A Talk to the Young Men of India: What Is Still Undone.

I sat down this evening under the mango tree at Belur with a cup of tea. The Ganga was flowing. My little dog was asleep. And I thought of you. Of every young man in this country who has heard my name and wondered what it all meant.

Let me tell you a story. In February 1897 I stood at the Victoria Hall in Madras and I said something I still mean. I said, "Men, men, these are wanted: everything else will be ready, but strong, vigorous, believing young men, sincere to the backbone, are wanted. A hundred such and the world becomes revolutionized." You are those men. Every generation is asked. The answer is still open.

Now, what did I actually do? I came home from America with a plan. At Cape Comorin, on the last rock of India, late in 1892, I had sat down — as my brothers tell it I swam there, I do not remember, but I was there — and I made a plan. Monks who owned nothing should go from village to village with maps, globes, cameras, and teach the poorest, the ones who could never come to a school. Food first, then a school. That was the plan. I worked for it. I travelled. I lectured. I begged for money. I fell ill. And when this body gave way in 1902, most of it was still a plan.

Four things I left unfinished. Let me name them plainly.

First, the poor child's schooling. I wanted a teacher who walked, not a teacher who waited. The poor cannot come to you. You must go to them. In 1894 I wrote from Chicago that selfless monks should go from village to village carrying education to the very lowest. That is still not done. There are children in every street of every town who cannot read their own mother's name. One of them is waiting for you tonight.

Second, education for women. I brought Sister Nivedita from England — I called her a lioness — and she opened a little school in Calcutta in 1898. The day before I left this body, I served her a meal with my own hands and poured water over her hands. That was my sign: this work is sacred. A girl educated is a whole family lifted. Many more girls are in school now. Many more are still at home.

Third, a book. I wanted a book that explains Vedanta in plain words, without Sanskrit, without ritual, in the language of the street. I said in that same Madras lecture, "It is a man-making religion that we want. It is man-making theories that we want. It is man-making education all round that we want." I meant to write that book myself. I never did. The truth does not need a swami to write it. It needs someone who has understood one thing and can say it so plainly that his neighbour understands. That someone may be you.

Fourth, learn from the world. I wanted young Indians to go abroad — not to settle, not to beg, but to see how other nations grew strong and bring that knowledge home. I planned to visit Japan myself on my second voyage. It did not happen. You can go. See what a small nation without your ancient inheritance became. Then come back.

Now do not look at me with big eyes and say, "Swami, what can I do?" I will tell you what I did after my father died. I was twenty-one. The family had nothing. I went from office to office in Calcutta looking for work. I got nothing. I went hungry so that my mother and brothers could eat. I doubted everything. I did not sit and wait. I got up the next day and tried again.

So here is one thing. Choose one of these four. Not all four — you will burn yourself out. Choose one. Find one child near your home who does not go to school and teach that child one hour this week. Or ask the girl in your own family whether she is learning what she wants to learn. Or write one page tonight explaining one idea — the soul, or God, or service, I do not care which — as if you were telling it to your younger brother. Or borrow a book about how Japan modernised and read one chapter before you sleep.

Failures will come. I know. I have more failures than successes. But I tell you, failures are the beauty of life. Fall down, get up, fall down again, get up again. A thousand times if necessary. Rome was not built in a day, as I once wrote to a young man in Madras.

"Therefore, stand up, be bold, be strong. Take the whole responsibility on your own shoulders, and know that you are the creator of your own destiny. All the strength and succour you want is within yourselves."

I have said what I came to say. The work is still waiting. It will always be waiting. The question is whether you will pick it up.