"I have named offering after offering," Krishna said as the first grey light touched the eastern sky, "and you may wonder how to remember them all. So let me show you four travellers I once met on a single road, each carrying a different gift."

Arjuna sat up. The camp was beginning to wake.

"The first traveller was a merchant," Krishna said, "with a cart heavy with grain and cloth. But he did not hoard it. At every village he gave — to the hungry, to the old, to the family whose roof had fallen in. His sacrifice was his wealth. He offered his goods, and his cart grew lighter, and his heart grew lighter with it."

"The second?" Arjuna asked.

"A thin, sun-browned woman who owned almost nothing. She had chosen a hard, plain life on purpose — little food, little comfort, sleeping on the bare ground. Not to punish herself, but to grow strong and simple inside. Her sacrifice was austerity. She offered up ease, and gained a quiet she would not trade for any soft bed."

A bird began to sing somewhere in the brightening dark.

"The third traveller sat unmoving beneath a tree, eyes half-closed, breath slow, gathering his whole scattered self into one steady stillness. His sacrifice was the practice of yoga — the long, patient work of holding the mind in union. He gave his restlessness and received his calm."

"And the last?"

"A young scholar," Krishna smiled, "with a worn bundle of texts and ink stains on his fingers. Day after day he studied the old wisdom, turning each teaching over until it became truly his own. His sacrifice was study and knowledge. He offered his idle hours to learning, and grew wiser with every page."

Krishna looked at Arjuna.

"Four travellers, four gifts — wealth, hardship, stillness, study. They walked different parts of the road, but all of them were strivers, and all of them kept their vows sharp and bright, never letting their promises grow dull. That is what they shared, and that is what matters."

The sun lifted over the rim of the world, and the whole plain turned to gold.