Krishna sets the terms plainly: no one becomes a yogi without dropping self-serving designs. For the one still climbing, action is the ladder. For the one who has arrived, stillness is. Then he speaks directly to the will: no one lifts you but you. Be your own friend, not your own enemy. Master yourself and your self is your ally; fail, and it turns on you. He describes the practice in concrete detail — a clean place, a firm seat, body upright and still, gaze resting at the nose's tip, the mind gathered to one point. A lamp in a windless room does not flicker. That is the image of the yogi's mind in practice. Thought grows still, and then you see the self by the self, and that is enough. There is a joy past the senses, known only by the clear mind. Gain it, and nothing greater remains. Stand there, and the heaviest sorrow cannot move you. Arjuna is not convinced. The mind is restless, violent, strong, stubborn, he says. Holding it seems as hard as holding the wind. Krishna agrees. The mind is hard to hold. But practice and letting-go can tame it. Then comes Arjuna's most human question: what about the one whose faith is real but whose effort fails — who falls from the path before the end? Does that person simply scatter like a torn cloud, lost between two worlds? Krishna's answer is one of the Gita's most reassuring promises: no one who does good ever comes to grief. The fallen yogi is born again into conditions where the old practice returns, pulling forward even against the will. Nothing you have ever done toward your own deepening is wasted. Not one breath of it.