‘I . . . thank you? I am no player. I just listen to my gut.’

The old woman looked at him curiously.

Aman had no idea he was talking to the revered Tritiya, third, Sadhu, Mata Kritika, who would be their next teacher in Gurukul. Upon a closer look—she had charcoal-black eyes and an old scar running down her cheek—Aman noticed he’d seen her before beside the Mother of the Valley. ‘You’re Aranyani’s disciple, aren’t you?’

‘I’m many things, Aman, just like you,’ Mata Kritika said. ‘Like you, I too have had a life that precedes Vanyasa.’

‘Where are you from?’ Aman asked.

‘I’m from a village deep in Rajasthan called Dakri. But I was forced to flee—or rather I was saved—in the 1600s.’

‘Over three hundred years ago?!’

Mata Kritika told him of her life back in Dakri. Even back then, she had never conformed to the traditional roles ascribed to rural women. ‘One night, the villagers came bearing sticks and fire to my hut. You see, they were convinced that I was a witch who had cursed the rains. And, like all tyrants, they wanted someone to blame. So, as I slept in my hut, they barged in. A man hit me with a wooden stick, which gave me this scar. And within moments, they had set my home ablaze. I still remember it: sitting there, I was sure I was going to die. But then—and we didn’t have any in Dakri—a horse jumped inside my hut. I had no idea about Atmayog or Vanyasa or any of this then. Sanaka saved me.’

It shocked Aman to hear of Sanaka being spoken about in such glowing terms.

Over the next few weeks, Mata Kritika and Aman played over a hundred games of Chaturanga. One night, sitting by Pandayam Tal in the blue light of an oil lamp, Aman said, ‘Did you say you were born over three centuries ago? Vanyasis truly are “immortals”.’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Vanyasis age and die as the people in the plains. But when in Atmayog, especially when one’s atman connects to a banyan, peepal, or any long-living tree, your breathing significantly slows down. In the safety of a secluded cave, your meditating mortal body ages only a few days instead of a decade. You can then choose to resume the rest of your life in a different century. Or divide the years as you wish. Even today, over a thousand Vanyasis hibernate for a time in the future. I, too, am planning on going back up there in a few years.’

20

Pankh

Bacche,

I am terrified of knowing what stops you from replying to my letters. I know our bond has had its trials, but pray know that I cannot turn back the time—all I can do is try to make amends.

I’ve just got word that you are the Eka. Please come and pay me a visit. Two days later, on the auspicious night of the Ceremony of the Founding; it is vital. I have already lost Shakuntala to the valley; so even if it is to be my last job, I must reveal to you the trouble that awaits your path—for who will, I wonder, care for you, if not me? I am at Hathi-Paun.

Former Scribe of the Dwitiya Tier,

Your father,

Rishi Ajan