Long ago, the story goes, the gods and the demons churned the great ocean of milk to bring up amrita — the nectar of life. They wrapped the giant serpent Vasuki around the mountain Mandara and pulled, gods at the tail, demons at the head, turning the mountain round and round in the sea. For ages they churned. At last, from the foaming waves, rose the physician Dhanvantari, holding a pot of glowing nectar. One sip of it, and you would never tire, never weaken, never die.

Arjuna had heard that tale as a child. Now, sitting in his chariot, he finally understood what amrita truly felt like.

"Janardana," he said — using the old name that meant *the one who stirs the hearts of all people* — "tell me again. In detail. Your power, Your glory, leave nothing out." He pressed his hand to his chest. "Because when I listen to You, I am never full. Your words are nectar. I drink and I drink, and instead of being satisfied, I only want more."

It was a strange thing, and Arjuna knew it. With food, you eat until you are full and then you stop. With water, you drink until your thirst is gone. The whole point of nectar in the old tale was that it satisfied completely. But this nectar — Krishna's words about his own endless glory — worked the opposite way. The more he took in, the more his heart opened to receive. There was no bottom to his wanting, because there was no end to the One he was hearing about.

He thought of the churning ocean, the serpent stretched taut, the mountain spinning, ages of effort for a single pot of nectar. And here he sat, with a far greater nectar pouring freely from the lips of his own friend and charioteer, asking for nothing but his attention.

"Again," he whispered. "Tell me again."

And Krishna, who never refuses a thirsty heart, drew a breath to begin the great listing of his glories.