In Gurukul, with the turn of the seasons, Mata Uttari, the Dwitiya, second, Sadhu, had replaced Acharya Ashwini, the Pratham Sadhu. Mata Uttari spent most of the month correcting their meditation postures. ‘In the hills, when the sages meditate for decades, sometimes centuries, by sending their atmans to the trees, it is important to sit in a way that doesn’t take a toll on your dress, the body,’ she reminded them each day before class. ‘How else are we to learn the ways of immortality?

March had arrived with longer days and the thaw of Pandayam Tal, and one evening, Aman was at his usual tea stall under the yellow neem. Two middle-aged villagers were playing Chaturanga, seated opposite each other. They pored over an 8x8 checkerboard carved into the flat surface of a tree stump between them.

The first time Aman had seen Chaturanga pieces, he had thought they all looked identical. Only after the third match that he observed did he realize that each piece had a distinct line on it, which defined its character. Over time, he learnt the rules of the game and how different it was from any of its adulterated variations in the plains, even chess. Chaturanga was an arcane edition, the ancestor of all games of strategy. Each wooden piece embodied a different attribute of a grand stratagem. Aman liked the Mantri and Gaja pieces the most. These were the two whose moves he would follow as he observed players contemplating their next move.

It was on one such day that he’d been watching a Gaja for some time now, but however seasoned a player the woman may have been, she was overlooking an obvious winning move. Aman was overcome by a relentless urge to move the piece. ‘Now!’ Aman couldn’t hold himself back. ‘This is your chance. Move the Gaja and take down his Chariot.’

‘Sacrilege!’ the old woman jumped up. ‘How dare you wreck my concentration? I will not have this! This match has lost its purity. There can be no winner here now . . .’ She sat back down in frustration, her lips pursed, staring unblinkingly at the Gaja on the board. She picked up her clay mug and blew steam off the edges, but her eyes never left the piece. ‘May I conclusively say, fellow Brother Chandprakash,’ she said, picking up the Gaja and placing it right beside his Ashva, ‘that my atman has lifted itself above yours today?’ Once she had finished teasing her opponent, she stood up to face Aman. ‘Who are you?’

‘I didn’t mean to offend you, devi,’ Aman said.

‘You have a keen eye for Chaturanga,’ the old woman said, placing her palm on his head. ‘I see an astute mind indeed . . . Oh, I remember you. I was there during your Adwaita. You’re the eleventh . . . Not as daft as you look; you would have done well as the Blue Rose.’

‘Blue Rose?’ Aman asked.

‘As in, the Eka.’