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In the film The Postino, the village postman gives the girl he loves a poem he passes off as his own though it has been written by Pablo Neruda, living in exile in a small Italian community. When Neruda berates the postman, the young man replies: "Just because you wrote the poem, that doesn't mean it belongs to you. Poetry belongs to those who need it."

Patent attorneys may be scandalised by such a laissez-faire interpretation of copyright laws. But by his response, the postman reveals that he might have a greater insight into the nature and ownership of poetry than the poet himself. Who does 'own' poetry? The person who creates it? Or those who make it a part of a common legacy with which to give utterance to voiceless longings? To whom does the fragrance of the rose belong? The flower, or the passing traveller enraptured by its scent?

As a struggling writer in Buenos Aires, Borges would enter workingmen's bars and slip unsigned copies of his writings into the pockets of jackets hanging by the door. Nor would he hang about outside, to see what fate befell his clandestine literary offerings. Borges had realised that what a writer writes lives on the sheet of silence that is another's mind.

If this is true of poets and writers, who must deal with the clumsy pen-and-ink limitations of their craft, how much more so for the spiritual masters? "Please go from here. Go away and don't listen to me," J Krishnamurti would exhort the disciples who flocked to hear him speak.

Like Borges, or the Italian postman, Krishnamurti knew that what he had to say had no meaning unless others took it away from him and made it into their own, each according to their individual needs. Truth is subjectivity. To the extent you absorbed, or internalised someone else's teachings, you expropriated what was taught, taking from it what you needed.

In the film The Postino, the village postman gives the girl he loves a poem he passes off as his own though it has been written by Pablo Neruda, living in exile in a small Italian community. When Neruda berates the postman, the young man replies: "Just because you wrote the poem, that doesn't mean it belongs to you. Poetry belongs to those who need it."

Patent attorneys may be scandalised by such a laissez-faire interpretation of copyright laws. But by his response, the postman reveals that he might have a greater insight into the nature and ownership of poetry than the poet himself. Who does 'own' poetry? The person who creates it? Or those who make it a part of a common legacy with which to give utterance to voiceless longings? To whom does the fragrance of the rose belong? The flower, or the passing traveller enraptured by its scent?

As a struggling writer in Buenos Aires, Borges would enter workingmen's bars and slip unsigned copies of his writings into the pockets of jackets hanging by the door. Nor would he hang about outside, to see what fate befell his clandestine literary offerings. Borges had realised that what a writer writes lives on the sheet of silence that is another's mind.

If this is true of poets and writers, who must deal with the clumsy pen-and-ink limitations of their craft, how much more so for the spiritual masters? "Please go from here. Go away and don't listen to me," J Krishnamurti would exhort the disciples who flocked to hear him speak.

Like Borges, or the Italian postman, Krishnamurti knew that what he had to say had no meaning unless others took it away from him and made it into their own, each according to their individual needs. Truth is subjectivity. To the extent you absorbed, or internalised someone else's teachings, you expropriated what was taught, taking from it what you needed.

In the film The Postino, the village postman gives the girl he loves a poem he passes off as his own though it has been written by Pablo Neruda, living in exile in a small Italian community. When Neruda berates the postman, the young man replies: "Just because you wrote the poem, that doesn't mean it belongs to you. Poetry belongs to those who need it."

Patent attorneys may be scandalised by such a laissez-faire interpretation of copyright laws. But by his response, the postman reveals that he might have a greater insight into the nature and ownership of poetry than the poet himself. Who does 'own' poetry? The person who creates it? Or those who make it a part of a common legacy with which to give utterance to voiceless longings? To whom does the fragrance of the rose belong? The flower, or the passing traveller enraptured by its scent?

As a struggling writer in Buenos Aires, Borges would enter workingmen's bars and slip unsigned copies of his writings into the pockets of jackets hanging by the door. Nor would he hang about outside, to see what fate befell his clandestine literary offerings. Borges had realised that what a writer writes lives on the sheet of silence that is another's mind.

If this is true of poets and writers, who must deal with the clumsy pen-and-ink limitations of their craft, how much more so for the spiritual masters? "Please go from here. Go away and don't listen to me," J Krishnamurti would exhort the disciples who flocked to hear him speak.

Like Borges, or the Italian postman, Krishnamurti knew that what he had to say had no meaning unless others took it away from him and made it into their own, each according to their individual needs. Truth is subjectivity. To the extent you absorbed, or internalised someone else's teachings, you expropriated what was taught, taking from it what you needed.

In the film The Postino, the village postman gives the girl he loves a poem he passes off as his own though it has been written by Pablo Neruda, living in exile in a small Italian community. When Neruda berates the postman, the young man replies: "Just because you wrote the poem, that doesn't mean it belongs to you. Poetry belongs to those who need it."

Patent attorneys may be scandalised by such a laissez-faire interpretation of copyright laws. But by his response, the postman reveals that he might have a greater insight into the nature and ownership of poetry than the poet himself. Who does 'own' poetry? The person who creates it? Or those who make it a part of a common legacy with which to give utterance to voiceless longings? To whom does the fragrance of the rose belong? The flower, or the passing traveller enraptured by its scent?

As a struggling writer in Buenos Aires, Borges would enter workingmen's bars and slip unsigned copies of his writings into the pockets of jackets hanging by the door. Nor would he hang about outside, to see what fate befell his clandestine literary offerings. Borges had realised that what a writer writes lives on the sheet of silence that is another's mind.

If this is true of poets and writers, who must deal with the clumsy pen-and-ink limitations of their craft, how much more so for the spiritual masters? "Please go from here. Go away and don't listen to me," J Krishnamurti would exhort the disciples who flocked to hear him speak.

Like Borges, or the Italian postman, Krishnamurti knew that what he had to say had no meaning unless others took it away from him and made it into their own, each according to their individual needs. Truth is subjectivity. To the extent you absorbed, or internalised someone else's teachings, you expropriated what was taught, taking from it what you needed.

In the film The Postino, the village postman gives the girl he loves a poem he passes off as his own though it has been written by Pablo Neruda, living in exile in a small Italian community. When Neruda berates the postman, the young man replies: "Just because you wrote the poem, that doesn't mean it belongs to you. Poetry belongs to those who need it."

Patent attorneys may be scandalised by such a laissez-faire interpretation of copyright laws. But by his response, the postman reveals that he might have a greater insight into the nature and ownership of poetry than the poet himself. Who does 'own' poetry? The person who creates it? Or those who make it a part of a common legacy with which to give utterance to voiceless longings? To whom does the fragrance of the rose belong? The flower, or the passing traveller enraptured by its scent?

As a struggling writer in Buenos Aires, Borges would enter workingmen's bars and slip unsigned copies of his writings into the pockets of jackets hanging by the door. Nor would he hang about outside, to see what fate befell his clandestine literary offerings. Borges had realised that what a writer writes lives on the sheet of silence that is another's mind.

If this is true of poets and writers, who must deal with the clumsy pen-and-ink limitations of their craft, how much more so for the spiritual masters? "Please go from here. Go away and don't listen to me," J Krishnamurti would exhort the disciples who flocked to hear him speak.

Like Borges, or the Italian postman, Krishnamurti knew that what he had to say had no meaning unless others took it away from him and made it into their own, each according to their individual needs. Truth is subjectivity. To the extent you absorbed, or internalised someone else's teachings, you expropriated what was taught, taking from it what you needed.

Today, tea can be found in the remotest Indian village, and the Indians drink more tea than the rest of the world combined. Even as they gave us tea, the British were destroying something else. They ruthlessly exploited the land for profit, while ruining and decimating the wildlife it sheltered. The destruction of Indian forests and wildlife occurred at a galloping pace under colonialism. The forests were destroyed for three main reasons: to convert the land into commercial plantations, especially to grow tea; to make railway sleepers; and to export timber to England for the construction of English houses and furniture.

The British cut down the forests of the Nilgiris and Assam to grow tea, and ravaged the forests of Coorg to grow coffee. Tea was not the only villain in the ecological devastation of the Nilgiris; the British also brought several exotic species like eucalyptus, pine and wattle to produce viscose, which was sent to the UK to be made into fabric. Unfortunately, these plants thirstily drink up the groundwater. Thus, the British converted the once lush tropical rain forests into a water-shortage area.

The same phenomenon occurred when they forced Indian farmers to grow poppy in order to extract opium, which involved cutting down vast areas of forests in some parts of north India, like Assam. This practice of slashing trees to protect the poppy indirectly wiped out some of India's most magnificent predators. They wanted more land to be used for commercial crops, which would bring them revenue, so they put a bounty on the head of each predator, successfully eliminating them from vast parts of India. The tiger and leopard survived, albeit in reduced numbers, because they hid in the jungles, but the lion needed vast open spaces and could not survive -- except in Gujarat, where an Indian prince, the Nawab of Junagarh, maintained a private lion sanctuary where hunting was permitted for his invitees only.

Today, tea can be found in the remotest Indian village, and the Indians drink more tea than the rest of the world combined. Even as they gave us tea, the British were destroying something else. They ruthlessly exploited the land for profit, while ruining and decimating the wildlife it sheltered. The destruction of Indian forests and wildlife occurred at a galloping pace under colonialism. The forests were destroyed for three main reasons: to convert the land into commercial plantations, especially to grow tea; to make railway sleepers; and to export timber to England for the construction of English houses and furniture.

The British cut down the forests of the Nilgiris and Assam to grow tea, and ravaged the forests of Coorg to grow coffee. Tea was not the only villain in the ecological devastation of the Nilgiris; the British also brought several exotic species like eucalyptus, pine and wattle to produce viscose, which was sent to the UK to be made into fabric. Unfortunately, these plants thirstily drink up the groundwater. Thus, the British converted the once lush tropical rain forests into a water-shortage area.

The same phenomenon occurred when they forced Indian farmers to grow poppy in order to extract opium, which involved cutting down vast areas of forests in some parts of north India, like Assam. This practice of slashing trees to protect the poppy indirectly wiped out some of India's most magnificent predators. They wanted more land to be used for commercial crops, which would bring them revenue, so they put a bounty on the head of each predator, successfully eliminating them from vast parts of India. The tiger and leopard survived, albeit in reduced numbers, because they hid in the jungles, but the lion needed vast open spaces and could not survive -- except in Gujarat, where an Indian prince, the Nawab of Junagarh, maintained a private lion sanctuary where hunting was permitted for his invitees only.

Today, tea can be found in the remotest Indian village, and the Indians drink more tea than the rest of the world combined. Even as they gave us tea, the British were destroying something else. They ruthlessly exploited the land for profit, while ruining and decimating the wildlife it sheltered. The destruction of Indian forests and wildlife occurred at a galloping pace under colonialism. The forests were destroyed for three main reasons: to convert the land into commercial plantations, especially to grow tea; to make railway sleepers; and to export timber to England for the construction of English houses and furniture.

The British cut down the forests of the Nilgiris and Assam to grow tea, and ravaged the forests of Coorg to grow coffee. Tea was not the only villain in the ecological devastation of the Nilgiris; the British also brought several exotic species like eucalyptus, pine and wattle to produce viscose, which was sent to the UK to be made into fabric. Unfortunately, these plants thirstily drink up the groundwater. Thus, the British converted the once lush tropical rain forests into a water-shortage area.

The same phenomenon occurred when they forced Indian farmers to grow poppy in order to extract opium, which involved cutting down vast areas of forests in some parts of north India, like Assam. This practice of slashing trees to protect the poppy indirectly wiped out some of India's most magnificent predators. They wanted more land to be used for commercial crops, which would bring them revenue, so they put a bounty on the head of each predator, successfully eliminating them from vast parts of India. The tiger and leopard survived, albeit in reduced numbers, because they hid in the jungles, but the lion needed vast open spaces and could not survive -- except in Gujarat, where an Indian prince, the Nawab of Junagarh, maintained a private lion sanctuary where hunting was permitted for his invitees only.

Today, tea can be found in the remotest Indian village, and the Indians drink more tea than the rest of the world combined. Even as they gave us tea, the British were destroying something else. They ruthlessly exploited the land for profit, while ruining and decimating the wildlife it sheltered. The destruction of Indian forests and wildlife occurred at a galloping pace under colonialism. The forests were destroyed for three main reasons: to convert the land into commercial plantations, especially to grow tea; to make railway sleepers; and to export timber to England for the construction of English houses and furniture.

The British cut down the forests of the Nilgiris and Assam to grow tea, and ravaged the forests of Coorg to grow coffee. Tea was not the only villain in the ecological devastation of the Nilgiris; the British also brought several exotic species like eucalyptus, pine and wattle to produce viscose, which was sent to the UK to be made into fabric. Unfortunately, these plants thirstily drink up the groundwater. Thus, the British converted the once lush tropical rain forests into a water-shortage area.

The same phenomenon occurred when they forced Indian farmers to grow poppy in order to extract opium, which involved cutting down vast areas of forests in some parts of north India, like Assam. This practice of slashing trees to protect the poppy indirectly wiped out some of India's most magnificent predators. They wanted more land to be used for commercial crops, which would bring them revenue, so they put a bounty on the head of each predator, successfully eliminating them from vast parts of India. The tiger and leopard survived, albeit in reduced numbers, because they hid in the jungles, but the lion needed vast open spaces and could not survive -- except in Gujarat, where an Indian prince, the Nawab of Junagarh, maintained a private lion sanctuary where hunting was permitted for his invitees only.

Today, tea can be found in the remotest Indian village, and the Indians drink more tea than the rest of the world combined. Even as they gave us tea, the British were destroying something else. They ruthlessly exploited the land for profit, while ruining and decimating the wildlife it sheltered. The destruction of Indian forests and wildlife occurred at a galloping pace under colonialism. The forests were destroyed for three main reasons: to convert the land into commercial plantations, especially to grow tea; to make railway sleepers; and to export timber to England for the construction of English houses and furniture.

The British cut down the forests of the Nilgiris and Assam to grow tea, and ravaged the forests of Coorg to grow coffee. Tea was not the only villain in the ecological devastation of the Nilgiris; the British also brought several exotic species like eucalyptus, pine and wattle to produce viscose, which was sent to the UK to be made into fabric. Unfortunately, these plants thirstily drink up the groundwater. Thus, the British converted the once lush tropical rain forests into a water-shortage area.

The same phenomenon occurred when they forced Indian farmers to grow poppy in order to extract opium, which involved cutting down vast areas of forests in some parts of north India, like Assam. This practice of slashing trees to protect the poppy indirectly wiped out some of India's most magnificent predators. They wanted more land to be used for commercial crops, which would bring them revenue, so they put a bounty on the head of each predator, successfully eliminating them from vast parts of India. The tiger and leopard survived, albeit in reduced numbers, because they hid in the jungles, but the lion needed vast open spaces and could not survive -- except in Gujarat, where an Indian prince, the Nawab of Junagarh, maintained a private lion sanctuary where hunting was permitted for his invitees only.