Two days before Yuvan’s attempted escape, Aman had paid Fayza a visit and was surprised at the changes to her living space. Her hut had a small stool, a carpet beside it, a charpai and two matkas. ‘That one was ten, the charpai was eighteen and this carpet used to belong to the diya-maker, so she sold it for only three danas.’ Fayza was beaming. ‘I’ve been busy earning enough danas to make sure my hut is better.’ The table before her had heaps of palm leaves.

‘Have you been studying?’ he asked.

‘Eleven, I have to, don’t I? To prove a point to everyone. The days will progress, and the journey at the end of the year will arrive before we know it . . . And honestly, more importantly, between how Aarti treated me in Gurukul and how far ahead the Child of the Valley is, it is clear that we need to study more if we are to learn Atmayog—we could study together!’

Aman was aware of how weird he felt talking to someone his age, let alone a girl. It wasn’t like he had had any kind of social life back home, and now he actually had a friend he was dropping in on. Not that things could progress any further between him and Fayza, for celibacy was one of Vanyasa’s rules for the Souls; romantic engagements were strictly prohibited—except for any formed by the Eka.

Every day after the Gurukul session ended, Aman would take the central Chakkar to the bazaar—the marketplace was the only area in Vanyasa which felt similar to the plains, and it was where he felt least trapped. The bazaar was no more than a collection of thirty huts with display stalls, broken up by trees full of cawing crows. Dana was the currency, and although he had only just learnt the names and differences between each of the stone coins, Aman remembered the pouch full of them in his father’s cardboard box. He was more convinced every day that his father had indeed been in Vanyasa for his final mission.

Aman had received six danas for raking a section of Maidaan before Gurukul each day over the last month and had found another dana in the grass behind his hut. He was sceptical of the plan he had in mind and reconsidered it as he strolled through the bazaar.

‘Three matkas for twenty danas!’ a potter shouted from his hut.

‘Fresh, extremely fresh from the recent harvest! A bag for a dana.’ He heard the tobacco trader and then saw Aarti talking to him. She had taken to rolling her own cigarettes these days.

As if the sight of Aarti wasn’t bad enough, in the middle of the bazaar was a large white sculpture of an elephant with five trunks, serving as a sudden, not entirely pleasant reminder of Aman’s eventful entry into the valley.

As the day’s trading and bargaining continued, dust flew, shoulders brushed past each other and people argued over prices and objects. Aman had to be inconspicuous. This time of day was perfect for him because he could easily lose himself in the crowd if his plan didn’t work out.