The year: 3006 BCE. The location: the desolate, wind-scoured heights of the Himalayas. Arjuna, the great Pandava warrior, lay at the edge of life. His breath, like the mountain air, grew thin and cold. As twilight painted the snow-covered peaks in hues of fading light, a figure manifested before him. Krishna.

His presence radiated warmth, a stark contrast to the frigid mountain air. Arjuna’s eyes, dimming with approaching death, flickered open, recognizing the divine form. A profound stillness settled between them, a communion that transcended words, echoing back to the fields of Kurukshetra and countless shared moments.

Krishna’s gaze, deep and ancient, held an ocean of compassion as he regarded the dying warrior. He extended a hand, not in farewell, but in offering. Two paths lay implicitly presented before Arjuna.

First, a gesture towards the heavens, suggesting a long ascent – a hundred lifetimes envisioned, each a step closer to the divine. A silent promise of eternal companionship, of shared divinity, understood without a single word exchanged.

Then, a shift, a subtle change in Krishna’s bearing. A shadow, not of darkness, but of intense contrast, seemed to pass. A different path was gestured – a shorter, starker route of ten incarnations. The implication hung heavy: a path of opposition, of conflict, of learning through adversity, yet still ultimately leading to the same divine embrace.

The choice, immense and weighty, rested in the silence. Arjuna, with his final breaths amidst the towering Himalayas in 3006 BCE, contemplated the unspoken offer – a hundred lifetimes as friend, or ten as foe – each a journey back to the source, presented by the divine charioteer at life’s very end.