High in the Himalaya, where the air grew thin and the snow never melted, there lived an old sage named Uddhava. For most of his life he had done his work honestly — tending the ashram, teaching the young, offering rice to travellers — and he had done it without grabbing at rewards. That had made his mind clean and steady, like still water that shows the moon without a ripple.

One bright morning a young seeker named Devala climbed up to him, breathless from the steep trail. "Master," he panted, "I have done everything you told me. I work without greed. I do not boast when things go well or sulk when they go wrong. But there is still a mountain above me. I can feel it. What is the last stretch? How does a person finally touch Brahman, the great Spirit?"

Uddhava set down the small clay lamp he was trimming and patted the rock beside him. "Sit," he said. "And listen well, for I will say it briefly. The work you have done is the long, hard climb up the lower slopes. It has made your legs strong and your breath even. Reaching the goal of clean action is a real summit, but from it you can now see a higher one, shining."

Devala looked up the white slope as if he could almost see it.

"That higher peak," said the sage, "is the meeting with Brahman, the endless Spirit in which all things live. It is the topmost point of all knowing. Every book, every chant, every question you ever asked has been pointing here, the way every river points to the sea. And the wonderful thing is this: the last stretch is not longer than the rest. It is only quieter."

"Quieter?" said Devala.

"Yes. The lower climb is full of effort and sweat. The final stretch is mostly about letting go of the heavy pack you no longer need." Uddhava smiled and relit the little lamp. "Stay a few days. I will show you, one small step at a time, how the heart climbs the last of the mountain — and how, at the very top, the climber and the mountain are no longer two."

Devala wrapped his blanket tighter, his eyes shining brighter than the snow.