Aaji had given Jeeva a small book about the stars, and over three days he discovered something strange: the very same book felt completely different depending on what kind of day he was having.

On the first day, a calm and easy morning, Jeeva sat on the cool veranda with the book open in his lap. His mind was quiet and clear, like the still pond by the temple. He read slowly, looked up at the sky, traced the shapes of the constellations with his finger, and asked Aaji gentle questions. By evening he understood how the Pole Star stays put while the others wheel around it. "I actually *get* it," he said, eyes shining. "It makes sense now."

The second day was a buzzing, restless one. There was a market, and Jeeva wanted everything — sweets, a kite, a clay whistle, a turn on his cousin's new cart. He grabbed the star book too, but only to race through it. "How many stars do I know now? How many pages have I read? More, more —" He flipped pages without reading them, hunting for the next thing, then tossed the book aside to chase something else. At day's end his head was full of wanting and his hands were empty of any new understanding.

The third day was heavy and sleepy, a thick grey afternoon. Jeeva flopped on his mat with the book on his chest, but his eyes kept sliding shut. He forgot he was even reading. He couldn't be bothered to turn a page, and when Aaji asked what the book was about, he blinked, confused. "I... don't really remember," he mumbled.

That evening Aaji sat beside him and tapped the little book. "Same book, my Jeeva. Same boy. Three different harvests. When your mind was calm and bright, it grew *understanding*. When it was restless and grabby, it grew only more *wanting*. When it was heavy and foggy, it grew *forgetting and muddle*."

She smiled. "Krishna said it just so: from calm comes knowing, from restlessness comes grabbing, from heaviness comes forgetting. The book never changed. Your weather did. So when you really want to learn something, first find your calm morning."