Arjuna could no longer stand. He sank to his knees on the floor of the chariot and then went further still, laying himself flat, his forehead touching the boards, his arms stretched out before the blazing form.

He had remembered, with a hot rush of shame, all the careless ways he had treated Krishna over the years — calling out "Hey, Krishna!" across a noisy feast, teasing him, slapping his shoulder, never once guessing that his easy companion was the Lord of all the worlds.

So now he asked for forgiveness. And because he loved Krishna in many ways at once, he asked for it in three.

"Forgive me as a father forgives his son," he said, his cheek against the floor. "A small boy spills the milk, breaks the pot, says foolish things, and the father does not stop loving him. He only smiles and wipes the mess and lifts the child back up. Be that father to me."

He drew a shaking breath.

"Forgive me as a friend forgives his friend. Friends quarrel and make up, forget each other's birthdays, say sharp words and then laugh them away. A true friend keeps no list of wrongs. Be that friend to me — the way you always have been, before I knew who you were."

Then his voice grew very soft.

"And forgive me as the one who loves forgives the beloved — the gentlest forgiveness of all, the kind that does not even need to be asked for, that is given before the sorry is finished. Bear with me, O God. Put up with me. Be patient with your foolish, frightened Arjuna."

The great form did not strike him down. It only blazed on, vast and steady, and somewhere in all those countless faces, Arjuna felt the one he knew best was already smiling.