In an old forest hermitage, three students sat before their teacher, the rishi Vamadeva. They had been arguing all morning, and now they wanted the teacher to settle it.

"Master," said the first, Aruni, "God is one. One single light behind the whole universe, like the sun behind a thousand reflections. That is the truth, and the others are confused."

"No," said the second, Kritī. "God lives in everything separately — in this tree, in that deer, in the river, in me. Each is its own little holy thing. That is the truth."

The third, Maitreyi, shook her head. "You are both too small. God faces every direction at once. Wherever I turn, He is already looking back at me. That is the truth."

They turned to Vamadeva, certain he would crown one of them right.

The old rishi rose and led them out of the hut to the edge of a still pond. The morning sky was reflected in it, perfect and unbroken.

"Aruni," he said, "look at the sky in the water. How many skies?"

"One," said Aruni. "One whole sky."

Vamadeva picked up a handful of pebbles and scattered them across the pond. The surface broke into a hundred shivering pieces, each holding its own scrap of blue.

"And now, Kritī?"

"Many," Kritī admitted. "A hundred little skies."

"And yet," said the rishi, "is there more than one sky above us?"

The students looked up. "No," said Maitreyi slowly. "One sky. The water only shows it in different ways."

Vamadeva smiled. "So it is with God. Aruni sees the one. Kritī sees the many. Maitreyi sees the face turned everywhere. You are not three right answers and one truth hiding among them. You are three windows into the same single room. The one who offers his understanding honestly, however he pictures it, is worshipping the same God — and that God receives him."

The three students sat down by the pond, no longer arguing. They watched the ripples settle until the water was one whole sky again. And then, very gently, the wind broke it into a hundred skies, and that was true too.