Arjuna stood on the great battlefield. Two armies faced each other. Drums pounded — boom, boom, boom — and the ground trembled beneath his sandals.
Arjuna closed his eyes. He whispered, 'Which way is right?' The wind stirred the dust at his feet. A voice like a clear bell rang from above: 'Choose, little warrior.'
Arjuna stepped toward the left army — spears glinted. He stepped toward the right — flags snapped. He spun, tripped, and landed with a loud OOMPH. A feather landed on his nose. He sneezed.
Arjuna sat up and stared at the feather. The voice returned: 'Look where it falls.' The feather danced on the wind, circling once, twice, then drifting straight between the armies.
The feather drifted past both armies and pointed toward a narrow path lined with white flowers — a path Arjuna had never noticed before.
Arjuna stood and brushed the dust from his knees. He walked toward the white-flowered path. 'I choose this way,' he said. His voice did not shake.
The sun was fully up now, warm and gold. The path glowed like a ribbon laid just for him.
Arjuna walked the path of white flowers. He did not look left. He did not look right. He walked forward, one step at a time.
