Arjuna's head was full. So many teachings, so many words: gunas and duties, knowledge and renunciation. He pressed his palm to his forehead.

"Krishna," he said, "it is so much. How can a soldier in the middle of a war remember all of it? My mind is not a library. By tomorrow I will have forgotten half."

Krishna laughed, a real laugh, bright and kind, the kind that makes a worried heart loosen.

"Then forget the half," he said. "I will give you only what fits in the palm of your hand. Four small things. A child could carry them."

He held up one finger. "First — keep your mind on Me. When it wanders, as minds do, just bring it gently back. Like a kite on a string."

A second finger. "Second — love Me. Not as a rule. As you love your mother, your brother, your dearest friend. Easy and warm."

A third. "Third — whatever you do, offer it to Me. Drawing your bow, sharing your food, walking the road — do it as a gift to the one you love. Then even small things become beautiful."

A fourth finger. "And fourth — bow to Me. Bend your proud head, just a little, the way the tallest tree bends in the wind and does not break."

He closed his hand around the four.

"That is all. Do these, and you will come to Me. Not might. Will."

Arjuna stared. "You are certain?"

Krishna's face grew tender, and his voice dropped low. "I promise you," he said. "Truly. And I do not make this promise to the whole army, or to the kings, or to the sages on the hill. I make it to you — because you are dear to Me."

Something in Arjuna's chest unknotted at last. The teaching was no longer a mountain to climb. It was a hand held out to him. Four small steps, and a friend waiting at the end of them, who had already promised — truly — to catch him.