The loud voice of a commentator roared: ‘By my troth! Next up, if the Gods will it, is none other than the devout servitor of Lord Indra, the Light Seeker himself—GURU AMRAV!’ The crowd jumped, screaming at the top of their lungs and wriggling their shoulders, which Aman realized was the Vanyasis’ way of celebrating. Fayza eyed the old man who had pretended to be righteous but ruled here as a favourite in this illegal sport.

The light reflected off Guru Amrav’s shiny bald head as he sat on the pedestal to Aman’s left, right behind the cobra. Supported by a cylindrical red pillow, he lazed on his side, supported by his elbow. His chin sunk into his chest so that his beard dropped down to his belly. Silver dishes laden with fruit were stationed within his arm’s reach.

The commentator continued, ‘Who is this sorrowful soul who is to be his opponent and face his eminent WRATH?!’ The man turned his head to face a girl, asking her to speak up and reveal her name, but the booing was too loud for it to be audible. ‘Nope! I think not, young girl. A plague be upon you! Shoo away! Let other worthy competitors take your place!’

Aman craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the opponent. Aarti! She sat there, steadfast, shaking her head. She was not going to step down.

‘What is an idiot really, if not this girl right here?’ Idhika asked Aman. ‘She carries with her an aura of irrational impulses.’

Aarti’s pedestal looked ordinary: made of wood, with no expensive cloth nor cushion giving it personality. But she was unfazed, sitting defiant, determined not to be defeated by Amrav.

Something made Aman look behind him. His eyes met those of an eagle perched on the shoulders of a yogi who seemed most disinterested in what was happening. He neither laughed nor cheered. In fact, his eyes were closed and his eyebrows furrowed; he seemed to be in Atmayog, scanning the area through the eyes of his bird. Aman found himself admiring the strong white beak of the beast and its massive brown talons. No prey would have a chance.

The commentator continued, ‘It looks like we truly are in for a massacre tonight. Amrav and the king versus Aarti and the . . . chicken?’ He ended the sentence with a whimper and then shot Aarti an angry look. ‘Nev’r! Quit wasting our time, girl. How does a recruit even have a hundred danas to wager?’

Aarti tried to answer, but the crowd drowned out her voice by clicking their tongues. That seemed to be how the Vanyasis booed. Idhika, too, joined the chorus of disapproval. Fayza was fighting an internal battle, not sure whether to support Guru Amrav or feel betrayed by him.

‘Shanti. Shanti. Shanti,’ the commentator shouted, instructing the crowd to quiet down.

Aarti had paid no heed to the hooting. She pulled out her lipstick from her makeshift handbag and applied a streak of red. She pressed her lips and closed her eyes in order to initiate the Sangram. Amrav did the same. A deep, reverential silence befell the crowd as Amrav and Aarti faced each other and reached out to their companions. Bettors started placing wagers on how long they thought Aarti’s rooster would last in the pen.