She circled the temple until she was face to face with the valley. With dishevelled hair and crinkled eyes, she looked down at her new home. Vanyasa was bigger than she’d imagined. There were endless squares of farming fields carpeting the floor of the valley, and trees of all kinds, dark and thick, their branches untamed. But the tree that caught her eye was the largest she’d ever seen, towering in the middle of the valley. Its trunk was as wide as her school auditorium—it zigzagged its way up to the branches that sparkled like stars.

Fayza removed her glasses and used the hem of her gown to clean the lenses. In the distance, she saw minute figures labouring with bent backs. Moving mounds of hay distinguished the female farmers from the men. Gamblers exchanged oddly shaped coins, squatting on the edges of beaten footpaths, and deer chewed grass near the caves on the opposite side of the valley.

Fayza caught sight of cows and goats, probably mooing and bleating, but there was only silence where she stood. The glistering blue of Pandayam Tal was the cornerstone of the valley, surrounded by clusters of huts of all shapes and sizes, made of earth, straw, hay and reeds—homes, halls, fields, barracks, small and big. White smoke billowed out of their carved windows. The mud walls and thatched roofs put forth a sturdy facade. Some huts were tucked into the hollows of big oaks. Fayza spotted at least seven tea stalls dotting the paths.

‘Breathtaking, isn’t it?’ Fayza hadn’t noticed when the man had come to stand beside her. He was looking at the valley with enchanted eyes. Standing in polished wooden sandals, he wore a white dhoti and sported a tika, which extended upwards from his forehead and disappeared in the curve of his shaven head. The cloth over his shoulder, as well as his long white beard, swayed in the wind. ‘These hills that cradle Vanyasa, even the Tal, and Pataan below that hollows the mountain you stand on, are all a blessing. I’ve lived here my entire life, but I’m still a stranger to these lands.’

For a second, absorbing the vastness in front of her, Fayza felt weak and alone.

As though he had read her thoughts, the man said, ‘Indra is the first of all gods, which means he is bored in the company of most. It also means that he is a lonely god. The presence around his temple will do that to you. Make you contemplative and miserable. Don’t let him bother you.’

Fayza was taken aback by the way the priest had mentioned the lord—in such a casual manner. ‘You’re Guru Amrav!’

‘Yes, my child. And you’re one of the ten. Tapasvi’s Souls.’

‘Yes, Namahkrita, guru-ji.’ Fayza bowed.

‘Namahkrita,’ the man said gently.

‘Guru-ji,’ she said, ‘I’ve heard a lot about your bread . . .’

The guru shot her a smile and walked back to the priest’s room, holding his dhoti up with his hands. He came back carrying a circular loaf of glazed bread. ‘Have a bite.’ He pushed it towards her. ‘And take some for later. The last thing I want to do is get rid of this week’s produce. To throw away Indra’s blessed food is blasphemous. I can only have so much, you see.’