High above the clouds, higher than the tallest mountain, higher than the birds ever fly, stood the city of Indra, king of the gods. Its walls were made of light. Its gardens never wilted. And in its great hall, a feast was always being held.

To this hall came the souls of those who had lived carefully and well. On earth they had learned the three Vedas by heart, every hymn and every measure. They had lit the sacred fires at the proper hours. They had pressed the soma plant and offered its bright juice, chanting without a single mistake. They had been generous and clean-handed, and when they asked the gods for anything, they asked for this: a seat in heaven.

And so here they were.

The hall stretched farther than the eye could follow. Lamps of pure gold floated in the air without strings. Music played that no earthly instrument could make. There were fruits that tasted of every sweetness at once, and cool drinks that never ran dry, and the company of the shining ones themselves — graceful, ageless, laughing.

One of the newcomers, a careful priest who had spent his whole life at the fires, walked through it all with wide eyes. "It is exactly what I prayed for," he whispered. "Everything is perfect here. Nothing hurts. Nothing is dull. Nothing is hard."

An older soul beside him, who had been in heaven a very long while, smiled in a way that was not quite happy. "Yes," he said. "It is everything you asked for. Enjoy it well."

"Will it last?" asked the priest.

The older soul looked away, out over the endless feast, the music, the light. He did not answer.

For heaven, the gods know, is a reward — and a reward, however grand, is something you spend. The careful priest did not understand that yet. He was new, and the feast was bright, and the soma was sweet on his tongue. He took his seat at the long table, certain he had reached the end of all journeys.

But it was only a stop along the way.