"Best of the Kurus," Krishna said, using Arjuna's old proud name, "let me show you two houses that stood side by side in a town I once passed through."

Arjuna wiped his brow and listened.

"In the first house lived a potter named Garga. He was not wealthy. But when his pot of rice was cooked, he carried the first bowl to the doorstep, where the hungry and the wandering knew to come. Travellers ate. Beggars ate. A stray dog ate. Only after everyone had a share did Garga sit and eat what remained — and he swore the leftovers tasted sweeter than any fresh-cooked feast, because they were salted with the gladness of his guests. His little house was always full of voices and laughter. People blessed him as they left. His sleep was deep and his mornings were bright."

A banner snapped in the wind. Krishna let the silence sit.

"Next door lived a merchant named Lubdhaka, far richer than the potter. His table groaned with food — but he ate it all alone behind a barred door, counting each grain, afraid a single bite might be stolen. He gave nothing. He shared nothing. And here is the strange thing, Arjuna: his full table never satisfied him. The more he hoarded, the emptier he felt. His house had no voices, no blessings, no laughter — only the scrape of his own spoon. He could not sleep. He had everything, and he had nothing."

Krishna's gaze settled on Arjuna.

"Do you see it? The one who gives first tastes a sweetness that lasts and grows into something endless. But the one who only takes — even this ordinary world will not make him happy. If a person cannot find joy in sharing his daily bread, how will any deeper joy ever find its way to him?"

Arjuna was quiet. He thought of feasts in his own great halls, and of the times he had eaten richly while others outside the gate went without.

"A closed hand," Krishna said gently, "cannot hold the world. Only an open one can."

The morning brightened. The armies waited. And Arjuna found himself wondering which of the two houses his own heart resembled.