There was one more thing Arjuna wanted to add to his great request, and it was the most humble part of all.

"If," he said. "Only if."

He had asked to see Krishna's divine form. But now, before the words had even finished settling in the air, he hedged them with care. He did not want to demand. He did not want to grab at the vision the way a greedy child grabs at a flame, not knowing it can burn.

"Lord of yoga," Arjuna said. Krishna was Yogeshvara, the master of all the hidden powers of the universe, the one who could fold the whole cosmos into a single shape. "If you think it is possible for me to look upon it... if you think these eyes of mine, these ordinary human eyes, can bear such a sight... then show me. Show me your imperishable Self, the form that never fades and never dies."

He had heard stories, the way every child of his land had heard stories, of mortals who asked to see things too bright for them. He knew that the sun, which gives life to the whole earth, will also blind the eye that stares straight into it. He knew that what we long for most can sometimes be more than we are ready to hold.

So he placed the decision where it belonged — not in his own eager heart, but in the wisdom of his friend.

"You know me better than I know myself," Arjuna said quietly. "You know what I can carry and what would crush me. So I will not insist. I only ask. If you judge that I am ready — reveal yourself."

It was the asking of someone who had grown up a little in the last hour. The frightened warrior of the morning would have either run from the vision or demanded it without thinking. But the Arjuna who spoke now had learned something about trust. He wanted the sight with all his heart, and he was willing to be told he was not yet ready, if that was the truth.

Krishna looked at him for a long, still moment. Then, far away inside the Lord of yoga, a decision was made. He would show him. He would open the whole universe to a single pair of human eyes.