On the golden island of Lanka ruled a king with a famous mind — Ravana, of whom the old tales say he had ten heads, one for each kind of cleverness he was proud of.

Ravana was rich beyond counting. His palace shone with jewels; his halls rang with music; scholars and singers filled his court. And he had come from a great line — his grandfather was a revered sage. Ravana never forgot to mention it.

"Who is my equal?" he liked to ask his court, sweeping all ten faces across the hall. "Am I not the richest? The highest-born? The cleverest king who has ever lived?" The court would erupt in praise, and Ravana would smile all ten of his smiles.

He held enormous ceremonies — great fires, great feasts, great gifts handed out in golden bowls. But if you watched closely, you would see that Ravana never gave quietly. Every gift was given where crowds could see. Every sacred fire was lit so the whole city would speak of his greatness. "I shall worship, I shall give, I shall celebrate," he announced, and what he really meant was *I shall be admired*.

Yet for all ten heads of cleverness, there was one simple thing Ravana could not see: that his riches, his birth, his strength were gifts he had been given, not trophies he had made. He thought he stood above everyone. And the sages of the tale say this was not because his heart was made of stone, but because it was *covered over*, like a lamp wrapped in a thick cloth, its light still there but hidden by the heavy folds of *I, me, mine*.

That covering has a name, Krishna tells Arjuna. It is called ignorance, simply not yet knowing the truth. And the good news hidden in the tale is this: a cloth, however thick, can always be lifted. The lamp underneath was never put out.