Then she remembered the caterpillar. Idhika couldn’t see it but could hear the slightest movements of its prolegs against a tall leaf in front of her. With eyes closed, navigating through the world of sound, Idhika’s atman approached the caterpillar speculatively.

Namahkrita, she greeted it.

As soon as the insect responded, Idhika leapt—summoning every bit of her willpower, she pushed for that final step. Darkness surrounded her. She felt as if she had shed her skin; for a second, her bones went limp, and then her soul was set free from between her eyes.

It drifted towards the caterpillar—and pierced it.

Idhika had achieved Atmayog. She now occupied the insect’s body, its skin, flesh and consciousness. The caterpillar acknowledged her command, stretching and contracting its tiny muscles at her bidding.

When Idhika finally opened her eyes, she had twelve of them. You’d think an insect with twelve eyes would have good eyesight, but as Idhika looked through the caterpillar’s eyes, she could only see a blurred image of her own physical body sitting a little away, her back straight and eyes shut in tranquillity.

Idhika had seen herself in the reflection of Pandayam Tal before, and she realized that she emanated more power in her yogic stance with her eyes shut. When open, they were beguiling: warm, amber, soft. But in reality, she had a hard competitive shell, resistant to change or anything new—befitting a solitary Child of the Valley.

Her human form had a cotton dhoti wrapped around her waist and an upper cloth covering her chest. The Deh on her forearm glowed green—the intricate pattern of the graceful serpent mingling into her blue veins. The fine details of her face were hidden behind curly black hair, but every now and then, a breeze swept her locks aside to reveal her intense expression, while her chest arched in and out to the drumbeat of her breathing sequence.

The caterpillar bit into a leaf and bitter starch flooded Idhika’s mouth. Yuck! She instantly spat it out, but the spittle only got as far as the corner of its mouth, appearing like a thread of silk hanging off it.

Eating leaves was not Idhika’s aim today. She craved a sense of liberation, of exhilaration. She wanted another companion. Luckily, another ideal being had presented itself. The caterpillar’s senses pricked up. Through one of its twelve eyes, Idhika spotted the shadow of the hunter, her next companion, closing down on her caterpillar self.

As soon as the startled insect jerked its prolegs, severing their connection, Idhika felt a sudden recoil as she was pushed back into her own body.

Her soul had returned, but she kept her eyes shut. Wait . . . listen for it.

Idhika was ready. The instant the Himalayan bulbul landed near the leaf and pecked at the caterpillar, she jumped. The connection solidified instantly, and the taste of the caterpillar she had been moments ago filled her mouth.

Crunchy. Idhika felt the bulbul’s actions as her own. She shook her feathers ever so slightly, flexing them out and feeling the minuscule adjustments of the wind that was her constant guide. Then she spread her wings and took off, with difficulty at first, but after a few hard flaps she managed to rise high enough to ride the thermals, elevating her tiny body.