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BOOK OF SECRETS PDF

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the source book of all techniques which are known all over the world." - Osho, The Book of Secrets. ne of the most ancient texts and meditation manuals is. DEEPAK CHOPRA, M.D.. The. BOOK of. SECRETS. Unlocking the Hidden Dimensions of Your Life. Harmony Books. NEW YORK. The Book of Secrets is a step by step guide to find the best meditation suitable for you. methods of meditation are described and introduced here with helpful.

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Barton Gumbroot, that loathsome monster, was just hovering with his gleaming tooth-pull, snapping it open and shut, open and shut, tittering and salivating. I believe to this day his greatest pleasure in life was inflicting pain on others. He braced himself with his leg on my chest and began to pull. I cannot describe to you the pain that shot through my skull, my brain and every nerve end in my body.

It felt as if my whole head was being wrenched off. The tooth moved slightly in my jaw and another white-hot shooting pain exploded behind my eyes. All the while Ma and Pa laughed like maniacs. Rage swelled in me like a mountainous wave. I heard a roar worthy of a jungle beast and I was taken over by seething fury.

With my free leg I kicked Pa hard and sharp in the stomach and he collapsed on the floor. Barton, caught by surprise, let go of the tooth-pull and I grabbed it and walloped him around the side of the head.

I unstrapped my other leg and jumped down. Pa was groaning on the floor. Barton was leaning against the wall holding his head. Ma cowered in the corner. Pa was almost on his feet again.

I dropped the tooth-pull and in a matter of seconds I was out of the door, up the steps and running down the alley. I could hear Ma screaming and Pa shouting and cursing. As I ran I tried to think where to go. They knew so many of my hiding places. I hammered on the window and shouted his name but there was no reply.

I cursed my bad luck. I knew if Mr Jellico was gone at this time of night he might not be back for days. But knowing this was little help in my current predicament.

So where to now? Betty Peggotty, the landlady, might help me. I ran out of the alley and on to the street, but they were already waiting for me. They surprised me, Pa especially, with their stamina. I had not thought they would last so long. For at least a half-mile they chased me down the uncobbled narrow alleys and the filthy streets, tripping over bodies and avoiding snatching hands, all the way to the river.

Every time I looked back they seemed to be closer. I knew what would happen if they caught me again. The ache in my bleeding jaw was all the proof I needed. By the time I staggered on to the bridge I was barely able to hold myself upright.

Halfway across I saw a carriage outside the Nimble Finger. Just as its wheels began to turn, I clambered on the back, hanging on for my life. As the carriage pulled away the last thing I remember is the sight of Ma sinking to her knees.

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She was screaming at me from the river bank and the monster, Barton Gumbroot, was shaking his fist in rage. My name is Ludlow Fitch. Along with countless others, I had the great misfortune to be born in the City, a stinking place undeserving of a name. And I would have died there if it had not been for Ma and Pa. They saved me, though it was not their intention, when they delivered me, their only son, into the hands of Barton Gumbroot.

This act of betrayal was possibly the greatest single piece of luck I ever had. The weather worsened and it started to snow. The road narrowed and the potholes became larger, deeper and more frequent. The driver had no thought for passenger comfort. Despite this, and my churning innards I suffer terribly from travel sickness , towards the end of the journey I was dozing. The carriage began to climb a steep hill and finally we reached the place that was to be my home for the near future, the mountain village of Pagus Parvus.

Under any other circumstances I would not have chosen to come to Pagus Parvus, but at the time of travelling my destination was out of my hands. At last the carriage stopped outside a large house and the driver climbed down. I heard him rap on the carriage door. A young girl came out looking none too pleased. The driver called her Polly. Together they dragged Ratchet up the steps accompanied by much snoring his and grunting theirs and hauled him inside.

I took the opportunity to jump down and sneak a look in the cab, wherein I found a leather purse, a fringed printed silk scarf and a pair of gloves. I wrapped the scarf around my neck and slipped the gloves over my numb fingers. The purse contained only a few pennies but it was a start. I got out and saw the young girl standing in the doorway looking straight at me. There was a slight smile on her face and her eyes held mine for a long second.

I heard the driver coming back and knew it was time to go. I could have gone either way, up the slope or down, but for some unknown reason I chose to climb. The hill was treacherous. As I climbed I heard the church bell strike four.

Although it was no longer snowing the wind was sharp as a knife and I knew I needed shelter. Despite the hour, and the lack of street lights, I could see well enough where I was going. It was not the moon that lit my way, for she was only a sliver, but all the lights ablaze behind the windows. It seemed that I was not the only one still awake in this village. I stopped at an empty building at the top of the hill. It stood alone in the shadow of the church, desolate and separated from the other houses and shops by an alley.

I was looking for a way in when I heard approaching footsteps in the snow. I ducked into the alley and waited. A man, hunched over, came carefully down the hill. He was carrying a large wooden spade over his shoulder and he was mumbling to himself. He passed right by me, looking neither to his left nor his right, and crossed over the road.

As he melted into the night another figure appeared. To this day I remember the man emerging from the gloom as if by magic. I watched him climbing steadily towards me.

He took long strides and covered the distance quickly. He had a limp, his right step was heavier than his left, and one footprint was deeper than the other. Was it just coincidence had us both arrive here together? I suspect other powers were at work. He had a purpose but he kept it well hidden. His age was impossible to determine. He was neither stout nor thin, but perhaps narrow.

And he was tall, which was a distinct disadvantage in Pagus Parvus. The village dated from times when people were at least six inches shorter and all dwellings were built accordingly. The king at the time issued a decree that every effort must be made to save wood, with the result that doors and windows were made smaller and narrower than was usual and ceilings were particularly low.

Joe was suitably dressed for the weather, though unheedful of the current fashion for the high-collared coat. Instead he wore a cloak of muted green, fastened with silver toggles, that fell to his ankles. The cloak itself was of the finest Jocastar wool. The Jocastar — an animal akin to a sheep but with longer, more delicate legs and finer features — lived high up in the mountains of the northern hemisphere.

Once a year, September time, it moulted and only the most agile climbers dared venture up into the thin air to collect its wool. The cloak was lined with the softest fur in existence, chinchilla.

On his feet Joe wore a pair of black leather boots, highly polished, upon which sat the beautifully pressed cuffs of his mauve trousers.

Around his neck was wrapped a silk scarf, and a fur hat shaped like a cooking pot was pulled down tightly over his ears. It could not fully contain his hair and more than a few silver strands curled out from underneath.

With every step Joe took, a set of keys hooked to his belt jingled tunefully against his thigh. In his right hand he carried a rather battered leather satchel straining at the seams, and in his left a damp drawstring bag from which there emanated an intermittent croaking. Quickly, silently, Joe climbed the steep high street until he reached the last building on the left.

It was an empty shop. Beyond it was a walled graveyard, the village boundary, within which stood the church. Then the road stretched away into a grey nothingness.

Snow had drifted into the shop doorway and gathered in the corners of the flyblown windows. The paintwork was peeling and an old sign in the shape of a hat creaked above the door in the biting wind. Joe took a moment to survey the street down to the bottom of the hill. It was the early hours of the morning but yellow oil lamps and candles glowed behind many a curtain and shutter and more than once he saw the silhouette of a person cross back and forth in front of a window.

A smile broke across his face. The shop itself was quite tiny. The distance between the display window and the counter was no more than three paces.

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Joe went behind the counter and opened the solid door that led into a back room. A tiny window on the far wall allowed the dusty moon-glow to lighten the gloom. The furniture was sparse and worn: two ladderback chairs and a table, a small stove and a narrow bed pushed up against the wall. In contrast the fireplace was huge.

At least six feet across and nearly three deep, it took up almost the whole of one wall. On either side of the hearth sat a faded upholstered armchair. It was not much but it would do. In the depths of the night, Joe busied himself settling in. He turned up the wick and lit the lamp on the table. He unwound his scarf, took off his hat and unfastened his cloak and put them on the bed. Then he opened his satchel and, as a silent observer peered through the window, Joe emptied it out on to the table.

The onlooker never moved, though his already huge dark eyes widened impossibly as Joe pulled out clothes, shoes, a collection of trinkets and baubles, some rather fine jewellery, two loaves, a bottle of stout, another bottle, dark-glassed and unlabelled, four timepieces with gold chains , a brass hurricane lamp, a rectangular glass tank with a vented lid, a large black book, a quill and bottle of ink and a polished mahogany wooden leg.

The satchel was deceptively spacious. Deftly Joe fixed the tank together, then took his drawstring bag and loosened the tie. He set it down gently on the table and a second later a frog, a rather spectacular specimen of mixed hue and intelligent expression, emerged daintily from its folds. Very carefully Joe picked it up and placed it inside the tank, whereupon the creature blinked lazily and munched thoughtfully on some dried insects.

As Joe dropped another bug into the tank he stiffened almost imperceptibly. Without a backwards glance he left the room, the eyes at the window still following him curiously. No human ear heard him tiptoe around the back of the shop, where he pounced upon the figure at the window and held him up to the light by the scruff of his scrawny neck. Joe had the boy in such a grip that he was half choking on his collar and his feet were barely touching the ground.

He tried to speak, but fear and shock had rendered him unable. He could only open and close his mouth like a fish out of water. Joe gave him a shake and repeated the question, though less harshly this time. When he still received no answer he let the young lad fall to the snow in a crumpled pathetic heap.

He truly was a pale and sorry figure, undersized, undernourished and shivering so hard you could almost hear his bones rattle.

His eyes were striking though, dark green with flecks of yellow, and set in a ring of shadow. His skin matched the snow in tone and temperature. Joe sighed and pulled him to his feet. A blackened kettle hung over the flames and every so often Joe stirred its contents. The boy gulped his noisily in spilling, overfull spoonfuls. And do you wish to go back? In my experience the City is a rotten, diseased place full of the very worst of humanity.

The lowest of the low. Without hesitation he put the stained cloth in his mouth and sucked out the juices. Joe watched unsmiling but with amusement in his eyes. The warming soup had brought life back to his frozen limbs. Can you write and read? If Joe was surprised he did not show it. Ludlow thought for a moment then wrote slowly, in his plain, spidery hand, the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth: A Pome The rabit dose be a gentel creture Its furr is soft, its tale is wite Under the sun a gras eater In a burro it doth sleep the nighte.

Joe stroked his chin to conceal his smile. Your parents? I was taught by Mr Lembart Jellico, a pawnbroker in the City. He resembled so many City boys, dirty and skinny. He certainly smelt like one. His clothes were barely functional apart from the scarf and gloves which were of a much higher quality and he had a distrustful face that gave away the wretchedness of his past existence.

He was bruised and his mouth was very swollen, but there was a spark of intelligence — and something else — in those dark eyes. Now it is time to sleep. He had never felt such soft fur before and it wrapped itself around his legs almost of its own accord. Ludlow watched through half-closed eyes as Joe stretched out on the bed opposite, his legs not quite fully extended, and began to snore.

When he was certain that Joe was asleep Ludlow pulled out the purse he had stolen from the carriage and hid it behind a loose brick in the wall.

Then he took the paper and read it once again. What sort of job is that? But he did not ponder the question for very long before drifting off into a sleep full of wild dreams that made his heart race.

As for pawnbrokers, naturally I knew what they were. Whatever Ma and Pa managed to steal and had no use for, they pawned. Or they sent me to do it. There were plenty of pawnshops, practically one on every corner, and they were open all hours.

They were busiest after the weekend, when everyone had spent their wages on drink or lost them at the card table. By mid-morning on Mondays a pawnshop window was quite a sight, believe me. Take it or leave it. Of course, you could always download back what you pledged, but you had to pay more. For a start he was hidden away down a narrow alley off Pledge Street. You would only know he was there if you knew he was there, if you see what I mean. I found him because I was looking for somewhere to hide from Ma and Pa.

The entrance to the lane was so narrow I had to go in sideways. When I looked up I could see only a thin sliver of the smoky city sky. He looked as if he was in a daydream. I coughed. Those were the first kind words I had heard all day. Mr Jellico looked as poor as his customers. His skin was white, starved of the sun, and had a slight shine to it, like wet pastry. His long fingernails were usually black and his lined face was covered in grey stubble.

There was always a drip at the end of his nose and occasionally he wiped it away with a red handkerchief that he kept in his waistcoat pocket.

That day he gave me a shilling for the ring, so I came back the next day with more spoils and received another. After that I returned as often as I could. His shop was rarely busy, the window was dirty and there was never much on display. Once I saw a loaf of bread on the shelf. I told him what Ma and Pa were like, how they treated me, how little they cared for me. Many times when it was too cold to stay out, and I was too afraid to return home, he let me warm myself by his fire and gave me tea and bread.

He taught me the AlphaBet and numbers and let me practise writing on the back of old pawn tickets. He showed me books and made me copy out page after page until he was satisfied with my handwriting.

It has been remarked that my style is a little formal. I blame this on the texts from which I learned. Their authors were of a serious nature, writing of wars and history and great thinkers. There was little room for humour. In return for this learning I carried out certain chores for Mr Jellico. At first I wrote out the price tags for the window, but as my writing improved he let me log the pledges and monies in his record book.

Occasionally the door would open and we would have a customer. Mr Jellico enjoyed talking and would detain them in conversation for quite some time before taking their pledge and paying them. I spent many hours in the back of the shop engaged in my tasks and Ma and Pa never knew.

I saw no reason to tell them about Mr Jellico; they would only have demanded that I steal something from him. I had the opportunity, many times, but although I would not hesitate to cheat my parents out of a few shillings, I could not betray Mr Jellico. The first time I found the shop closed I thought he must have packed up and left. Then a few days later he came back. I was just glad to see him. This went on for almost five months until the night I fled the City.

There was little chance I would see him again. So, when Joe said that he was a pawnbroker I was pleased. I thought I knew what to expect. It was a small village clinging for its life to the side of a steep mountain in a country that has changed its name over and over and in a time that is a distant memory for most. It comprised one cobbled high street lined on either side with a mixture of houses and shops built in the style that was popular around the time of the great fire in the famous city of London.

The first and second floors and in the case of the home of wealthy Jeremiah Ratchet, the third and fourth floors overhung the pavement. In fact, sometimes the upper levels stuck so far out that they restricted the sunlight. The windows themselves were small with leaded panes, and dark timbers ran in parallel lines on the outside walls. The buildings were all at strange and rather worrying angles, each having slid slightly down the hill over the years and sunk a little into the earth. There was no doubt that if just one collapsed it would take all the others with it.

The village was overlooked by the church, an ancient building mostly frequented these days when someone was born or died.

Entry into this life and exit from it were deemed noteworthy occasions, but for most villagers the intervening existence did not require regular church attendance.

On the whole this suited the Reverend Stirling Oliphaunt very well. Besides, the hill really was unusually steep. Even before the sun had fully risen behind the clouds, a rumour was circulating that the old hat shop had a new occupant. One by one the villagers puffed and panted their way up the hill to see for themselves.

The murky windows were now clean and transparent, although the varying thickness of the glass distorted the display somewhat, and the people pressed their faces up against the panes eager to see what was on show. A reasonable question under the circumstances, for the contents of the satchel, excepting the food and drink, had been priced with tags and placed in the window.

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The wooden leg was propped in the corner but there was no indication of its cost. In the daylight it was quite remarkable in appearance: its glistening skin was a patchwork of vibrant reds, greens and yellows. It was most unlike any frog that lived in the soupy ponds of Pagus Parvus. Its feet were not webbed, instead they were more like longfingered hands with knobbly joints and toes, which would have made swimming quite tricky.

He was holding a sign which he placed carefully at the bottom of the display. Joe then emerged with a ladder which he propped against the wall over the door.

He climbed confidently to the top and unhooked the old hat-shaped sign. He fixed to the pole the universal symbol of the pawnbroker: three polished golden orbs stuck together in the shape of a triangle. They swung on their chain in a lazy arc, glinting in the low winter sun. Joe smiled benevolently, descended the ladder with remarkable speed and stood before the crowd.

I stand under the sign of the three golden orbs because I am a pawnbroker, a respectable profession in existence for centuries, of Italian origin, I believe. Joe disregarded this interruption and continued smoothly. You will not be cheated by Joe Zabbidou. Joe took a bow and smiled at his audience.

He sat up to find that the fire had been revived and one of the logs was spitting, sending burning sparks on to his cheeks. Joe was nowhere to be seen, but there was bread and milk on the table, and a jug of beer, and Ludlow realized that he was very hungry. He drank some frothy milk and ate a thick slice of warm bread. He sat back, satisfied, but not for long. Hearing the commotion outside he went to the door to have a look.

Joe was still shaking hands with the villagers. When he saw Ludlow he nodded in the direction of the crowd, who were milling around, loath to leave this object of curiosity. Few strangers ever came to their village. There was that hook nose again and again, those close-set narrow eyes, the crooked smiles, each in a different combination on a different countenance.

This place could do with some new blood, he thought. He had woken with a pounding headache and a raw stomach. Besides, he despised the other drinkers, most of whom were in his debt. Jeremiah was happy to take their money but he preferred not to drink with them.

And the feeling was mutual. There he drank wine and beer, smoked fat cigars and played cards until the early hours with a motley bunch of fellows: thieves and gamblers, resurrectionists and undoubtedly a murderer or two. Although he would never admit it, he felt quite at home in the Nimble Finger.

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Jeremiah groaned again when he remembered he had lost a considerable sum of money at the card table. Jeremiah liked simple solutions to problems, and rent increases seemed to solve most of his. He did not care about the trouble this caused his tenants. He turned over in bed, but his attempts to sleep again were thwarted by the foul air that wafted up from under the blankets. Too many onions, he thought as he flung back the curtain and swung his legs over the side.

He squinted in the daylight and only then became aware of the noise out on the street. He stumbled and belched his way over to the window to see crowds of people making their way up the hill. He felt it was a physical measure of his importance. Although he loved to indulge himself in all sorts of extravagances, it galled him to think that others might too. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and pulled his collar around his neck. His mood had not improved when Polly reported that she had failed to find his gloves, scarf and purse.

Deserves to be whipped. He took whichever hand they offered and enclosed it in his own. At the same time he leaned forward and said something.

Whatever it was, it made the women smile and the men straighten up and inflate their chests. While Joe was still busy shaking hands, a minor commotion started up at the back of the crowd. I stuck my head out a little further and saw a bulbous man, his face glistening with sweat, pushing his way to the front.

The people parted reluctantly to allow his passage. He stood in the snow in a manner that suggested he was supported solely by his own selfimportance. He cocked his large head to one side to squint at the golden orbs with a yellowing eye. There was something very unpleasant about the man: his bulk was offensive, his stance was aggressive. I was not inclined to make myself known to him so I stayed where I was.

I suspect Joe had already noticed him but had chosen to ignore him. Eventually, after the man had positioned himself only a matter of feet away and coughed loudly three times, Joe acknowledged his presence and introduced himself. The man stared at Joe as if he was a snail on his shoe. Local businessman.

I own most of this village. So this was Jeremiah Ratchet, the man who had inadvertently brought me to Pagus Parvus and at the same time brought about a change in my fortunes.

His rather grand statement was greeted with quiet snorts of derision from the crowd, even a hiss, and his wide forehead creased in an angry frown. He put his hands on his hips and sniffed, in the manner of a rooting hog. If I had been in that crowd, I would have pinched his purse before he could blink. He was the sort of man who deserved to have his pocket picked. Then again, I thought, as I tried to conceal a smirk, I already had it. Everything about Jeremiah smelled of money: from his perfumed hair, to his dark woollen three-quarter length coat; from his mustard breeches, right down to the shiny leather of his riding boots.

Unfortunately nothing about him smelled of good taste. These people own nothing of any worth. I help people round here. If they need money they know whom to ask. Only one person lingered, a young girl. She looked cold and tired. Her knuckles were red, she wore no gloves and her fingertips were blue. I felt a little sorry for her, with her stick legs and red nose. Joe was leaning casually on the ladder, watching us, but suddenly he looked away.

I followed his gaze and saw for a second time the small hunched figure with a shovel on his shoulder. He had been right at the back during the whole show, his craggy face expressionless. Now he was going in the opposite direction to everyone else, towards the church. Joe watched him go through the gates, then beckoned to me.

I pulled the door to and a little thrill of excitement made me shiver all over. Chapter Nine Obadiah Strang An ancient graveyard surrounded the church and the slope was such that it was impossible to dig a grave without one side being higher than the other.

Fortunately for its occupants, Obadiah Strang, the gravedigger, was very good at his job and took great pains to ensure that the base of each grave was level, so the poor dead soul in the coffin could achieve peace on his back and not on his side. Whenever there was a funeral the mourners were constantly on the move, shifting from one foot to the other as they tried to stand up straight.

Only mountain goats that wandered in from time to time seemed at ease, able as they were to keep their balance at any angle. The graveyard must have seemed like a home from home. Not only that, the grass was particularly rich.

Joe stepped through the rusting church gates, closely followed by Ludlow, and stopped to listen. The rhythmic sound of shovelling came to him on the wind and when he looked down the slope between the headstones he saw Obadiah Strang hard at work digging a grave.

Stooped even as a youngster, Obadiah had finally reached the age that his bent back had always suggested. He looked like a man who dug holes for a living and over the years his hands had fixed themselves into the shape of the handle of his shovel.

He had great difficulty picking up small objects but was thankful that his clawed fingers could comfortably hold a bottle of ale. Obadiah continued with his task for quite some time before he noticed that he had company. He clambered out with the aid of a small ladder and stuck his shovel into the pile of earth with some force. Sweat congealed in his eyebrows and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear.

It was not easy to dig a six-foot-deep hole in the winter. Joe greeted him with a warm handshake. Ludlow smiled and put out his hand, albeit hesitantly. Obadiah ignored it. You pay an assistant? You pawnbrokers are all the same. You claim poverty but live otherwise. His ears filled with a soft noise, like the sea on a shingle beach, and he felt his knees tremble. His fingertips were starting to tingle. Ludlow watched in surprise as the gruff old man seemed to soften and relax.

At midnight. No one need know.

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I knew that some sort of arrangement had been arrived at, but its exact nature escaped me. As we left the church grounds I suddenly had the feeling that we were being watched. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a figure observing us from behind a tree.

From his dress I presumed him to be the local vicar. I nudged Joe. He had seen him too and he nodded a greeting, whereupon the reverend became very flustered, turned tail and fled into the church. Outside the shop the pavement was empty apart from three young boys who ran away as soon as they saw Joe. He laughed as they skidded down the hill. Once inside we went through to the back and sat by the fire.

After a few minutes, when Joe showed no sign of talking to me but all the signs of a man on the verge of a snooze, I asked him about my job. For the moment just wake me if we have any customers. I went into the shop and leaned my elbows on the counter, contemplating my situation. The frog watched me for a minute or two and then turned away. Although I had always earned a living, I had never had a job before. They made their living from thievery and I had little choice but to follow in their footsteps, even before I could walk.

I was a small baby, and stayed slight. At the age of eighteen months Pa took to carrying me around in a bread basket on the top of his head. He covered me with a few stale loaves. I still remember the terrible swaying from side to side and the fright that kept me rigid.

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To this day I cannot travel in any moving vehicle without feeling sick. Of course, by the time he looked for the culprits we had long since disappeared into the crowd. This caper brought in a pleasing sum, wigs and hats fetched good prices, but inevitably the time came when I could no longer fit into the bread basket. Ma suggested that I be sold to a chimney sweep. My skinny frame more than suited the narrow, angled chimneys.

By then I was beginning to understand that when my parents looked at me with their glassy eyes, they saw not a son and heir but a convenient source of income to support their gin habit. The life of a chimney sweep was harsh and short and I was supremely grateful when Pa decided I could earn more for them if I learned to pick pockets. Thus, with the minimum of training spurred on by his belt , I was sent out on to the streets on the understanding that I was not to return without at least six shillings a day for the tavern.

I had little trouble earning this, and any extra I kept for myself. I seemed to have a natural bent for such work: my fingers were nimble, my tread light and my expression innocent.

Sometimes I was a little careless and my victim would feel my fingers in their pocket, but I had only to hold their gaze for a moment to convince them that it was not I who had filched their purse or wallet.

Science says you are not given, your prana is sucked. They say you a madman. Science has its own are breathing air! But tantra says superstitions, and science is a very that air is just the vehicle, not the orthodox thing. Science cannot feel real thing.

You are breathing prana yet that there is anything more than -- vitality. Air is just the medium; air, but India has been prana is the content. You are By being focused experimenting with it for centuries.

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Breathing is not simply One man went into such air. It has been felt by many modern not breath, but the underground samadhi in Egypt in researchers also.

In particular, one very essence of for forty years. Those who had name is to be mentioned -- Wilhelm buried him all died, because he was Reich, a German psychologist who breath, prana.

And to come out of his samadhi in , called it "orgone energy. In no same thing as prana. He says that the essence of one believed that they would find while you are breathing, air is just him alive, but he was found alive.

He had become completely called orgone or prana or elan vital. And there But that is very subtle. Really, it is from where the had been no possibility of air not material. Air is the material jump, the reaching him. We only know this, that happens, it is not a coincidence. It a very dangerous land. Because prana can enter and flow appears that way because you do wherever there is power there is anywhere.

Your danger, and if the mind is impure, but prana can penetrate. Once you mind must have moved whenever you get power your know that you can suck prana unknowingly near the third eye impure thoughts will take hold of it directly, without the container, then centre. If your attention is in the immediately. If it works, if it is eye, suddenly you can observe the are focused between the eyebrows actualised immediately, then it will very essence of breath -- not breath, and you can feel the very essence of become dangerous -- not only to but the very essence of breath, breathing, let the form fill.

Now others, but to yourself also, because prana. And if you can observe the imagine that this essence is filling so many times you have thought to essence of breath, prana, you are at your whole head, particularly the commit suicide. If the mind is the point from where the jump, the top of the head, the Sahasrar -- the focused at the third eye, just breakthrough happens.

And the thinking of suicide will become The sutra says, Let form fill with moment you imagine, it will be suicide. You will not have any time breath essence to the top of the filled. There -- at the top of the head to change, immediately it will head And when you come to feel shower as light. This prana happen immediately. And it will someone being hypnotised. When with it -- just imagine. No need of begin to shower, and under the someone is hypnotised, the any effort. I will explain to you how shower of light you will be hypnotist can say anything and imagination works.

When you are refreshed, reborn, completely new. However absurd the order, imagine, and the thing happens -- So two things: first, focused at however irrational or even then and there.

That is follows it. What is happening? This impotent; you keep imagining and why so much stress has been given fifth technique is at the base of all nothing happens. But sometimes, to purity. Before doing these hypnotism. Whenever someone is unknowingly, in ordinary life also practices, be pure. Purity is not a being hypnotised he is told to focus things happen. You are imagining moral concept for tantra, purity is his eyes at a particular point -- on about your friend and suddenly significant -- because if you are some light, some dot on the wall or there is a knock on the door.

You focused at the third eye and your anything, or on the eyes of the say it is a coincidence that the mind is impure, your imagination hypnotist. Sometimes your can become dangerous: dangerous When you focus your eyes at imagination works just like to you, dangerous to others. If you any particular point, within three coincidence. But whenever this are thinking of murdering someone, minutes your inner attention begins happens, now try and remember if this idea is in the mind, just to flow towards the third eye.

And and analyse the whole thing. That is the moment your inner attention Whenever it happens that you why there is so much insistence on begins to flow towards the third feel your imagination has become being pure first. Pythagoras was told to go And the hypnotist knows when Somewhere your attention must through fasting, through particular your face begins to change. When I see a flower in asleep. The hypnotist knows my vision it is more real than any immediately when your face has flower in the world.

The fragrance lost the lustre, the aliveness. It is there; I can touch it.

When I see means that now attention is being you," he said to Buddha, "I do not sucked by the third eye centre. Your see you as real. That flower is more face has become dead; the whole real than your being here just energy is running towards the third before me, so how can I eye center. He says, "Now you are third eye, dream and reality are falling into a deep sleep" -- you will one. Whatever you are dreaming dead," you will die immediately.

He says, "Now will be real, and vice versa also. It will stop. In the third eye, immediately. Now anything can be and the whole reality will become imagination and actualisation are done. If he says, "Now you have just a dream, because when your not two things. Imagination is the become Napoleon," you will dream can become real you know fact. Imagine, and it is so. There is become. You will begin to behave there is no basic difference between no gap between dream and reality. So when Dream, and it will become real.

Your gestures Shankara says that this whole That is why Shankara has said that will change. Your unconscious will world is just Maya, a dream of the this whole world is nothing but the take the order and will create the divine, it is not a theoretical dream of the divine If you are suffering from a proposition, it is not a philosophical the divine!

This is because the disease, now it can be ordered that statement. It is, rather, the inner divine is centred in the third eye -- the disease has disappeared and it experience of one who is focused in always, eternally -- so whatever the will disappear. Or any new disease the third eye. If you can be created.