On the cold bank of a great river, four men kept a small fire burning through the night, each in his own way trying to reach the truth.

The first man fasted. He had eaten nothing for days. His cheeks were hollow and his body shook, but he was proud of his hunger. "I punish this body," he said, "and through hardship I will become holy." He stared into the flames and counted the hours he had gone without food.

The second man recited. He had memorised whole libraries of scripture, and all night long the verses poured from him in a steady river of sound. "I know every word," he said. "I can argue any point. Surely the truth belongs to the one who knows the most." His voice never tired.

The third man performed the rites. He had laid out the ladle and the ghee and the kusha grass, and he fed the fire its offerings at exactly the proper moments, chanting the proper chants. "I do everything correctly," he said. "Not one step missed. The ceremony itself will carry me upward."

The fourth man did none of these things. He simply sat, very still, his back straight, his breath slow, his eyes half-closed. He was not starving himself, nor showing off his learning, nor busy with ladles. He had turned his attention quietly inward, and there, in the silence behind his thoughts, he was beginning to touch the calm Self that lives in everyone — the same Self, he was coming to see, that lived in the three other men, in the river, in the fire, in the stars.

Toward dawn a teacher passed and looked at all four.

To the faster he said, "You are strong. But you have only made your body suffer." To the reciter: "You know much. But you have only filled your head." To the ritualist: "You are careful. But you have only kept your hands busy."

Then he looked at the fourth man, the still one, and bowed.

"This one," he said, "is greater than all of you. For he has stopped reaching outward and started resting in the truth itself. Be like him."