In the palace at Hastinapura, far from the dust of Kurukshetra, an old king sat very still. Dhritarashtra was blind, and had been since birth. He could not see the great army gathered on the plain, nor his hundred sons standing ready for war. He could only wait, and listen.

Beside him sat Sanjaya, his trusted charioteer and adviser. The sage Vyasa had given Sanjaya a marvellous gift: from this quiet room, Sanjaya could see and hear everything happening on the distant battlefield, as clearly as if he stood upon Krishna's own chariot.

For a long while Sanjaya had reported the gathering of the armies, the blowing of the conches, the rolling forward of the chariots. But then something unexpected had happened. Instead of the battle beginning, two figures had begun to speak — Krishna, holding the reins, and Arjuna, who had let his great bow slip from his hands.

And Sanjaya had listened.

He had heard Arjuna's fear and grief. He had heard Krishna answer, word after word, opening up the deepest secrets of life and death, of the soul that never dies, of duty done without grasping, of love that carries a person all the way home. Sanjaya had heard things no one in that palace had ever heard before.

Now the dialogue was over. Arjuna had taken up his bow again, his doubts gone. And Sanjaya found he could not simply go back to reporting troop movements. His heart was too full.

He turned toward the blind king. His voice was not steady; it shook a little, the way a voice does when something too large has just passed through it.

"O King," he said, "I have heard it. The whole of it. This wonderful conversation between Krishna and the noble Arjuna — I heard every word. And as I listened, I felt my whole body tremble. The hair on my arms stood straight up. I have heard many things in my years, but never anything like this."

Dhritarashtra said nothing. But in the dim room, the old king tilted his sightless face toward Sanjaya, as if straining to catch the wonder his servant had just touched.