"There was once a woman named Ila," Krishna began, "who tended a garden at the forest's edge."

Arjuna had stopped looking at the enemy lines. He was watching Krishna's face now.

"In her younger years, Ila was a worried sort of person. She doubted everything. Should she plant the seeds today or tomorrow? Had she wronged her neighbor years ago? Was she good enough, kind enough, wise enough? Her mind was always pulled in two directions at once, like a cart with one wheel turning forward and one turning back. And she carried small grudges, little stains on the heart, the way everyone does."

The horses snorted softly. Krishna went on.

"But Ila kept tending her garden, season after season, year after year. And tending growing things is patient work — it teaches the hands to be still and the heart to be steady. Slowly the worries wore away, the way a stone in a stream is worn smooth. The doubts that had torn her in two were cut clean, and she became whole. The little stains faded until her heart was clear."

"And then a strange thing happened," said Krishna. "Her garden began to grow outward, past its fence. She no longer thought of it as hers. She watered the wild plants beyond the wall. She left fruit on the low branches for the birds and the deer. She dug small channels so the rain would reach the dry thicket where the foxes denned. The whole forest became her garden, and every creature in it her care."

Arjuna smiled, just slightly.

"That," Krishna said, "is how you can tell a sage has found the deep peace. Their doubts are gone, their faults worn away, their hearts held steady — and so their kindness has nowhere to stop. It spreads until it holds all beings, every single one. A person at peace within becomes a friend to the whole world without."

The mist was beginning to thin. Somewhere a bird called, and was answered.