Sanaka almost stopped for a split second. But then he picked up his pace and said, ‘No time to turn back!’

Aman remembered. ‘The Preservers . . . What does that mean?’

‘Watch your words!’ Sanaka instantly tightened his grip around the boy’s knees.

I am considerably taller than him. How is he even carrying me? He swung his arms in protest, but Sanaka ignored him. Aman gave up, and the rhythm of the man’s stride lulled the boy back to sleep.

Sanaka walked all day, and it was only close to sunset that he put Aman down on a patch of grass. Aman woke up from the impact. His forehead was purple and all the blood that had collected in his face slowly drained back to the rest of his body. His knee was still numb.

Aman looked up to find the most unusual banyan tree he had ever seen. He could see its leaves and canopy but not the trunk. Vines fell from its branches, wide and thick, and entangled with the roots on the ground to create a barrier, a curtain of snakelike drapes, around the tree.

‘Trees have feet too,’ Sanaka said, walking up to the vines.

What? Aman stared hard at Sanaka.

‘Listen closely,’ Sanaka said. ‘You’re already late for Adwaita, so listen well. Today I reveal the secret of the valley’s entrance. The Song of the Valley is key. An offering to the great Nandana, this tree that stands between us and home . . . He’s wise and requires the hymn . . . And only then, through the Song, will you find his feet, to which—of course—you must bow and pray and hope that he shows the way.’

Aman was still trying to wrap his head around ‘trees have feet’. But Sanaka paid no heed and continued: ‘Only if Nandana detects within you the purity will he present his feet. You must own the Song, know its variations and arcane pronunciations, for each syllable will tell you how to place your steps, how to walk—with your head down, of course—to the beat of the song. Watch and, more importantly, listen, as I sing the Song of my people, the Vanyasis—soon to also be . . . your people.’ He ended with a distasteful look.

Sanaka then started singing in what sounded like a version of Sanskrit with a faint crescendo:

Tucked within brambles that may.

He walked to the song’s rhythm, circling the tree, only turning around and going the other way when the next line started.

Shielding boughs and keeping at bay.

The tune echoed hauntingly, and Aman felt dormant energy rise from within the tree.

Every dashak centres a blue rose,

Scent of which dale invariably knows;

Watered, it riots by the nights,

Sheeny, eliciting awe from sights.

Aman could understand little of these words. All that the song did was to make him feel hollow, like he wanted to weep. The birds around him grew silent in agreement. The incomprehensible lyrics evoked in him thoughts of his mother, his home and the familiarity of his rug.