The sun had dropped behind the western ridge of Kurukshetra, painting the sky the colour of turmeric and ash. The two great armies had pulled back for the night, and the battlefield was quiet except for the crackle of distant cookfires and the low murmur of soldiers praying before sleep.

Arjuna sat with his back against the wheel of his chariot, his knees drawn up, his Gandiva bow resting in the dust beside him like a tired animal. He looked at Krishna. In the last hour, Krishna had laid out a path — step by careful step. Fix your mind on Me. If you can't, then practise. If you can't practise, then work for My sake. Each step was lower, easier, more forgiving than the last, like rungs of a ladder reaching down into a well where Arjuna sat at the bottom.

"And if I can't do even that?" Arjuna's voice was hoarse. "What if I can't work for You the way Draupadi calls Your name, or the way Hanuman carries You in his heart with every breath? What if I'm just a soldier who doesn't know how to be devout?"

Krishna crouched beside him. The dying light caught the peacock feather in his crown. His smile was so gentle it could have broken something inside Arjuna, and in a way, it did.

"Then let go of the fruit."

"The fruit?"

"When you string your bow tomorrow — let go of whether the arrow hits. When you fight — let go of whether you win. When you protect your brothers — let go of whether they thank you. Do what is in front of you, Partha, and release the rest. That is all."

Arjuna stared at him. Of all the teachings Krishna had offered — meditation, devotion, selfless work — this was the simplest. So simple it almost hurt. You didn't need to be a sage. You didn't need to sit in a forest for twelve years. You just had to stop gripping the result so tightly that your knuckles turned white.

"Just do the work," Arjuna repeated, as if testing the words.

"Just do the work. And let the rest fall where it falls."

A breeze stirred the dust of the battlefield. Somewhere across the plain, a soldier was playing a flute — a thin, wandering melody that climbed into the evening air and disappeared. Arjuna closed his eyes and listened. For the first time in days, the knot in his chest loosened — not because the battle had changed, but because he had stopped trying to control its ending. The simplest teaching, Krishna had saved for last. And it was enough.