‘Namahkrita,’ said the man who limped into the glade. He was easy on the eyes, with neatly parted hair, a chiselled jawline and broad shoulders. Setting his walking stick against the base of the trunk, he prepared to climb the podium. Aarti instantly shot up, ready to aid him, but the man shook his head. ‘I’ve been doing this for a long time.’ Using only the strength of his biceps, he pulled himself up. Over the decades, Acharya Ashwini had excelled at welcoming newcomers to Atmayog. He would be their first teacher, leading the first six months of their year-long preparation for the Mahayatra. ‘Servants of Samsara, your body is not yours. You are not flesh, bones or blood. You are, in fact, very light, weighing no more than a pinch of cotton. All you are is a soul. Each of you. Your body is only the chariot to the rider that is your soul. And that’s how the real you, the spirit, can inhabit temporary bodies through reincarnation. Seven bodies to be exact.’

What is he on about? Aman thought.

Acharya Ashwini looked up at the sky. ‘You see, in reality, there is no heaven. There is instead a large ocean of souls there called Brahman. It is where existence originated. And when your soul came to the earth, it joined a cycle called Samsara, being reborn again and again seven times. After its liberation, also called nirvana or moksha, it will break free and become one with the eternal ocean, Brahman. I know some of you don’t want to be here. You’d rather be in the plains. But you’re all in your final birth, the seventh. And if you’re to reach Brahman, you must renounce the material world and cleanse your soul.’

Hysterical laughter came from somewhere. ‘Hah! So all of us have had six lives before this?’ Aman turned to see a boy roughly his age lying on the grass. He wore an oversized pair of black trackpants and a white hoodie, and Aman saw that he hadn’t even taken off his chains, bracelets or diamond ear studs, which were clearly fake. ‘What?!’ he barked at Aman, styling his blonde hair simultaneously. His name was Yuvan, as Aman later found out.

‘Acharya,’ Fayza said, ‘you mentioned Brahman. I thought he was one of the deities. Are you implying that the gods are real?’

‘Shut it!’ Aarti shouted at Fayza. ‘What do you know of our gods?’

The acharya ignored Aarti. ‘Yes, of course, they exist. But not in quite the same way as the plain dwellers see.’

‘Okay.’ Yuvan raised his arms theatrically towards the sky. ‘Tell me, then. Who’s the strongest of them?’

‘Tricky question,’ the acharya said. ‘Many new recruits over the years have asked me this. But I ask you what you mean when you say “strongest”. Is it he who wins a battle? Or he who has better powers or can lift heavier objects? Bear in mind that the Vedas, Puranas, Ramayana and Mahabharata collectively mention many deities. Some of you may say that Krishna or Vishnu is the strongest. Or Shiva or Ram. And the truth is that all of those answers are correct. The presence of gods varies from region to region. But here, under the divine Kalpavriksha, where the Vedas were written, the old gods, the omniscient and original ones, rule the lands as far as the eye can see. And their king, the old and forgotten leader of all gods. Almost just the way he wants it. Indra. Lord of the sky and thunder. He is above all. An entity that has always existed, taking on different forms.’