In a time long before the great war, three travellers came at dusk to a crossroads where three temples stood, one at the end of each road.

They had walked together for days, but now each felt pulled a different way, and so an old gatekeeper sat at the meeting of the roads to watch where each one chose.

The first traveller looked down the road to the right, where a temple of smooth white stone caught the last gold of the sun. From it came the smell of sandalwood and the low, steady ringing of a bell. Inside, people offered flowers to the shining gods, the high powers of light and order, and asked for nothing but to live well and kindly. The traveller's heart lifted toward it, calm and glad, and he turned right.

"Sattvic," murmured the old gatekeeper. "His faith reaches for what is high."

The second traveller looked down the middle road. There stood a fierce shrine to the yakshas and rakshasas, the mighty spirits who were said to grant strength and riches and power over others. The traveller's eyes glittered. *I want more than I have,* he thought. *I want to win.* And he strode toward it, hungry, his hands already half-reaching.

"Rajasic," said the gatekeeper softly. "His faith reaches for power."

The third traveller looked down the left road, where the light did not go. There, among the burning grounds, frightened people made offerings to ghosts and shadows, hoping the dark would simply leave them alone. The third traveller was too tired and confused to climb toward the light or chase after power, and so he drifted that way, into the dim.

"Tamasic," sighed the gatekeeper. "His faith reaches for the dark."

The next morning, a young shepherd boy who had heard the whole thing asked the gatekeeper, "Are the three travellers stuck like that forever?"

The old man shook his head slowly. "No one is stuck," he said. "Tomorrow any of them may wake, look up, and choose a different road. What we worship is only what our faith reaches for today. And faith — faith can be lifted."