A merchant once told Arjuna's grandfather a story, and years later Krishna told it again on the chariot, because it fit the moment.

A traveller came to a place where the road split in two. Both paths led toward the city he sought; a signpost said so plainly. A farmer resting under a tree even called out, "Either road brings you there by nightfall. Just choose, friend, and walk."

But the traveller could not choose. "What if the left road floods?" he worried aloud. "What if the right road has bandits? What if the signpost is wrong? What if the farmer is mistaken — or lying?" He started down the left path, then stopped. He hurried back and started down the right, then stopped again. He stood at the fork turning in circles, asking question after question, trusting no answer, certain of nothing.

The sun climbed and began to fall. Other travellers passed him — some took the left, some the right, and all of them reached the city. He watched them go and felt only more afraid, because now there were even more choices to doubt.

When evening came, the farmer rose to go home. "Still here?" he asked, surprised.

"I could not be sure," the traveller whispered.

"You were sure of one thing," the farmer said sadly. "You were sure not to trust. And so you went nowhere at all. The road would have carried you. Your doubt would not."

Night fell over the fork in the road, and the traveller sat down in the dust, no closer to the city than when he had arrived. He had not been robbed. No flood had come. The only thing that had ruined his journey was the doubt he had carried in his own chest.

Krishna let the story settle. "The one who will not learn," he said quietly to Arjuna, "who trusts nothing and doubts everything — he is that traveller. This world slips past him, and the next, and even happiness, for a doubting heart can never sit still long enough to be at peace."

On the great plain, the two roads of Arjuna's own choosing stretched before him in the morning light.