The longer Arjuna gazed at the cosmic form, the more he felt his ordinary ideas dissolving like salt in water. He had always sorted the world into neat boxes: this is old, that is new; this is the one who looks, that is the thing being looked at; this is here, that is far away. But the vision before him would not stay in any box.

"You are the first God," he sang, "the one who came before all the gods. The ancient Person — older than the oldest story, older than the first morning the world ever had." He thought of every temple, every shrine, every hymn he had ever heard, and saw that they were all, without knowing it, pointing at this single form.

"You are the resting place," he went on, and the word felt right. For he could see it: the whole turning universe — the stars, the seas, the mountains, the armies waiting on the field below — all of it seemed to lean into the great form and rest there, the way tired travellers lean against a strong wall at the end of a long road. Everything came from Krishna, and everything would return to him.

Then Arjuna sang the line that made his own mind spin. "You are the knower — and you are the thing to be known." How could anyone be both at once? But there it was. Krishna was the one who saw everything, the great eye behind all eyes. And Krishna was also the great answer that all the wise ones had spent their lives trying to see. The seeker and the treasure were the same.

"You are the highest home," Arjuna finished softly. He looked at the boundless shape filling the whole sky, leaving no empty corner anywhere. "O endless form — there is no place you are not. You are stretched through every speck of the universe like light through clear water."

Arjuna lowered his eyes. He had run out of boxes. There was only the One, everywhere, holding everything, knowing everything, being everything.