The cosmic vision had folded away, and the chariot was quiet. Arjuna, still catching his breath, looked at his friend with new eyes. Krishna smiled, the way you smile at someone who does not yet know how lucky he is.

"Arjuna," He said, "let me tell you what you just saw — and who else has ever seen it."

High above the world, in the bright halls of heaven, the gods live. The Adityas, blazing like noon. The Maruts, riding the winds. Indra on his white elephant, with his thunderbolt. They drink nectar; they want for nothing; they have lived through ages upon ages while kingdoms rose and crumbled below them.

"And do you know what they wish for?" Krishna asked.

Arjuna shook his head.

"They wish to see what you have just seen. Up in their shining halls, the gods turn their faces and long — *nityam*, always, every single day — for one glimpse of My true form, the whole universe gathered into one. They have offered sacrifices for it. They have waited through whole world-ages for it. And still it is not given to them whenever they please. Even for the gods, this form is *sudurdarśam*: very, very hard to see."

Krishna let that settle, then leaned close.

"You, Arjuna — a man, standing in a dusty chariot on a battlefield, your hands shaking — you have just seen the thing the gods spend their immortal lives wishing for. Not because you earned it with grand rituals. Because you are dear to Me, and you asked with an honest heart."

Arjuna sat very still, the way you sit when you suddenly understand the size of a gift someone has handed you. He had been so frightened that he had nearly forgotten to be grateful. Now he looked at the quiet, dark-cloud face of his friend, and thought: *the shining ones in heaven would trade anything to stand where I am standing.*

"Remember it," Krishna said gently. "What is most precious is not always the easiest to see. And the rarest things are often given not to the powerful, but to the ones who love."