In plain words
For man, the chief goal is Ānanda itself. But where is that Ānanda? For that Ānanda we have to wait, to some extent, craning our necks. Only in equanimity does Ānanda come to us. So, as we grow, and as we grow older too, we enter only into the distorted ways bound up with sense objects; but when we enter into childhood for even one single moment a day, it is impossible to say how great an Ānanda we gain. Christ, too, said it once: ‘Ānanda plays, gathered round the milky cheeks of toothless, smiling babes,’ He said. The Ānanda of little children cannot be compared with anything. Their Ānanda is theirs alone, not anyone else's. Everyone who sees their Ānanda feels, in turn, nothing but Ānanda. When a mother goes along with a child on her hip, and we are walking behind on some errand, that little baby sees us and laughs. The very moment it laughs, laughter comes to us too. So the milky cheeks of little babes have in them a nature that makes anyone, however great, laugh and floods them with Ānanda. What is the reason? Those children have no delusion of the body at all. Those of us who are grown up, people sunk wholly in the body itself and fumbling in that very body: even when laughter comes to them, they are in a state where they cannot laugh, and they try to laugh a kind of cinema laugh. With just this in view, He said in the Bhagavad Gītā, “The one who laughs is Nārāyaṇa; the one who weeps is Nara.” While Arjuna, who is called Nara, wept in dejection, Nārāyaṇa, the one who laughs, went on teaching beautifully and moving about with free laughter, on the battlefield. When does laughter come? Laughter comes only in a time of Ānanda. In a time of Ānanda it is not laughter alone: they try to sing songs of many kinds. Those whose voice is fine set about singing freely even among other people.