So we must know that the meaning of our self is not to be found in its separateness from God and others, but in the ceaseless realisation of _yoga_, of union; not on the side of the canvas where it is blank, but on the side where the picture is being painted. This is the reason why the separateness of our self has been described by our philosophers as _māyā_, as an illusion, because it has no intrinsic reality of its own. It looks perilous; it raises its isolation to a giddy height and casts a black shadow upon the fair face of existence; from the outside it has an aspect of a sudden disruption, rebellious and destructive; it is proud, domineering and wayward; it is ready to rob the world of all its wealth to gratify its craving of a moment; to pluck with a reckless, cruel hand all the plumes from the divine bird of beauty to deck its ugliness for a day; indeed man's legend has it that it bears the black mark of disobedience stamped on its forehead for ever; but still all this _māyā_, envelopment of _avidyā_; it is the mist, it is not the sun; it is the black smoke that presages the fire of love. Imagine some savage who, in his ignorance, thinks that it is the paper of the banknote that has the magic, by virtue of which the possessor of it gets all he wants. He piles up the papers, hides them, handles them in all sorts of absurd ways, and then at last, wearied by his efforts, comes to the sad conclusion that they are absolutely worthless, only fit to be thrown into the fire. But the wise man knows that the paper of the banknote is all _māyā_, and until it is given up to the bank it is futile. It is only _avidyā_, our ignorance, that makes us believe that the separateness of our self like the paper of the banknote is precious in itself, and by acting on this belief our self is rendered valueless. It is only when the _avidyā_ is removed that this very self comes to us with a wealth which is priceless. For _He manifests Himself in forms which His joy assumes_. [Footnote: Ānandarūpamamritam yadvibhāti.] These forms are separate from Him, and the value that these forms have is only what his joy has imparted to them. When we transfer back these forms into that original joy, which is love, then we cash them in the bank and we find their truth. When pure necessity drives man to his work it takes an accidental and contingent character, it becomes a mere makeshift arrangement; it is deserted and left in ruins when necessity changes its course. But when his work is the outcome of joy, the forms that it takes have the elements of immortality. The immortal in man imparts to it its own quality of permanence.