Aarav and Dadu were walking the long way home along the Puri shore, the evening tide pulling out, the sky going pink behind the temple spire.

"Dadu," Aarav said, "you've told me about the two roads — the bright one that goes home and the dark one that comes back. But I'm only eleven. Why does it matter to me now? That's all about... later. About the very end."

Dadu smiled and stooped to pick up a small pink shell. "Let me ask you something. When you walk to school in the morning, do you worry about getting lost?"

"No," Aarav said. "I know the way. I've walked it a hundred times."

"And that's why you walk it calmly. You're not anxious at the crossings. You don't freeze at the corners. You know where each turn leads, so your feet are steady and your mind is easy." Dadu pressed the shell into Aarav's palm. "That is exactly what knowing the roads does for a yogi. He understands where the bright path leads and where the dark one leads. So at the end — and at every crossroads before the end — he is never confused, never frightened. He just walks, calm and clear."

Aarav turned the shell over. "But how do I get to be like that?"

"Ah." Dadu tapped his own chest. "Not by waiting for the end. You can't learn the way to school on the morning of an exam — you learn it by walking it every ordinary day. Krishna told Arjuna the same thing: *at all times, in every moment, stay joined to your practice.* Not just on big days. Every day. The little quiet you grow at your prayers each morning, the kindness you practise at the dinner table, the steady breath when you're upset — those are your daily walks. They make the road familiar."

They turned up the lane toward home. The first lamp flickered on in a window.

"So if I practise being steady now," Aarav said slowly, "then when something big comes — a hard test, or a sad thing, or even the very end — I'll already know the way?"

"You'll already know the way," Dadu said. "And a boy who knows the way is never lost. Not at eleven. Not ever."