Arjuna had a name for Krishna that he loved to use: Kamalapatraksha — the one whose eyes are shaped like the petals of a lotus. He used it now, softly, the way you say a friend's name when you are about to tell him something true.

"Lotus-eyed one," Arjuna said, "I have been listening. Really listening."

All through the long pause before the battle, Krishna had been describing the whole vast working of the universe — and Arjuna had drunk in every word.

"You told me how all beings come to be," Arjuna went on, counting the teachings the way a child counts the stars he has learned to name. "How they grow, how they live their little while, and how they pass away again, like waves that rise out of the sea and slip back into it. Nothing is lost. Nothing is wasted. The river of life flows on and on, and you are its spring."

He looked at the lotus-shaped eyes that had watched over him since childhood — eyes that had laughed with him, advised him, teased him, and now, in the most dangerous hour of his life, taught him.

"And you told me of your own glory," Arjuna said, his voice dropping with awe. "How it never fades. How it has no end. Kings rise and crumble, mountains wear down to sand, even the gods are born and die — but your greatness does not run out. It is imperishable."

A lotus, Arjuna thought, grows in muddy water and yet stays clean and bright. That was a good name for his friend. Out of the mud and clamour of this terrible battlefield, Krishna's words had opened like a flower.

But hearing about a lotus is not the same as holding one. Hearing about glory is not the same as seeing it. Arjuna realised that all the beautiful words had done something to his heart: instead of satisfying his longing, they had set it on fire.

He had heard enough about the Lord. Now, more than anything in the world, he wanted to *see* him — not the friendly charioteer beside him, but the vast and shining truth that lay behind that gentle face.