Krishna begins with a half-smile and a rebuke: your grief sounds wise, but the wise do not grieve this way. Then he pulls the ground out from under everything Arjuna assumes. The self was never born and will never die. It does not kill and cannot be killed. It sheds bodies the way you shed worn-out clothes and steps into new ones. No blade cuts it, no fire burns it, no water soaks it. Once you see this clearly, the entire argument for despair falls apart. But Krishna does not stop at metaphysics. He pivots to duty: look at your own dharma and do not waver. Then he pivots again, to the core instruction that changes everything: do the work, let the result go. That evenness between success and failure is yoga itself. Arjuna asks what a person of steady wisdom looks like, how such a person sits and walks and speaks. Krishna answers with the portrait of someone who has dropped every craving of the mind, who moves through pleasure and pain without being dragged by either, whose senses are drawn inward like a tortoise pulling in its limbs. The chapter traces the chain reaction that destroys most people — dwelling on a thing breeds attachment, attachment breeds craving, craving breeds anger, anger clouds the mind, and the clouded mind forgets itself and falls. The antidote is not suppression. It is tasting something higher than what the senses offer. That taste steadies you. The state Krishna describes is not a reward waiting at the end of practice. It is available right now, the moment you stop chasing and sit still inside what you already are.