In a temple high on a hill, an old priest taught a boy how to carry the evening lamp up the long stone stairs to the shrine. The boy had watched others do it and thought it simple.

"Grip it tightly," the boy said, taking the brass lamp. "I won't let the flame go out."

He squeezed the lamp hard and rushed up the steps, his knuckles white, his shoulders tight. Halfway up he stumbled, the oil sloshed, and the little flame guttered and nearly died.

The old priest caught his arm gently. "You are holding it as if it were yours to keep," he said. "But the lamp is not yours, and the flame is not yours. They belong to the shrine. Your task is only to carry them well."

He took the lamp and showed the boy. He held it on an open palm, steady but loose, his arm relaxed, his eyes calm. "I am still carrying it," he said. "I have not put it down. I climb every step with care. But I am not clutching, and I am not thinking, 'When I reach the top, everyone will praise me, what a fine lamp-bearer he is.' I have let go of the clutching and let go of the reward. And see — the flame burns straight and tall."

Up the stairs he went, the flame steady as a star, and the boy followed, open-handed now, breathing slowly.

On the battlefield, Krishna told Arjuna the same secret. "Even the holiest work, Arjuna — sacrifice, giving, discipline — must still be done. I do not say put it down. But do it the way the priest carries the lamp: let go of your tight grip, let go of the prize you hope to win at the top of the stairs. Carry the work with an open hand. This is my highest and most settled conviction."

The boy reached the shrine and set the lamp before the silent stone. The flame had never once gone out. And he understood that the secret had not been to stop carrying, only to stop squeezing.