In plain words
We take in air. If we do not let out what we took in by another way, the lungs are ruined. In our hand, on one side, blood keeps flowing. If this blood does not flow, a sore forms there. So our well-being lies in tyāga alone. From this bhoga, illness is all we get. That is why all the Vedas taught, "Tyāgenaike amṛtatvamānasuḥ."
The very attachment that says "mine, mine" is the root cause of all these many kinds of suffering. A little story. A farmer came to some understanding over a zamindar's land and made an agreement that he would cultivate it for so long. He settled it: "I shall farm this land for ten years and pay so much money." For all those ten years the farmer ploughed the land well and raised his crops; giving the zamindar what was owed him and keeping what was his to keep, he went on with his life. The farmer's son did not know of the agreement the two of them, the farmer and the zamindar, had made, poor boy. He was little. When those ten years were over, in the eleventh year, the zamindar's men came and began ploughing the land. The farmer's son saw it. He stood in their way. He said, "How can you plough our land? You have no right to set foot here." The labourers who were ploughing told him, "This is not yours; it is our zamindar's. Go away." There was a quarrel with them of every kind. The farmer's son became very angry. He was deeply hurt that they were taking his family's land by force. He went to his father, deeply hurt, and in his agitation spoke in every kind of way: "Father, the zamindar has seized our land!" The father calmly tells his son: "My boy, that is not ours. We had an agreement written for ten years. That term has passed. So they have taken back their own land," he said. When he was told this truth, the son's agitation subsided. His anger subsided too. Because he had recognised the truth, he held back his grief. This boy's anger: was it at the zamindar, or at the farmer, or at the land? Not at the workers, not at the land lord, not at the land. He suffered so much through his attachment to the land. The Ahaṅkāra that says "This is mine" must go. The work one is doing: as soon as another comes on transfer, someone else comes and takes it over. How can it be one's own? Through this petty, momentary Ahaṅkāra alone man falls into ruin.