In the old stories, the sky is crowded with shining ones.

There are the twelve Adityas — the sun-gods, sons of the goddess Aditi — who ride across the heavens, one for each month of the year, pouring down light and warmth on the world. Among all twelve, the greatest is Vishnu, the all-pervading, the one who holds the worlds together. "Among the Adityas," Krishna said, "I am Vishnu."

Then there are the lights themselves — every glowing thing in the sky. Some twinkle, some flicker, some glow faint and far. But one outshines them all: the sun, Ravi, so full of rays that no eye can look straight at it, the lamp by which every other thing is seen. "Among lights," Krishna said, "I am the radiant sun."

And there are the Maruts — the wild storm-gods of the wind, who race across the sky in shining armour, driving the rain-clouds before them with a roar. They are many and mighty, but they have a chief who leads the charge: Marichi, the ray of light at the head of the storm. "Among the Maruts," Krishna said, "I am Marichi."

Picture the whole turning sky. By day the sun rules it, a single burning eye that lights the fields and the rivers and wakes every bird. Then the sun sinks, the sky darkens, and a thousand thousand stars come out — tiny silver pinpricks scattered from horizon to horizon. Beautiful as they are, not one of them rules the night. The ruler of the night is the moon, Shashi, the cool bright disc that sails calm and full above the sleeping earth, giving just enough light to find your way home. "And among the stars," Krishna said, "I am the moon."

So whether you look up in the brightness of noon or the hush of midnight, there is a greatest light overhead — sun by day, moon by night — and in that greatest light, Krishna is saying, you are looking at a spark of Me.

Arjuna lifted his eyes. The afternoon sun hung over the battlefield, fierce and golden. Soon enough the moon would take its place. And now, in both, he knew whose shine he was seeing.