‘Umm,’ Ujal said. ‘Feel the energy of the tree and let the Kalpavriksha guide you.’

Aman brushed the mud off his shins and stood up. With sweaty palms and a slow stride, he reached the foot of the tree, underneath the suspended podium. Here goes nothing, loser, Aman thought as he relaxed his shoulders and assumed a seated meditative stance. Then, anxiously, he curled his fingers into a jnanamudra, and that was enough of a cue for the other students to quieten.

Each time he shut his eyes and let his ears take in the surroundings, different thoughts crept into his head: first, the image of Fayza’s face; then, his mother’s hand waving him goodbye. But this time, his determination had a different quality. Whenever he got distracted, he would push forward with greater vehemence. What’s in the letter written by the Preserver? No, stop it! 1, 2, 3 . . . No thinking—SHHH!!!

‘Don’t worry if you can’t,’ Yuvan teased, admiring his Deh.

Aman did not open his eyes—his ears had shut out all sound; any incident or memory that tried to sneak in was stopped in its tracks. In this trance-like state, his concentration a tangible entity, he edged towards the precipice. They say you never forget your first Atmayog, and Aman was about to find out exactly why.

Ironically, it was his straying thoughts that enabled him that day: Aman let the Kalpavriksha fill him with its oxygen. And the last thing he remembered thinking was: Where I sit is where Lord Indra once sat.

Suddenly, his perception changed, of himself, of who he was now and who he had been: the boy left behind in the plains. Here, Aman was one of the Souls, surrounded by his friends, and entrusted by the villagers as a potential conqueror of the Mahayatra. Here, he was visible and wanted, and here he sat at the edge of a divine tree churned from the Ocean of Milk.

His eyes were closed, and his world was already dark when everything went black. He forgot how to breathe. A pulsating pain spread to all areas of his body. He wanted to scream. Just when he could stand it no longer, the pain broke away, and it felt as though his body had finally found the first rays of sunlight after a night of freezing-cold iciness.

The next thing he knew was that all the pleasures of the world—psychological, physical, ephemeral—were his and his alone. A shiver ran down his spine; he cried and was acquainted with happiness for the first time. Such was its fervour that it seemed that this feeling of belonging would never wane or cease. Only when enough time had passed and, more importantly, when he knew the moment had arrived did he open his eyes.

He was in the middle of Maidaan, the Kalpavriksha still giving him shade. But everything was still and devoid of colour. The field looked whiter. Not a leaf moved. Neither any of his classmates nor the Chatvari Sadhu was in sight. All noise seemed to have halted, and even the sound of the wind was a distant memory.