One day, Aman was visited by a hare, which silently scurried into his hut. It had white fur that had been stained brown, but the insides of its tall ears were clean and bright pink. Tucked between the hare’s teeth was a heap of palm leaves. It dropped one leaf and darted back out.

Aman read the message:

Lord Indra, once again, has chosen. It will riot, and sheeny will be its sight. For the might of the Eka, this decade, will reside in Idhika, the Child of the Valley.

Aman felt relieved. Hopefully, now everyone can forget that I am the odd eleventh. More than anything, he wanted to witness Aarti receiving her palm leaf. If only I could Atmayog.

Over the next few days, there was continuous rain, and deep puddles covered the paths. From the window of his hut, Aman would spend his days gazing at the darkened hills for hours, the dots of lamplight flickering in blue flames. Although his lip had long healed, the nausea hadn’t left him entirely, and he often found his fingertips were purple. When Aman told the vaidya of this, she had no answers or explanations, and would wave him away with yet another batch of some ground root.

By late January, the deafening noise of hail on the rooftops had been smothered by the deathly silence of snow. The chill permeated the far corners of the valley—tree branches turned white, and every blade of grass froze, rigid against any wind. Fayza found out that Aman did not have enough danas on him, so she bought him a mat from the bazaar, but it did little to keep away the cold. Aman visited Chitra at the vaidya’s cottage and learnt that a fortnight ago, a snow leopard had strolled into Vanyasa, entering without anyone knowing how.

Throughout the valley, whenever fresh snow covered the hut roofs, the tea stalls became perpetually full, with yogis and yoginis jostling for the prime seats around angithis. In the daytime, the villagers went to the edge of Maidaan to catch the meagre sun and, after Suryast, swarmed the bonfires erected around Pandayam Tal. It was at these bonfires that legends were recited by old munis.

Aman sat by one such bonfire on a winter evening. Mounds of dead grass and crisp twigs crackled silently in the azure fire. The intense heat reminded him of his birthday ritual, when he and his mother would sneak on to the restricted terrace of their apartment and sit all night talking beside a makeshift bonfire. Did I miss it this year?

‘Any tale requests tonight?’ a man announced. He sported a bun and sat extremely close to the fire, as if immune to heat.

Savitri and Jagrav sat together, not far from Aman. Yuvan was by himself, nearer to the shoreline of Pandayam Tal. He was saying loudly, ‘If cutting trees isn’t allowed, how do we manage bonfires every night?’

Aranyani’s voice came from somewhere, whispering like the wind: ‘A keen observation indeed.’ When Aman managed to spot her, he saw that she too sat close to the bonfire; her face shone in its blue glow. Glow-worms darted about over her head. ‘We don’t just rely on Aranyala, for I can only provide so much. And a society like Shambhala needs to search beyond the Seven Hills for dead wood and fallen fruit. It is the boon of Atmayog that allows us to gather from all over the Himalayas. This valley is unlike anything in the plains, child. It is layered with centuries of events, its sand having touched the feet of thousands of deities . . . Chief Bhrigu . . . why don’t you tell us one of those stories? I think the Souls would do well to learn about Airavata.’