Hearing those words felt nice. Was she his friend? He had hardly made conversation with anyone in the valley, apart from her and Idhika. He knew it was the Child of the Valley who could help him locate the cardboard box at the moss-covered bridge, but all he wanted to do was continue his conversations with Fayza. Things had changed; Aman had changed.

They kept walking. After a few minutes of silence, Aman said, ‘How do you do it? Keep going despite knowing that the world outside the valley continues in exactly the same way without you? As if you never mattered. Do you think the police are looking for us? Ten people gone missing at exactly the same time?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Fayza said. ‘The twins are from tribal lands, so the police wouldn’t know of their disappearance as no one would have reported it. My parents agreed to my departure, so they are unlikely to tell anyone. It seems your mother did as well. As for the rest, well, so many go missing each day in this country that our disappearance would be just another drop in the ocean.’

Dawn approached and a tinge of saffron crept up from the horizon. Acharya Ashwini sang the Song of the Valley to Nandana so he would allow them entry. Without any of the dramatic events that had besieged Aman the first time he came this way, he and the others soon hiked through Shreyan’s Tunnel in Mount Rohini, entered the glowing gateway, and emerged on the ledge overlooking their new homes.

With feet caked in mud, empty stomachs and spent bodies, they let the cool air hit them and basked in the early blessings of Aditya, the sun god. The enormous structure of the Kalpavriksha was a reassuring presence. Hope surged through Aman. Maybe his mother had wanted this life for him so he could have a chance to find the truth about his father.

Life in the valley hadn’t changed while Aman and his travelling companions had been on the eventful journey. The disciples were in the middle of their usual duties, arranged by rotation, not emitting a whine or complaint about their work. Some had farming duties, while others had to bathe animals. Some stirred the cooking pots and cut fruits while others transported water from the springs. From up there, Aman spotted a woman sweeping a trail close to a path that led to his hut, near which small specks gathered at a tea stall. He took in the expanse of the valley before him, its complexity, and not to forget its ingenious location—an isolated vastness ringed by the Seven Hills, like a protective crown that both secured and honoured it.

Everyone stretched, finally getting a chance to rest. Aman stood to one side, rubbing his tired eyes and face. His lip hurt and his hand came back red when he touched the cut that was bleeding even hours after the encounter with the kirtimukha.

‘Our souls are made up of the choices in our lives,’ Acharya Ashwini said, not giving any context to the statement.