The alchemist does not begin with gold. He begins with rust.
The Vaidya grinds it to dust and blows it into the wind. "That was not yours to keep," she says.
On the final morning, I rise. The mirror shows a man of twenty-five, but my eyes are ten thousand years old. I walk outside. The banyan tree drops a leaf. I catch it. And for the first time, I do not wonder where it came from or where it will go.
I am the leaf. I am the tree. I am the ground.
The alchemist does not begin with gold. He begins with rust.
The Vaidya grinds it to dust and blows it into the wind. "That was not yours to keep," she says.
On the final morning, I rise. The mirror shows a man of twenty-five, but my eyes are ten thousand years old. I walk outside. The banyan tree drops a leaf. I catch it. And for the first time, I do not wonder where it came from or where it will go.
I am the leaf. I am the tree. I am the ground.