Krishna begins to name what he is. Not in the abstract, but from the inside. His nature divides into two: a lower one made of earth, water, fire, air, space, mind, understanding, and ego, and a higher one that is the very life holding the world up. From these two wombs all beings come. Nothing stands higher. Everything is strung on him like pearls on a thread. He is taste in water, light in the sun and moon, Om in the scriptures, fragrance in the earth, the intelligence of the intelligent. Among thousands, perhaps one truly strives. Among those who strive, perhaps one truly knows him. The rarity is not a boast; it is an honest accounting of how hard it is to see past the surface. Nature's three strands — sattva, rajas, tamas — weave a veil so convincing that the whole world mistakes it for reality. Crossing that veil is difficult. Only those who come to Krishna cross it. Four kinds of good people turn to him: the anguished, the seeker of knowledge, the seeker of gain, and the wise. All are noble, but the wise one stands first, because the wise one sees that Krishna is everything and has stopped looking elsewhere. The chapter closes with a quiet warning about the spell of opposites. Wanting and loathing throw every creature into duality at birth. Those whose wrongs have ended, who live cleanly, slip free of the spell and love with firm vows. The question the chapter leaves you with is not whether you believe any of this. It is whether you have noticed the thread that holds the scattered pieces of your own life together.