In a palace of red stone lived a king who hated the name of God.

His name was Hiranyakashipu, and he was a Daitya — a demon — the most powerful one alive. He had won a boon that made him nearly impossible to kill, and now he wanted everyone in the three worlds to worship him and no one else. Whoever spoke the name of Vishnu in his kingdom was punished.

But the king had a son. A small boy named Prahlada.

And Prahlada loved Vishnu with all his heart.

No one had taught him to. It was simply there inside him, the way sweetness is inside honey. When his teachers tried to teach him about his father's greatness, Prahlada would smile and say, "But Vishnu is greater. Vishnu is everywhere." When his father roared at him, the boy answered gently, "He is in you too, Father. He is in this pillar. He is in everything."

Hiranyakashipu could not bear it. Here was his own son, born of his own demon blood, refusing to hate. He tried everything to frighten the boy out of his love. He had Prahlada thrown from a cliff, but the child landed softly, still whispering Vishnu's name. He had him cast into fire, but the flames did not touch him. Through every danger the boy stayed calm, his heart steady, his eyes shining, because he was never really alone.

All the other demons schemed and raged and grabbed for power. Prahlada simply loved. And in the middle of that whole fierce demon race, his one bright, fearless devotion stood out like a single lamp in a dark hall.

"Among the Daityas," Krishna told Arjuna, "I am Prahlada."

It surprised Arjuna. Of all the demons, Krishna chose the gentlest — a little boy who would not stop loving God no matter what was done to him. And that, Krishna seemed to say, is exactly the point. The divine does not always shine in the strongest or the loudest. Sometimes it shines brightest in the one small heart that refuses to give up its love.