assumed

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predominance. It drew into the mind of Tilak thoughts related to quiet. Around him was a great stillness. Tilak waited.

The Voice of Quiet spoke to him.

"In restless activity, in useless movement, in every disturbing condition, I am at low point. Without my eternal sameness nothing could be. I am the interval between every movement of every act. The act is seen, and I remain unknown. I am the source to which all return. Nothing soothes the soul but me. I am Quiet. I am voiceless and spaceless, yet I move through all things. When hard-pressed turn but to me. I am ever waiting."

MUSIC IS THE INTERVAL OF INHARMONY. It is this musical interval that can dispel all thoughts that tread upon and crush peace. Sweet music awakens elevated thoughts, and always and ever removes those thoughts that disturb the mind's peace.

Tilak rose from his meditation. As he stood in the middle of the Chamber he intercepted a message. The message was coming from a female mountain bird, and was being sent to its mate. The message said: "I have fallen on the mountainside. My wing is broken."

Tilak left his Chamber and walked through the ice and snow. He found the wounded bird and gently carried it back with him, under his woolen garment, to the Chamber of the Great Potential. Tilak bound the wing of the wounded bird and gave of it to eat. Then

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he opened the door of the Chamber to admit the male bird whose wings had been flapping on the casement. The male bird flew around the Chamber, and then dropped down to the side of its wounded mate.



Tilak walked down the mountainside to a village two miles below. This journey was in response to a prayer of a younger pilgrim.

Reaching the village Tilak walked between a row of stone and mud-plastered cottages. Stopping before the door of one of the smaller cottages he gently knocked.

A youth admitted him; a youth of fourteen years. As Tilak entered the small room he asked, "You wish to join the Brotherhood?"

The boy's eyes brightened: "It is my fervent wish." Gently Tilak said: "The way is hard. Feet long rooted in clay are not easily removed."

"I would begin."

Tilak closed his eyes as he studied the boy's aura. He found therein enthusiasm and hope. Tilak looked further. From the aura he drew the parts that had surrounded former bodies. These parts had been covered and carefully hidden by the aura of the present body. The older auras showed appetites suppressed, desires smothered—the attempt to gain the heights

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by suppression, the attempt to negatively buy that which was a natural birthright of all men.

"My young friend," said Tilak gravely, "ere you enter the Brotherhood you must become part of human life and return that which belongs there. There is no other way that this can be accomplished. What we draw, young friend, from life we return to life. We render unto the ever changing that which is ever changing. Every particle of the body must be crystal white, so that in these tiny spheres all may be reflected. When this has been accomplished, and you have used that which you want to use, we will be waiting. It is not the using, young friend, but the wanting to use that keeps thee from us."

At the door Tilak turned and said: "We will meet again."

Next: III. The Great Preparation