"Suvrata the hermit was not alone in the world," Krishna said, the reins
resting easy in his hands. "Far from the river lived others who reached
for the same truth by very different roads."
Arjuna listened, the battlefield forgotten for a moment.
"In a mountain village there was a weaver named Hema. She ate simply —
a handful of rice, some fruit, water from the spring — never more than
she needed, never grabbing for the sweetest portion. 'My hunger is a
loud guest,' she would say, smiling. 'I feed it just enough to keep it
polite.' When her eyes wanted to stare at shiny things, she turned them
gently back to her loom. When her tongue wanted to gossip, she let it
rest. She did not starve herself or punish herself. She simply held the
reins of her own wants, the way a good rider holds a spirited horse."
A hawk circled high above the field. Krishna watched it a moment.
"Down in the marketplace there was Pradyumna, a trader, loud and busy,
nothing like the quiet weaver. Yet he too gave the first share of all he
earned to those who had nothing, and he kept his word even when lying
would have made him rich. His sacrifice looked different from Hema's.
Hers looked different from Suvrata's. Three lives, three doors."
Krishna turned to Arjuna with a quiet certainty.
"Here is what I want you to see. Every one of them — the breath-watching
hermit, the careful weaver, the honest trader — every one of them knows
the secret of sacrifice. It is not the size of the gift. It is the giving
itself, given with the whole heart. And each time they give, something old
and heavy lifts off them. The little selfishness, the small lies, the
grabbing — it wears away, the way a sharp stone in a river is slowly made
smooth and round."
Arjuna frowned, thinking. "So there is no single right way?"
"There are many doors," Krishna said. "But they open into the same
garden. Do not be troubled that other people walk in differently than
you. Be troubled only if you stand at your own door and refuse to give
anything at all."
The hawk dropped behind the hills. Somewhere a soldier coughed, and the
great field stirred awake again.
