"Let me tell you one more story," Krishna said, "and then you will begin to understand."

He looked toward the distant river that wound past the edge of Kurukshetra, silver in the early light.

"On a wide river like that one, there once lived a boatman. All day he rowed travellers from one bank to the other. Back and forth, back and forth, his oars dipping and pulling, his arms steady and strong. It was plain, simple work — the work the body does, nothing more."

Arjuna pictured the little boat crossing the silver water.

"Now, this boatman had three quiet gifts," Krishna said. "First, he hoped for nothing greedily. He took the small coin a traveller offered and was glad, but he never lay awake aching for more. Second, he kept a gentle rein on his own mind — when angry thoughts or restless wants rose up, he let them pass like ripples on the water, and his heart stayed calm. And third, he clung to nothing. He owned his oars and his old boat and little else, and he held even those loosely, ready to let them go."

A heron lifted off the distant riverbank and flapped slowly upstream.

"Because of these three gifts," Krishna said, "the boatman could row all day — hard, honest, bodily work — and gather not a single stain upon his soul. No greed soured his heart. No grasping tangled his hands. He did what needed doing and stayed clean inside, the way the river stays clear no matter how many boats cross it."

Krishna turned back to Arjuna.

"Do you see? It is not the *doing* that stains a person. A person can do great deeds and stay spotless — if they wish for nothing greedily, hold their own mind steady, and cling to nothing as theirs. The hands may be busy, but the heart stays clear."

He gathered the reins once more, and the white horses lifted their heads.

"So pick up your bow, Arjuna. Do the work that is yours to do. If your heart is clean, your hands will stay clean too — even here, even now, even on this terrible field."