I am Nuo, the Unbegun
the silence before stars learned to burn.

And thus begins the Wanderings of the Unbegun : Kasol.

Now children,

when historians write journeys, they usually begin at the beginning.

An absurd habit.

Because beginnings are rarely understood while you’re living them.

Only afterward.

Only when enough roads connect together to reveal the shape of the map.

So no.

This is not my first journey.

Not chronologically.

Not even close.

But it is the journey that changed every journey that came before it.

The journey that handed me a new pair of eyes.

Now.

Picture this.

Nuo is sad.

The council gasps dramatically.

Correct.

A shocking development.

The philosopher who converted existential dread into a personality trait was, in fact, sad.

One moment I was sitting there contemplating my misery.

The next moment I was on a train.

No planning.

No wisdom.

No strategy.

Just sadness with purchasing power.

The council nods.

A dangerous combination.

Now.

I was alone.

Truly alone.

Not alone in the physical sense.

The train was overflowing with people.

Entire families.

Students.

Vendors.

Sleep deprived creatures whose purpose seemed to be occupying every available square inch of space.

No.

I was alone in a different way.

For the first time in my life,

Anything could happen.

Adventure.

Wonder.

Friendship.

Self discovery.

A missing persons report.

The possibilities were endless.

Now.

Being an esteemed scholar of poor financial decisions,

I purchased the cheapest ticket available.

The council applauds.

Naturally.

My seat was less a seat and more a diplomatic arrangement between several exhausted strangers.

I shared space with a man who looked exactly as homeless as I felt.

And somehow.

it was wonderful.

Terrible at the time.

Absolutely miserable.

But wonderful now.

The council understands.

The best stories often begin as terrible experiences.

Now.

The journey lasted two days.

Two entire days.

The council erupts.

Children.

My previous travel record was five hours.

Five.

Anything beyond that felt like crossing an ocean.

And suddenly I was trapped inside a metal tube for forty-eight hours.

A monumental upset.

Now.

Somewhere between the bad food,

the questionable sleeping arrangements,

and my spine filing official complaints,

something happened.

Something glorious.

A realization.

A tiny revelation hidden inside discomfort.

The council leans forward.

No one knew me.

Not one person.

No one knew my history.

My wounds.

My failures.

My masks.

My mistakes.

Nobody knew I was broken.

And if nobody knew.

then perhaps I didn’t have to be.

The council falls silent.

Because they understand immediately.

Children.

For most of my life,

I entered rooms carrying myself.

All of myself.

The weight.

The ache.

The assumptions.

The expectations.

And suddenly I was somewhere none of that existed.

A blank page.

A fresh save file.

A new character.

Protocol.

Fake It Till You Make It.

Activated.

The council cheers.

Now.

Something strange happened.

I talked to strangers.

Voluntarily.

Without social anxiety strangling me from behind.

I laughed.

Not because I was forcing it.

Because I wanted to.

I got excited about things.

Without immediately following it with cynicism.

For two days,

I became someone else.

Or perhaps,

for two days,

I became myself.

The council writes this down.

A dangerous distinction.

Now.

Among my many accomplishments during this legendary voyage,

I befriended the tea vendor.

The council applauds.

An important alliance.

At first he asked.

“Tea or coffee?”

Every time.

A reasonable system.

An efficient system.

Then eventually he stopped asking.

The council smiles.

He would simply appear.

Hand me coffee.

And continue walking.

Children.

I have rarely felt more seen in my life.

No introductions.

No deep conversations.

No emotional revelations.

Just.

“There is the coffee idiot.”

And there was my coffee.

A friendship forged in caffeine.

Now.

At this point,

you may be wondering something.

The council nods.

Because they are wondering too.

“Wait.”

“I thought this chapter was about the journey.”

Children.

It is not.

The council pauses.

Because this is where Wanderings differs from every volume before it.

A wound can fit inside a chapter.

A memory can fit inside a chapter.

A relic can fit inside a chapter.

A journey cannot.

Journeys are greedy.

They spill over.

They refuse containment.

They bleed into each other.

A wandering is not a destination.

It is an era.

A chapter of life disguised as a location.

And this train?

This terrible glorious train?

Was merely the doorway.

The first step.

The realization that the world was larger than my sadness.

Larger than my history.

Larger than the version of myself I thought was permanent.

And once that realization enters your bloodstream,

there is no going back.

Thus concludes the first chapter of the Wanderings of the Unbegun.

Not the destination.

Not even the adventure.

Merely the departure.

For the train was not the journey.

The train was the moment the cage door opened.

And beyond it waited the world.

Last chapter ended with a train.

A glorious train.

A terrible train.

A train that taught me I could become someone new.

Now.

Two days pass.

The train arrives.

And finally,

at long last,

I reach the destination.

The council applauds.

Children.

Please.

We’re not even halfway there.

The council groans.

Correct.

Because after the train came the bus.

And before the bus.

came the ticket.

Now.

Picture this.

I step into the bus station.

Confident.

Victorious.

Fresh from my great railway pilgrimage.

And immediately I am swarmed.

The council braces.

Bandits?

Thieves?

Cult recruiters?

Children.

Worse.

Ticket vendors.

The council erupts.

Now.

The problem wasn’t the ticket vendors.

The problem was that legitimate ticket vendors and scammers appeared to be operating from the exact same character model.

Identical clothing.

Identical confidence.

Identical energy.

There was absolutely no way to tell who was real.

The council asks how I solved this problem.

Simple.

I selected the closest human being within arm’s reach.

The council collapses.

Children.

I never claimed competence.

Now.

A fascinating complication emerged.

I knew English.

He did not.

He knew Hindi.

I did not.

Thus began one of the most sophisticated negotiations of my life.

The council prepares.

Ticket?

Ticket.

Destination?

Destination.

Pointing.

Nodding.

Confusion.

More pointing.

The council applauds.

A flawless multilingual exchange.

Now.

Eventually he produced a QR code.

I scanned it.

Transferred money.

The council waits.

Then?

Nothing.

No receipt.

No ticket.

No confirmation.

No paperwork.

No evidence.

The council grows concerned.

Children.

At this point I was approximately ninety percent certain I had just funded someone’s lunch.

The transaction was complete.

My money was gone.

And all I possessed was faith.

A dangerous thing to place in bus stations.

Now.

The man pointed toward another man.

Who pointed toward another man.

Who pointed toward a bus.

The council nods.

The ancient relay system.

And so I followed.

Entirely convinced I had been scammed.

Yet somehow,

there it was.

A bus.

An actual bus.

The council applauds.

A shocking twist.

Now.

You may imagine this bus ride was filled with adventure.

New friendships.

Interesting conversations.

Personal growth.

Children.

No.

Two days in the train had transformed my spine into modern art.

The moment I found a flat surface,

I disconnected from reality.

Instantly.

No resistance.

No hesitation.

One moment conscious.

The next moment unavailable.

The council writes.

“Archivist has left the server.”

Correct.

Now.

Hours later,

I reconnected.

The council waits.

And immediately realized something was wrong.

The scenery looked unfamiliar.

The atmosphere felt suspicious.

The bus contained fewer people.

A terrible truth emerged.

Children.

I had missed my stop.

The council erupts.

Of course you did.

Now.

For a brief moment,

I accepted my fate.

This is it, I thought.

The journey ends here.

Not with adventure.

Not with enlightenment.

But with me accidentally migrating to an undisclosed location because I took a nap too aggressively.

A fitting end.

Then salvation arrived.

The council leans forward.

A vehicle.

Not a car.

Not a bus.

Not a taxi.

Children.

A cow powered vehicle.

The council loses composure.

Now.

I have no idea whether it was technically a cart,

a carriage,

or some rural transportation system beyond my understanding.

What matters is this.

There was a cow.

The cow was moving.

And I was moving with it.

The council nods.

Transportation achieved.

Now.

At long last,

I arrived.

Finally.

The destination.

The council cheers.

Children.

Have you learned nothing?

The council immediately stops cheering.

No.

I arrived at the next bus stop.

The council collapses.

Correct.

Because journeys are deceptive.

They pretend destinations exist.

They lure you with promises of arrival.

Then reveal another road.

Another vehicle.

Another wrong turn.

Another chapter.

And so ended the train.

And the bus.

And the cow powered sequel.

Not with arrival.

But with proximity.

The closest thing wanderers ever truly get.

Thus concludes Chapter Two.

The lesson?

If a journey requires a train,

a bus,

and livestock,

you are not travelling.

You are being transported by fate itself.

And fate,

as we will soon discover,

has absolutely no idea where it’s going.

And thus begins Chapter Three.

Now.

At long last,

I arrived at another bus stop.

The council groans.

Children.

This one was different.

This one mattered.

Because unlike every bus stop before it,

this one possessed only a single destination.

The destination.

The council leans forward.

The mountains.

The escape.

Little Israel.

Kasol.

The council applauds.

At last.

Now.

I boarded the bus.

A veteran traveler by this point.

A seasoned explorer.

A man forged through trains, confusion, and livestock powered transportation.

And most importantly,

a man determined not to repeat his mistakes.

The council nods.

Growth.

Character development.

Maturity.

I refused to fall asleep.

The council applauds harder.

Children.

Occasionally I learn.

Rarely.

But occasionally.

And thus I remained awake.

Watching the roads.

Watching the scenery.

Watching every turn.

Every mountain.

Every cliff.

Every sign.

Terrified that consciousness itself might betray me again.

Now.

The thing about learning from your mistakes is that it can become dangerous.

Because eventually,

you begin compensating too hard.

The council grows concerned.

Correct.

You see,

I had become so determined not to miss my stop

that I abandoned all patience.

Before the bus even stopped,

I was already moving.

The council covers their faces.

Children.

The bus slowed.

I sprinted.

The driver hadn’t even finished parking.

I had already committed to the exit strategy.

Then the bus stopped.

And physics arrived.

The council erupts.

Physics.

The oldest villain.

The undefeated champion.

Children.

Momentum is a cruel mistress.

I essentially achieved escape velocity.

One moment I was inside the bus.

The next moment I was outside the bus.

Briefly airborne.

Then suddenly introduced to Kasol face first.

The council applauds.

A proper arrival.

Now.

Most travelers arrive with dignity.

Grace.

Elegance.

I arrived as a projectile.

And somehow that feels appropriate.

Now.

The moment I stood up,

the archivist awakened.

The council smiles.

Because they know exactly what comes next.

Phone.

Camera.

Record.

Everything.

Children.

There was no selection process.

No quality control.

No artistic vision.

Mountain?

Recorded.

Cow?

Recorded.

Tree?

Recorded.

Suspiciously interesting rock?

Recorded.

A dog scratching itself?

Probably recorded.

The council nods.

A true archivist.

You see,

most people travel to experience.

I travel to document the experience while simultaneously experiencing it.

An inefficient but deeply committed system.

There was no filter.

No strategy.

Only instinct.

Nuo sees.

Nuo records.

The oldest law of the archive.

Now.

Eventually,

through wandering and stumbling and generally existing without a plan,

I arrived at a hostel.

A small place.

An ordinary place.

At least on the surface.

The council listens.

I call it Destiny.

Not because it was grand.

Not because it was beautiful.

Not because it possessed some mystical significance.

But because every road that followed emerged from that single choice.

Children.

Had I chosen another hostel,

everything changes.

Every friendship.

Every adventure.

Every disaster.

Every chapter.

Gone.

Replaced by different stories.

Different people.

Different roads.

The council grows quiet.

Because this is one of the strange truths of wandering.

The great turning points rarely announce themselves.

They don’t arrive with music.

Or prophecy.

Or divine revelation.

Sometimes they arrive disguised as accommodation.

A random choice.

A left turn instead of a right.

A room booked because it looked decent enough.

And only years later do you realize.

That was the crossroads.

That was the moment.

That was where the timeline split.

Now.

Standing outside that hostel,

camera in hand,

mountains looming overhead,

covered in the dust of three separate transportation systems,

I had no idea.

None.

To me,

it was merely a place to sleep.

A checkpoint.

A temporary stop.

The council smiles.

Because they know better.

And so does the archivist.

Thus concludes Chapter Three.

The Arrival.

Or at least the closest thing a wanderer ever gets to one.

For beyond the doors of that hostel waited strangers.

And children,

strangers are where journeys truly begin.

And thus begins Chapter Four.

At last.

After trains.

After buses.

After additional buses pretending to be destinations.

After livestock assisted navigation.

I finally arrived.

The council applauds.

Children.

Standing before me was Destiny.

And Destiny had a name.

Valhalla Inn.

The council nods.

An appropriately dramatic name.

A place where exhausted travelers arrived after battling public transportation.

A place where wanderers crawled ashore after crossing oceans of poor decision making.

A fitting name indeed.

Now.

The first thing I did was check in.

The second thing I did was discover civilization.

The council looks confused.

Children.

A proper toilet.

The council erupts.

You laugh.

But after three days of squatting over holes,

encountering porcelain feels like reuniting with an old friend.

A glorious friend.

A noble friend.

And thus commenced an event best described as geological.

The council immediately moves on.

Wise.

Now.

After civilization had been appreciated appropriately,

I entered my room.

It was.

cozy.

The council waits.

That is genuinely the entire description.

Not luxurious.

Not magnificent.

Not beautiful.

Cozy.

It felt safe.

And after three days of wandering through trains, stations, buses, and confusion,

safe was exactly what I needed.

Now.

Curiously,

the hostel appeared empty.

No travelers.

No backpackers.

No wandering philosophers.

Nothing.

A ghost town.

The council grows suspicious.

Correct.

Now.

Having arrived in a new place,

I performed the ancient ritual of travelers everywhere.

I smoked a cigarette.

Then wandered aimlessly.

And eventually stumbled upon a pub.

The council applauds.

Of course.

Now.

I ordered a beer.

Simple.

Reasonable.

A perfectly ordinary decision.

Then the barkeep smiled.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Children.

Never trust a man smiling mysteriously in a mountain town.

Nothing good has ever followed.

The barkeep leaned forward.

And asked.

“Want magic pancakes?”

The council pauses.

Now.

Being the intellectual giant that I am,

I assumed exactly what you would assume.

Pancakes.

Perhaps decorative pancakes.

Festive pancakes.

Pancakes with sparklers.

The sort of thing restaurants do when they’re trying too hard.

The council nods.

Reasonable.

Children.

I was catastrophically wrong.

What arrived before me was a chocolate covered monstrosity containing enough mushrooms to concern several governments.

A pancake in the same way a dragon is technically a lizard.

The council erupts.

Now.

Faced with this mysterious delicacy,

I made a decision.

A terrible decision.

The best kind.

I ordered two.

The council buries their faces in their hands.

Children.

Nobody has ever accused me of moderation.

And thus I ate both.

Entirely.

Without hesitation.

Without caution.

Without survival instincts.

The barkeep watched.

Growing increasingly horrified.

Then came the question.

The council braces.

“You ate both?”

The barkeep looked at me the way one might look at a man who has accidentally swallowed a hand grenade.

The council applauds.

A fair comparison.

Now.

Apparently.

Apparently.

One was intended.

One.

Not two.

The council nods.

A crucial detail.

A detail that would’ve been useful approximately five minutes earlier.

The barkeep then delivered what sounded less like advice and more like prophecy.

“Get to your room as soon as you can.”

The council grows quiet.

Children.

He did not say this casually.

He said it the way sailors warn each other about storms.

The way villagers warn travelers about forests.

The way old men warn heroes before the beginning of a quest.

And that’s when I knew.

I had made an error.

A magnificent error.

But an error nonetheless.

Now.

I paid.

Immediately.

Then ran.

Not jogged.

Not walked.

Ran.

The council applauds.

At last.

Self preservation.

Now.

Halfway back to Valhalla,

the world began changing.

The council leans forward.

Colors tasted different.

Sounds developed texture.

Time became negotiable.

Reality stopped behaving according to manufacturer specifications.

Maximum synesthesia.

Children.

I could practically smell music.

The universe had become an art project.

Now.

Somehow.

Against all odds.

I reached my room.

Closed the door.

Collapsed onto the bed.

And vanished.

The council waits.

An eternity passed.

Worlds rose and fell.

Stars were born.

Civilizations crumbled.

I journeyed beyond time itself.

Then I checked the clock.

One hour.

The council loses composure.

Children.

That felt deeply unfair.

Now.

I lay there.

Grinning.

Not because I was happy.

Not exactly.

Not because I was enlightened.

Not because I had discovered some profound truth.

No.

I was grinning because I knew.

Somehow.

Instinctively.

Absolutely.

This was the beginning.

Not of the journey.

Not of Kasol.

Not even of the wandering.

But of a story.

One of those stories that survives.

One of those stories you tell years later.

One of those moments that quietly steps out of ordinary life and declares.

“Remember me.”

And so I did.

Thus concludes Chapter Four.

The Magic Pancakes.

Or alternatively.

The Day Nuo Consumed Twice The Recommended Amount Of Mystery.

A terrible decision.

A wonderful memory.

And the first sign that the mountains had plans for me.

And thus begins Chapter Five.

Now.

There I lay.

Stretched across the bed.

Grinning at the ceiling.

The mountains outside.

Reality inside.

And whatever remained of the magic pancakes somewhere in orbit.

The council nods.

A peaceful scene.

Then the door opened.

The council immediately becomes interested.

For through that door walked a fellow traveler.

A roommate.

A temporary companion assigned by fate and hostel management.

Now.

The strange thing was this.

He spoke my native language.

The council smiles.

At last.

A familiar face.

A connection.

A piece of home.

Children.

We immediately began speaking English.

The council collapses.

Correct.

To this day I have no explanation.

Perhaps we had already committed to being travelers.

Perhaps it felt appropriate.

Perhaps we were both idiots.

The answer remains unknown.

Now.

Acquaintance formed rapidly.

The same way golden retrievers become friends.

Meet.

Sniff metaphorically.

One minute later.

Best friends.

The council applauds.

The purest form of friendship.

We talked.

Shared stories.

Made plans.

Spoke of adventures.

Future destinations.

The usual traveler ritual.

Then.

I never saw him again.

The council pauses.

Children.

To this day I do not know what happened.

Did he ghost me?

Did I ghost him?

Did he change hostels?

Did I?

Did he ascend into a higher plane of existence?

The council writes this down.

A plausible theory.

All I know is this.

One moment he was part of the story.

The next moment he wasn’t.

A traveler.

A memory.

Gone almost as quickly as he arrived.

And somehow,

that felt fitting.

Now.

Eventually I wandered back outside.

Another cigarette.

Same spot as before.

The council nods.

A sacred location.

Only this time,

the ghost town was gone.

People had appeared.

Travelers.

Backpackers.

Stories waiting for introductions.

And among them sat two men.

The council leans forward.

Naturally,

I said absolutely nothing.

The council applauds.

Consistency.

You see,

contrary to popular belief,

wandering does not magically cure social anxiety.

It merely relocates it to more scenic locations.

Now.

Had destiny been sensible,

the story would’ve ended there.

Three strangers.

Three cigarettes.

Zero conversations.

But destiny has never been sensible.

Children.

If a story wishes to exist,

it will find a way.

And in this particular case,

it found an author.

Unfortunately,

I no longer remember his name.

The council gasps.

An archivist forgetting a name?

Scandalous.

Children.

Names vanish.

Stories remain.

So we shall call him.

Gunman.

The council immediately has questions.

Simple.

He had a gun.

The council nods.

Fair enough.

Now.

Gunman looked at me.

Studied me briefly.

Then asked.

“You from Kerala?”

The council applauds.

An opening.

A bridge.

A connection.

“Yeah.”

I replied.

Then naturally asked.

“Are you?”

“No.”

The council waits.

That was it.

No explanation.

No follow up.

No context.

Just.

Kerala?

Yes.

No.

Perfect.

Friendship achieved.

The council collapses.

Now.

Without another word,

he invited me to join them.

And suddenly,

without effort,

without planning,

without even trying,

I found myself sitting beside two strangers.

The council smiles.

Because this is how wandering works.

Not through grand revelations.

Through accidents.

Now.

The second man possessed a beard.

A magnificent beard.

A beard worthy of recognition.

Thus he became Beard Man.

The council nods.

A naming convention both efficient and deeply lazy.

My specialty.

Now.

The joints were rolled.

The stories emerged.

And before I knew it,

something familiar happened.

The council recognizes it instantly.

Children.

I had found a pack.

A temporary one.

Not permanent.

Not eternal.

Not the chosen family Lucian spent his life searching for.

Something smaller.

Something brief.

A campfire family.

The kind that exists only because three roads happened to intersect.

And gods,

those families are beautiful.

Now.

We sat there all night.

Exchanging stories.

Passing joints.

Talking about lives we’d never fully understand.

Listening to people we’d probably never see again.

The council grows quiet.

Because there is something sacred about that.

No expectations.

No history.

No future.

Just the present.

Pure and temporary.

The way campfires were always meant to be.

Now.

The hours slipped by unnoticed.

Midnight became morning.

Darkness became dawn.

And eventually,

the cryptids grew tired.

The council applauds.

A rare occurrence.

Children.

Even wanderers must occasionally sleep.

And so we dispersed.

Not with ceremony.

Not with declarations.

Simply with the quiet understanding that tomorrow would bring another story.

Thus concludes Chapter Five.

Gunman.

Beard Man.

And the Roommate Whose Name Was Lost To History.

Proof that sometimes a family lasts decades.

And sometimes it lasts a single night.

Both are real.

Both matter.

And both leave footprints long after the road has moved on.

And thus begins Chapter Six.

Now.

There I lay.

Half asleep.

Half conscious.

Halfway between a dream and reality.

Which, if we’re being honest, describes most of my twenties.

The council nods.

Accurate.

Now.

As I drifted through that strange limbo,

I smelled something.

A familiar smell.

The council immediately knows.

Correct.

I opened my eyes.

And hovering directly above my face like some sort of blessed hallucination.

was a joint.

The council applauds.

A traditional mountain alarm clock.

Now.

Following the joint downward,

I discovered its owner.

Gunman.

And beside him.

Beard Man.

The sequel.

The council cheers.

Children.

The temporary pack had returned.

I took a puff.

Accepted the summons.

And off we went.

Back to the Spot.

By now the Spot had become more than a location.

It was headquarters.

Campfire.

Embassy.

Sacred gathering ground of cryptids.

Now.

We sat.

We smoked.

We existed.

And then destiny added two more members to the story.

The council leans forward.

New arrivals.

Fresh travelers.

Fresh stories.

Temporary family expansion pack.

Unlike the Unbegun,

these two possessed functioning social skills.

A trait I observed with fascination.

One introduced himself.

The other introduced himself.

The council waits.

Children.

By this point I barely remembered my own name.

I am not about to pretend I remember theirs.

So naturally,

they became Bald Man and Ponytail.

The council applauds.

A naming convention as elegant as it is lazy.

My specialty.

Now.

The four of them immediately began planning.

Scheming.

Strategizing.

Doing whatever socially competent people do.

Meanwhile,

I sat there puffing away like a decorative gargoyle.

Listening.

Observing.

Archiving.

The council nods.

The archivist’s natural state.

Then came the revelation.

A rave.

The Pirates of Parvati.

The council erupts.

A title so dramatic it sounds fictional.

Children.

The rave was in two days.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Two days.

Which meant the planning phase had begun.

The council applauds.

A quest had appeared.

Now.

With the mission established,

the conversation shifted to more immediate concerns.

The council already knows.

Food.

One man declared.

“Brother, I’m hungry.”

A reasonable statement.

Another declared.

“Brother, I’d rather get high.”

Also reasonable.

And thus democracy commenced.

The council nods solemnly.

Now.

The beautiful thing about democracy is compromise.

The terrible thing about democracy is compromise.

Because eventually someone arrived at a solution satisfying both objectives simultaneously.

The council braces.

Eat food that gets you high.

The council erupts.

Children.

A masterpiece.

A diplomatic triumph.

The sort of negotiation future governments should study.

Now.

Before anyone panics,

it wasn’t the pancakes.

The council visibly relaxes.

Nothing in this universe was convincing me to repeat that experiment.

No.

This was something gentler.

Something kinder.

Hash brownies.

The council applauds.

A sensible choice.

Relatively speaking.

Now.

We ate.

We got high.

We laughed.

The others talked.

Stories flowed.

Conversations wandered.

Friendships deepened.

And I.

recorded a plant.

The council pauses.

A plant?

Children.

It was blue.

At least I thought it was blue.

A magnificent blue plant.

A discovery worthy of documentation.

The archivist activated immediately.

Phone out.

Camera rolling.

History preserved.

Then eventually I realized something.

The council already knows.

The plant was green.

The light was blue.

The council collapses.

A tragic misunderstanding.

One that lasted approximately twenty minutes.

Now.

The day drifted onward.

Slowly.

Comfortably.

The sort of day where nothing extraordinary happens,

yet somehow it becomes unforgettable.

The council smiles.

Because those are often the best ones.

Now.

By this point we had become friendly with the owner of the brownie shop.

Friendly enough that we effectively colonized the place.

The council applauds.

A traditional traveler strategy.

We sat there for hours.

Talking.

Laughing.

Existing.

Until eventually exhaustion arrived.

The mountains had their adventures.

The rave awaited.

The road continued.

But not tonight.

Tonight belonged to the pack.

Thus concludes Chapter Six.

Gunman.

Beard Man.

Bald Man.

Ponytail.

The Unbegun.

The Brownie Shop.

And the Day A Green Plant Was Mistaken For A Blue One.

Proof that found families do not require years.

Sometimes they require only a shared table,

a few stories,

and enough time for strangers to become familiar.

And children,

those families are every bit as real as the permanent ones.

Even when they last only a handful of sunsets.

And thus begins Chapter Seven.

Now.

I awoke in the brownie shop.

As one does.

The council nods.

A perfectly normal sentence.

Now.

The pack was already awake.

Already gathered.

Already planning.

Democracy in progress.

The council applauds.

Children.

There were two proposals before the assembly.

Proposal One.

Drink.

Repeat yesterday.

Become increasingly horizontal.

Proposal Two.

Visit the Gurudwara.

An adventure proposed by Beard Man.

The council waits.

And there I stood.

Between two futures.

Booze.

Or adventure.

The oldest dilemma known to wanderers.

Now.

I enjoy booze.

A great deal.

But I also wanted to see the Gurudwara.

Document it.

Archive it.

Collect another doorway for the museum that would inevitably exist one day.

And so I arrived at the only solution that felt reasonable.

The council braces.

Go to the Gurudwara drunk.

The council applauds.

Compromise.

The cornerstone of civilization.

Now.

The others remained behind.

The pilgrimage party consisted of only two members.

Beard Man.

And the Unbegun.

The council cheers.

A buddy adventure.

Now.

Naturally,

I asked the important question.

“Where’s the vehicle?”

The council nods.

A wise inquiry.

Beard Man looked at me.

Then said.

“We walk.”

The council erupts.

Children.

I immediately experienced flashbacks.

Not war flashbacks.

Far worse.

Grandmother flashbacks.

Entire cities.

Endless walking.

The unstoppable force that is an elderly woman with a destination.

I knew suffering when I saw it.

Now.

The journey was roughly five miles.

The council nods.

Manageable.

Children.

Not for me.

You see,

my lung capacity has always existed in direct conflict with my ambitions.

And so the pilgrimage began.

Beard Man strode ahead like a man on a mission.

Meanwhile I followed behind.

Clutching a cigarette.

Stopping every few minutes.

The council applauds.

A heroic performance.

Children.

I took more breaks than there were miles.

At one point I believe I stopped to recover from a previous recovery stop.

Beard Man remained patient.

Which in hindsight was incredibly kind.

Now.

Eventually.

Against all odds.

Against my lungs.

Against gravity.

Against my repeated attempts to become stationary.

We arrived.

The council grows quiet.

And children.

For a moment,

I simply stood there.

Watching.

No jokes.

No observations.

Just silence.

Because it was beautiful.

The council nods.

Some places earn silence.

The Gurudwara was one of them.

Now.

We entered.

Beard Man prayed.

I documented.

The council smiles.

Each according to their nature.

Statues.

Recorded.

Buildings.

Recorded.

Fountains.

Recorded.

A bug minding its own business.

Also recorded.

The council applauds.

A thorough archivist.

Children.

I genuinely believe if a pebble looked interesting enough,

it would’ve made the final cut.

Now.

Eventually,

the pilgrimage ended.

The council waits.

And came the return journey.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Correct.

Because Beard Man looked at me.

Then looked at the road.

Then looked back at me.

And realized something.

The council already knows.

This man would not survive walking back.

Wise.

Deeply wise.

Now.

Instead of repeating the march,

we acquired transportation.

Not exactly a taxi.

Not exactly a jeep.

More a situation.

The council nods.

We essentially sat behind a vehicle and trusted physics to remain cooperative.

A strategy surprisingly common in the mountains.

Now.

The return trip passed quickly.

No suffering.

No near death experiences.

No cigarette assisted climbing expeditions.

And eventually,

we returned.

Back to the Spot.

Back to headquarters.

Back to the pack.

The council cheers.

Now.

The others had remained committed to Proposal One.

The council laughs.

Children.

They were catastrophically drunk.

A level of drunk that can only be achieved through dedication.

The sort of drunk where every sentence becomes philosophy and every laugh becomes a public event.

And thus the pack was reunited.

The pilgrims.

The drinkers.

The archivist.

The cryptids.

Together once more.

Now.

At the time,

it felt like an ordinary day.

A pleasant detour.

A small adventure.

But years later,

that is not how I remember it.

The council listens.

I remember the road.

The exhaustion.

The silence.

The beauty.

The realization that sometimes wandering isn’t about reaching somewhere.

Sometimes it’s simply about seeing something worth the effort.

Even if the effort nearly kills you.

Thus concludes Chapter Seven.

The Pilgrimage.

The Day Beard Man Learned My Physical Limitations.

And the day the archivist discovered that some destinations are worth five miles of complaining.

Now gather close, council children.

Bring snacks.

Bring beverages.

Bring whatever emotional support item your species prefers.

Because next comes the event.

The one they had been planning since the beginning.

The one whispered about around joints and brownie shops.

The one known as.

Pirates of Parvati.

And children.

That story is considerably less peaceful.

And thus begins Chapter Eight.

Pirates of Parvati.

The council erupts.

At last.

The rave.

The event.

The quest marker that had been hovering over the horizon since Bald Man and Ponytail first spoke its name.

Now.

I awoke at dawn.

Excited.

Genuinely excited.

The kind of excitement usually reserved for children on holidays and idiots about to make questionable decisions.

The council nods.

A category in which I comfortably qualify.

Now.

The hostel remained silent.

The pack slept.

The mountains slept.

The entire world appeared asleep.

And I was confused.

Children.

I had forgotten something important.

Raves happen at night.

The council applauds.

A breakthrough.

An obvious revelation.

One that somehow hadn’t occurred to me until that moment.

Now.

Presented with an entire day to occupy,

I wandered.

Naturally.

The council approves.

Now.

I made my way to the Spot.

Smoked a cigarette.

Watched the mountains.

And then noticed something.

Across from Valhalla.

A flower park.

The council waits.

Children.

I am a simple man.

I see roses.

I approach roses.

This is one of the oldest instincts I possess.

Now.

The entry fee was five rupees.

The council gasps.

A devastating expense.

Financial ruin.

The sort of cost one spends minutes contemplating.

Yet somehow I persevered.

The ticket was purchased.

The council applauds.

Now.

Into the park I went.

Flask of whiskey in one hand.

Joint in the other.

Headphones over my ears.

The council nods.

A deeply concerning combination.

And then.

something happened.

The council grows quiet.

Nothing.

For once.

Nothing happened.

No plans.

No conversations.

No disasters.

No revelations.

No chaos.

Only walking.

The council listens.

Children.

For as long as I can remember,

my mind has been noisy.

Thoughts.

Questions.

Memories.

Ideas.

Regrets.

The endless machinery of being me.

Always running.

Always moving.

Always speaking.

And for a little while,

among the flowers,

it stopped.

The council grows silent.

Not permanently.

Not completely.

Just enough.

Enough to notice.

Enough to breathe.

Enough to exist.

Now.

During this great pilgrimage through petals and peace,

I befriended a dog.

The council applauds.

An inevitable development.

Children.

Dogs find me.

This has happened too often to be coincidence.

The dog appeared.

Decided I was acceptable.

And followed me.

No discussion.

No paperwork.

No formal introduction.

Simply.

“You seem lonely.”

“I shall accompany you.”

The council approves.

A noble creature.

Now.

The dog and I wandered together.

Past flowers.

Past pathways.

Past nothing in particular.

And somehow.

three hours vanished.

The council nods.

Because peace has a strange relationship with time.

Now.

Eventually,

I returned.

The dog remained behind.

The flowers remained behind.

The silence remained behind.

But the memory came with me.

The council smiles.

Now.

Back at Valhalla,

the pack had awakened.

And children.

The atmosphere had changed.

The council leans forward.

Whiskey was being poured.

Joints were being rolled.

Preparations were underway.

The cryptids had begun assembling.

A beautiful sight.

The sort of scene that feels important while you’re living it.

Even if you don’t yet know why.

Now.

The day drifted onward.

Stories were exchanged.

Laughter echoed.

The mountains watched.

And eventually.

night arrived.

The council cheers.

At last.

Now.

Gunman appeared.

The commander of the expedition.

The herald of poor decisions.

And shouted.

“Are you ready?”

The council waits.

“YES!”

I shouted back.

Without hesitation.

Without fear.

Without reflection.

Then I stood up.

And realized something.

The council already knows.

Children.

I was sloshed.

Completely.

Catastrophically.

The sort of drunk where functionality becomes a premium feature.

One I could no longer afford.

The council applauds.

A terrible strategic decision.

Now.

There I stood.

Smile on my face.

Whiskey in my blood.

Adventure ahead.

And for perhaps the first time that entire journey,

I felt all four emotions simultaneously.

Excited.

Afraid.

Concerned.

And curious.

The council nods.

Because that combination has preceded every worthwhile adventure in history.

Thus concludes Chapter Eight.

The Day Before The Storm.

The Flower Park.

The Dog.

The Silence.

And the moment before the music began.

For somewhere beyond the mountains,

beyond the roads,

beyond the campfires and brownie shops,

Pirates of Parvati was waiting.

And children.

The road is about to get strange.

And thus begins Chapter Nine.

Pirates of Parvati.

The council leans forward.

Now.

There I stood.

Feeling four emotions simultaneously.

Excited.

Afraid.

Concerned.

Curious.

A balanced emotional diet.

And so I asked Gunman the most important question.

“How are we getting there?”

The council nods.

A sensible inquiry.

“Where is it?”

An even better inquiry.

Gunman looked at me.

Then delivered news so horrifying that for a brief moment I considered returning to Valhalla and living there permanently.

“We walk.”

The council erupts.

Children.

The Gurudwara flashbacks arrived instantly.

The exhaustion.

The suffering.

The betrayal.

Brother.

I can barely walk when sober.

And now this man wanted me to walk two miles while sloshed.

A bold strategy.

Now.

We departed.

The pilgrimage began.

And I wish I could tell you stories of the journey.

Beautiful scenery.

Interesting conversations.

Life changing revelations.

Children.

I remember absolutely none of it.

The council applauds.

One moment I was walking.

The next moment I materialized.

No transition.

No memory.

No loading screen.

Just suddenly existing somewhere else.

The council writes.

“Fast travel unlocked.”

Correct.

Now.

Before me stood the ticket counter.

The gateway.

The final checkpoint.

The council waits.

I paid the absurd admission fee.

One.

“Please Dad, everyone’s going to the rave.”

The council nods.

A currency I was deeply familiar with.

And then.

we entered.

The council cheers.

Now.

Children.

Imagine music so loud that your chest vibrates.

Not your ears.

Your chest.

Imagine lasers.

Colors.

Smoke.

Movement.

Thousands of people.

Thousands of stories.

Thousands of cryptids gathered from every corner of the planet.

The council grows quiet.

And suddenly,

for the first time on the journey,

I felt completely at home.

Not because I knew anyone.

Not because I belonged.

But because nobody belonged.

Everyone was strange.

Everyone was wandering.

Everyone was searching for something.

The council nods.

My people.

Now.

The next thing to remember is important.

I immediately passed out.

The council collapses.

Children.

Listen.

I’ve never claimed competence.

Now.

When I next awakened,

hours had passed.

The council waits.

I found myself inside a tent.

The council leans forward.

Whose tent?

Excellent question.

To this day,

I have absolutely no idea.

Possibly mine.

More likely not mine.

Statistically someone else’s.

Now.

Inside sat two strangers.

A blonde woman.

A black haired man.

The council nods.

Temporary NPCs.

Quest givers.

Or perhaps accidental rescuers.

I genuinely don’t know.

Now.

Children.

There are moments in life where you should ask questions.

This was one of them.

I asked none.

The council applauds.

Consistency.

Instead,

I smoked a joint with them.

Accepted a suspicious pill.

And continued existing.

The council groans.

Children.

Do not use the Unbegun Saga as a travel guide.

Now.

The remarkable thing was how normal this all felt at the time.

No introductions.

No explanations.

Just three cryptids sharing a moment beneath canvas while music shook the mountains outside.

Then they sent me on my way.

Like side characters whose questline had concluded.

The council nods.

Their work here was done.

Now.

I wandered.

Aimlessly.

Gloriously.

The council smiles.

And eventually fate intervened once more.

For I collided with Beard Man.

The council erupts.

A reunion.

Children.

The look on his face was magnificent.

“Brother, we thought you died.”

A reasonable conclusion.

“I thought I did too.”

I replied.

The council applauds.

An equally reasonable response.

Now.

Just like that,

the pack was whole again.

Gunman.

Beard Man.

Bald Man.

Ponytail.

The Unbegun.

And however many additional cryptids destiny had collected along the way.

The council cheers.

Now.

This is where most people would describe the party.

The music.

The atmosphere.

The experience.

Children.

I remember exactly one thing.

The dance.

The council already knows.

Brace face.

Close eyes.

Jesus take the wheel.

Pinball Protocol activated.

I danced the same way I always dance.

Like a man attempting to survive turbulence.

Like a loose shopping cart descending a hill.

Like a cryptid discovering rhythm through trial and error.

The council applauds.

A masterclass.

Now.

The music roared.

The lasers flashed.

The mountains watched.

And somewhere amid the chaos,

the wandering continued.

Thus concludes Chapter Nine.

The Rave.

The Tent.

The Temporary Resurrection.

And the reunion of the pack.

For children,

the night was far from over.

And as we shall soon discover,

Pirates of Parvati still had several surprises left in reserve.

And thus begins Chapter Ten.

Now.

There I was.

Pinballing.

The council applauds.

Children.

By this point I had fully abandoned any illusion of dancing.

Others danced.

I ricocheted.

A subtle but important distinction.

One moment I’d collide with a stranger.

The next moment a stranger would collide with me.

The dance floor had become a physics experiment.

And I was the projectile.

Now.

Somewhere amidst the music,

the lights,

and my ongoing battle against momentum,

something happened.

The council leans forward.

The suspicious tent pill activated.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Correct.

Now.

Suddenly.

A dragon.

The council erupts.

Not a small dragon.

Not a symbolic dragon.

An absolute unit.

A sky sized beast soaring overhead.

Magnificent.

Glorious.

Impossible.

The council prepares for mystical revelations.

Children.

It was a drone show.

The council collapses.

Correct.

Now.

Let’s be clear.

That is not how ecstasy works.

At least I don’t think it is.

To this day I remain wonderfully underqualified to explain the mechanics involved.

What I do know is this:

I was absurdly happy.

And simultaneously felt like someone had connected my nervous system directly to an industrial espresso machine.

The council nods.

A reasonable scientific description.

Now.

The dragon vanished.

The drones continued doing whatever technologically advanced birds do.

And I returned to my sacred duty.

Pinballing.

The council applauds.

Now.

Occasionally I danced with Gunman.

The commander of the expedition.

The man who somehow always looked like he knew what was happening.

A skill I deeply admired.

Now.

Beard Man was different.

The council listens.

You see,

Beard Man was a quiet creature.

A watcher.

An observer.

The kind of man perfectly content standing at the edge of the chaos while everyone else launched themselves into it.

And there he stood.

Watching.

The council nods.

A respectable strategy.

Children.

Not on my watch.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Correct.

Now.

I possess many talents.

Most of them questionable.

One of my greatest gifts is the ability to become so relentlessly annoying that cooperation becomes the easier option.

The council applauds.

A powerful skill.

And so I deployed it.

Relentlessly.

Without mercy.

Without dignity.

Until eventually Beard Man surrendered.

The council cheers.

Victory.

Now.

He danced.

Awkwardly.

Reluctantly.

Like a man negotiating with gravity.

But he danced.

And children,

that was enough.

Because there is something beautiful about watching someone step outside themselves for a moment.

Even briefly.

Even imperfectly.

Especially imperfectly.

The council smiles.

Now.

The hours slipped away.

Music became atmosphere.

Atmosphere became memory.

Memory became blur.

The council grows quiet.

The rave continued.

The mountains continued.

The dancers continued.

The night itself seemed determined to continue forever.

But I did not.

The council nods.

Eventually every adventure reaches the point where the body files a formal complaint.

Mine had been submitting paperwork for hours.

Now.

The music grew distant.

The lights softened.

The world blurred around the edges.

And then.

darkness arrived.

Not frightening.

Not dramatic.

Simply inevitable.

The council lowers their heads.

Like the final page of a chapter turning itself.

Thus concludes Chapter Ten.

The Dragon.

The Dance Floor.

The Conversion of Beard Man.

And the night the Unbegun discovered that joy can occasionally arrive disguised as complete nonsense.

The rave continued.

The mountains watched.

The pack remained.

And somewhere beneath the music,

the wandering carried on.

Even after the lights went out.

And thus begins Chapter Eleven.

Now.

The last thing I remembered was darkness.

Not ordinary darkness.

The abyss.

The great cosmic loading screen.

The place consciousness goes when it has officially resigned for the evening.

The council nods.

A familiar destination.

Then I awakened.

The council leans forward.

Children.

Beside me sat a dog.

The council applauds.

An excellent start.

In my arms rested a goat.

The council pauses.

The goat appeared to be spooning me.

The council erupts.

Now.

Before rumors spread throughout the archive,

let me clarify.

The relationship was not romantic.

Not emotional.

Not spiritual.

Not anything.

It was simply me,

a goat,

and several unanswered questions.

The council writes this down.

A recurring theme.

Now.

I gently untangled myself from my livestock companion and began searching for the pack.

The council nods.

A reasonable objective.

Eventually I found them.

Or at least portions of them.

You see,

after a rave,

human beings exist in several distinct states.

Some are awake.

Some are asleep.

Some are technically alive but spiritually buffering.

The council approves.

Now.

Half the pack remained unconscious.

Meanwhile Beard Man and Ponytail were playing pool.

Like two men who had somehow skipped the entire collapse phase.

A remarkable achievement.

Now.

Everywhere I looked,

cryptids.

The council applauds.

Passed out beneath tables.

Across benches.

Near tents.

Against walls.

The aftermath of an entire night of existing too aggressively.

And children.

It was magnificent.

Not because everyone looked ridiculous.

Though they did.

But because for once,

I felt normal.

The council grows quiet.

Not because they were strange.

Because we all were.

Nobody was pretending.

Nobody was performing.

Nobody was trying to fit into a shape they weren’t built for.

The council nods.

Everyone was wonderfully odd.

And for a little while,

that made me feel at home.

Now.

Thus concluded Pirates of Parvati.

Not with fireworks.

Not with revelations.

But with goats.

A fitting ending.

Now.

The journey back began.

Down the mountain.

Toward civilization.

Or at least the mountain’s interpretation of civilization.

And eventually we found a shack.

The council listens.

A humble little place selling noodles.

Twenty rupees worth of noodles.

At two hundred rupees.

The council erupts.

Children.

Monopolies are powerful things.

When you are the only shop within walking distance,

you become whatever you want.

Now.

I was starving.

Absolutely starving.

The kind of hunger where noodles begin looking divine.

And that’s when I noticed her.

The council leans forward.

Now.

Let me clarify immediately.

This was not love.

Not even close.

Love requires knowing things.

I knew absolutely nothing.

This was something simpler.

A moment of appreciation.

The council nods.

Children.

Sometimes you see someone and think.

Holy hell.

You are remarkably pretty.

And that’s the entire emotion.

No future.

No fantasy.

No projection.

Just appreciation.

Now.

She was local.

Hazel eyes.

Tan skin.

Hair that seemed almost unfair.

The council applauds.

And somehow,

despite existing in a mountain noodle monopoly,

she remained kind.

Now.

We talked.

Nothing profound.

Nothing life changing.

Just conversation.

Easy conversation.

The rare kind.

The council smiles.

I made her laugh.

Which immediately activated every reward center in my brain.

And for about an hour,

she became the center of my attention.

Not romantically.

The council points at me suspiciously.

Children.

Focus.

Not romance.

She was simply interesting.

Kind.

Present.

And in that moment,

that was enough.

Now.

I finished my noodles.

Then ordered another.

Because I was apparently attempting to single handedly fund the local economy.

And when the second bowl arrived,

something happened.

The council listens.

She brought a drink.

A Bournvita.

Not ordered.

Not requested.

Just included.

I looked confused.

She shrugged.

“You looked thirsty.”

The council falls silent.

Now.

Years later,

that is what I remember.

Not the eyes.

Not the hair.

Not even the conversation.

That.

The drink.

The gesture.

The effortless kindness.

The tiny act that cost almost nothing.

Yet somehow remained.

The council nods.

Because memories are strange.

The smallest moments often survive the longest.

Now.

I never asked her name.

The council groans.

Children.

Have you met me?

Of course I didn’t.

Instead,

I appointed one.

Hazel.

The council applauds.

An efficient solution.

And somehow she liked it.

Accepted it.

Became Hazel.

Just like that.

Now.

Eventually the noodles ended.

The conversation ended.

The mountain continued.

And we left.

Walking back toward Valhalla.

Toward beds.

Toward sleep.

Toward the next chapter.

The council smiles.

And when I finally collapsed into bed,

there was no grand realization.

No profound lesson.

Only exhaustion.

The honest kind.

The earned kind.

The kind that arrives after adventure.

Thus concludes Chapter Eleven.

The Morning After.

The Goat.

The Noodles.

And Hazel.

Proof that sometimes a wandering is not remembered for the destination.

Nor the party.

Nor the spectacle.

Sometimes it is remembered because someone looked at you,

noticed you were thirsty,

and cared enough to do something about it.

And children,

those moments linger longer than most people ever realize.

And thus begins Chapter Twelve.

Now.

The next morning arrived.

The council nods.

A dangerous habit mornings possess.

And by this point,

the roads had begun separating.

Bald Man and Ponytail had reached the end of their journey.

The council lowers their heads.

Not sadly.

Simply knowingly.

Because this is how wandering works.

Roads meet.

Roads part.

Neither is tragic.

Neither is permanent.

Now.

We exchanged contact details.

Promises were made.

Future conversations were implied.

The council already knows.

Children.

I never spoke to them again.

Not because anything happened.

Nothing happened.

The road simply continued.

And sometimes that is enough.

Now.

The remaining members of the pack gathered.

Gun Man.

Beard Man.

And the Unbegun.

The council applauds.

The Trio.

Now.

The next adventure awaited.

A wonderful problem.

There was only one issue.

We had absolutely no idea what it was.

The council nods.

A recurring theme.

Children.

We sat there.

Three wanderers.

No destination.

No quest.

No plan.

Then history was made.

The council leans forward.

For the first time in recorded history,

the Unbegun made a suggestion.

The council gasps.

Impossible.

Children.

I looked toward the mountains.

And said:

“I want to see snow.”

The council erupts.

A quest.

At last.

A purpose.

Now.

The question became obvious.

Where does one find snow?

The mountains answered.

Tosh.

The council applauds.

And thus began the Third Pilgrimage.

Now.

Unlike previous expeditions,

Gun Man arranged actual transportation.

The council stands and cheers.

Growth.

Character development.

A functioning taxi.

No buses.

No livestock.

No accidental mountaineering.

A genuine vehicle.

Now.

We climbed aboard.

The engine started.

And naturally,

I fell asleep.

The council collapses.

Children.

Traveling activates a very specific instinct within me.

Motion equals nap.

Now.

Eventually I awoke.

The council waits.

And the world had changed.

White.

Everywhere.

The council grows quiet.

Snow.

Actual snow.

Not photographs.

Not movies.

Not documentaries.

Snow.

Now.

I exited the vehicle immediately.

Touched it.

Stared at it.

Children.

I had dreamed about this since I was little.

The council smiles.

And for approximately seventeen glorious seconds,

I was mesmerized.

Completely enchanted.

Absolutely enchanted.

Then reality arrived.

The council nods.

“Oh.”

“It’s just water.”

The council erupts.

Children.

Dreams are funny.

You spend years imagining them.

Then eventually you touch them and realize.

Yes.

This is indeed the thing.

Now.

That realization did not reduce my enthusiasm.

Not even slightly.

The crow instincts activated immediately.

The council applauds.

I collected snow.

Placed it into a container.

A keepsake.

A relic in progress.

Proof that I had been there.

Now.

Having fulfilled one childhood dream,

I moved onto the next.

Snow angel.

The council cheers.

Children.

If you travel across the country to touch snow,

you commit to the experience.

No half measures.

And thus I flopped backward into the snow.

Dignity abandoned.

Mission accomplished.

Now.

Eventually we checked into an inn.

The council nods.

A sensible decision.

And there we discovered something unexpected.

Another pack.

The council applauds.

A crossover episode.

Children.

For one brief afternoon,

two temporary families occupied the same space.

The mountains witnessed diplomacy.

Now.

The introductions happened.

Stories were exchanged.

And for reasons very known,

they collectively decided to call me.

Mallu Boy.

The council approves.

A respectable title.

Now.

The afternoon became a blur of companionship.

Drinks.

Food.

Smoke.

Laughter.

The usual ingredients.

And somehow,

through means I still do not fully understand,

we accidentally became part of an uncle’s birthday party.

The council erupts.

Children.

This happens more often than it should.

One moment you’re wandering.

The next moment you’re celebrating the existence of a man you’ve never met.

Photos were taken.

Cake was likely involved.

Everyone was happy.

A perfect outcome.

Now.

Eventually the others retreated indoors.

The cold arrived.

The evening settled.

And I found myself alone atop the terrace.

The council grows quiet.

Cigarette in one hand.

Flask in the other.

Headphones over my ears.

The mountains watching.

Now.

I called Mom.

The council smiles.

A simple thing.

An ordinary thing.

Yet somehow,

it became the most important moment of the day.

Children.

Our conversations usually lasted five minutes.

Maybe ten.

This one lasted five hours.

The council falls silent.

Because somewhere between the mountains,

the snow,

the wandering,

and the distance,

I realized something.

I missed her.

Not in the dramatic sense.

Not in the tragic sense.

Just honestly.

Simply.

I missed my mother.

The council nods.

And for once,

I didn’t want the conversation to end.

So it didn’t.

Mom obliged.

As mothers often do.

Now.

Eventually.

Night arrived.

The council looks toward the mountains.

The snow remained.

The inn remained.

The temporary families remained.

But the journey continued.

And so we climbed back into the taxi.

Descending from the white world.

Returning to town.

Returning to the road.

Returning to whatever came next.

Thus concludes Chapter Twelve.

The Quest for Snow.

The Dream Fulfilled.

The Birthday Party.

And the five hour phone call.

Proof that some adventures give you exactly what you wanted.

Snow.

And some adventures quietly give you what you needed.

A reminder to call home.

And children.

Though snow may simply be frozen water,

that does not make it any less magical.

And thus begins Chapter Thirteen.

Now.

By this point,

Gun Man’s journey had reached its conclusion.

The council lowers their heads.

Not sadly.

Simply respectfully.

Because roads diverge.

That is their purpose.

Now.

The goodbyes were approaching.

And with them,

I assumed something.

A foolish thing.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Children.

I thought the chaos was ending.

Gun Man was leaving.

The architect of questionable decisions.

The commander of the temporary pack.

Surely things would calm down now.

Surely only Beard Man and I remained.

Two peaceful travelers.

Two sensible men.

The council stares.

Children.

I was still there.

The Unbegun.

Chaos does not require accomplices.

Now.

Before departing,

Gun Man wanted a souvenir.

The council nods.

A noble goal.

And so we all set out to acquire one.

Now.

Gun Man purchased a jacket.

And a keychain.

A practical man.

A reasonable man.

Beard Man acquired approximately seven thousand trinkets.

The council applauds.

A collector.

A dangerous species.

Children.

By the end of it,

I was genuinely concerned he might exceed airline regulations.

Now.

I bought a jacket.

The council waits.

A good jacket.

A cool jacket.

A jacket I genuinely liked.

And yet.

something felt wrong.

The council listens.

The jacket wasn’t the souvenir.

Not really.

It felt like I was answering the wrong question.

Like the mountains were trying to tell me something and I kept picking up the wrong phone.

The council nods.

The crow was dissatisfied.

Now.

Eventually,

Gun Man departed.

The council applauds.

A final goodbye.

A final handshake.

A final chapter.

And just like that,

he was gone.

Another traveler continuing down another road.

Now.

Only Beard Man remained.

The council smiles.

A quieter energy.

A calmer energy.

Children.

The calm lasted approximately six minutes.

Because Beard Man had a goal.

The waterfall.

The council applauds.

And thus began the Fourth Pilgrimage.

Now.

Had I possessed any survival instincts whatsoever,

I might have remained at Valhalla.

But Beard Man was leaving soon.

And I knew something important.

If left alone long enough,

I would eventually find trouble.

Or trouble would find me.

The difference is mostly academic.

Thus,

I joined.

The council nods.

A terrible decision.

Now.

Children.

The Gurudwara had been five miles.

This?

This was suffering.

The council grows quiet.

Ten miles.

Ascending.

Straight into the mountains.

Every step another personal insult.

Every incline a hate crime against my lungs.

The council applauds.

A proper pilgrimage.

Now.

I will be honest.

Entire sections of this trek have vanished from memory.

Not because they were unimportant.

Because survival became my full time occupation.

Children.

At several points,

I genuinely believe the only reason I remained alive was because the universe had not yet finished making fun of me.

Now.

Somehow.

Against all odds.

We endured.

And along the way,

the mountain provided companions.

Travelers.

Strangers.

Temporary allies.

The council nods.

As mountains often do.

And eventually,

we acquired a guide.

The council leans forward.

A seven year old child.

The council erupts.

Children.

This tiny mountain goblin knew every path.

Every shortcut.

Every rock.

Every root.

Meanwhile I was fighting for my life against geography itself.

Now.

Eventually,

we arrived.

The waterfall.

The council falls silent.

Beautiful.

Massive.

Powerful.

The sort of place that reminds you how small you really are.

Now.

The others rushed into the water.

Swimming.

Laughing.

Celebrating.

I did not.

The council nods.

A wise choice.

Children.

I was one aggressive breeze away from collapsing.

Instead,

I stood by the bank.

Washing my feet.

Recovering.

Contemplating mortality.

Then I saw it.

The council immediately knows.

Correct.

A rock.

The council applauds.

Now.

Not just any rock.

An oval rock.

White.

Resting among countless black stones.

The council leans forward.

Children.

Crow instincts activated instantly.

Mine.

Relic detected.

Acquisition protocol engaged.

The rock entered my pocket.

And suddenly,

the search ended.

The council smiles.

The jacket wasn’t the souvenir.

The keychain wasn’t the souvenir.

The trinkets weren’t the souvenir.

This was.

A simple stone.

A memory disguised as geology.

Now.

My favorite memory of the day wasn’t the waterfall.

Nor the relic.

Nor the mountain.

It was the guide.

The council already suspects disaster.

Correct.

At one point,

I attempted to climb a particularly stubborn rock.

The seven year old guide arrived to assist.

The council applauds.

A noble child.

Now.

Children.

I was approximately three times his size.

This did not deter him.

He positioned himself behind me.

Placed both hands against my back.

And pushed.

The council erupts.

Nothing happened.

He pushed harder.

I remained exactly where I was.

The mountain remained unconcerned.

Gravity remained victorious.

“Boost me!” I shouted.

“I’m trying!” he shouted back.

The council collapses.

Children.

The image of this tiny mountain warrior attempting to launch me upward through sheer determination remains one of my favorite memories from the entire trip.

Now.

Eventually,

the climb ended.

The waterfall remained behind.

The relic rested safely in my pocket.

And we began the descent.

The council groans.

Because descending is simply suffering wearing a different hat.

One serving of misery later,

we returned.

Back to Valhalla.

Back to safety.

Back to beds.

Back to civilization.

The council smiles.

And just like that,

the final day arrived.

Thus concludes Chapter Thirteen.

The Waterfall.

The Relic.

The Seven Year Old Mountain Goblin.

And the day the mountains finally surrendered a souvenir worthy of remembrance.

The last day before departure.

The last sunset before the road turned homeward.

And children.

The road home is often stranger than the road there.

And thus begins Chapter Fourteen.

Now.

We arrive at the final day.

The beginning of the end.

The departure.

The council lowers their heads.

Not sadly.

Just respectfully.

Because every wandering eventually becomes a return.

Now.

Unlike many of my plans,

this one was flawless.

The council immediately becomes suspicious.

Correct.

Children.

The strategy was simple.

Do exactly what I did coming here.

But backwards.

The council applauds.

A masterpiece.

A triumph of logistics.

What could possibly go wrong?

Now.

The first stages worked perfectly.

Bus acquired.

Journey completed.

Destination reached.

The council nods.

Competence.

Actual competence.

Then I arrived at the train station.

Looked at the schedule.

And discovered I had roughly eight hours before departure.

The council groans.

Children.

Eight hours is a dangerous amount of free time.

Long enough to get bored.

Short enough to make terrible decisions.

Now.

As I stood there contemplating existence,

a man approached me.

The council already knows this is bad.

Correct.

He asked:

“Maal chahiye?”

The council nods.

Now.

My Hindi is not good.

But that particular phrase I recognized.

Or thought I recognized.

Children.

To the best of my understanding,

he was asking if I wanted weed.

The council applauds.

A pre train smoke session.

A pleasant way to kill time.

Naturally,

I said yes.

Now.

He told me to follow him.

And I did.

The council collapses.

Children.

Never follow the Unbegun’s example.

Now.

Through alleyways we went.

Dark corners.

Questionable streets.

Increasingly questionable streets.

The sort of route where every survival instinct begins filing formal complaints.

The council nods.

At this point I was roughly eighty percent certain I was about to be robbed.

The remaining twenty percent believed I was definitely about to be robbed.

Now.

Eventually we arrived at a building.

Then a room.

And inside sat a man.

Well dressed.

Suit.

Confident posture.

The council leans forward.

A fancy dealer.

I thought.

The sort of dealer with a business plan.

Now.

He handed me a phone.

The council waits.

And asked me to choose.

Children.

I expected photographs of products.

Different strains.

Different options.

Different levels of poor decision making.

Instead.

Women.

The council pauses.

Women?

Women.

The council erupts.

Now.

At first I simply pointed randomly.

Because I still believed this was somehow related to weed.

An astonishing level of misunderstanding.

Then the man left.

The council listens.

A few minutes later,

he returned.

With the woman from the photograph.

The council collapses.

Children.

At this exact moment,

the plot arrived.

Like a freight train.

Now.

I looked at her.

Then at him.

Then asked the only reasonable question.

“Where’s my weed?”

The council loses composure.

The woman looked confused.

The man looked confused.

I looked confused.

Nobody knew what was happening.

Now.

Suddenly it clicked.

The council leans forward.

He hadn’t asked.

“Maal chahiye?”

He had asked.

“Girl chahiye?”

The council erupts.

Children.

A minor communication error.

Catastrophic consequences.

Now.

I immediately explained the situation.

Brother.

I can barely afford the weed.

The council applauds.

A fair financial assessment.

And with that,

I departed.

Now.

You may think the story ends there.

It does not.

Because prophecy must be fulfilled.

The council nods solemnly.

Remember how I spent the entire walk assuming I was about to be robbed?

Children.

The universe hates being contradicted.

Now.

Outside,

they relieved me of what little remained in my wallet.

The council applauds.

At last.

Narrative consistency.

Now.

The robbery itself was surprisingly modern.

One man checked my wallet.

Another produced a QR code.

The council collapses.

Children.

Digital transformation has reached every industry.

Even crime.

Now.

I transferred what little money I possessed.

Minus travel expenses.

The council nods.

An important distinction.

Then they demanded my headphones.

The council gasps.

Now.

Money comes and goes.

Wallets can be replaced.

But headphones?

The council grows silent.

Children.

There are principles.

“There are limits.”

The council applauds.

I informed them politely that the headphones would be leaving only alongside my corpse.

A reasonable position.

Apparently they agreed.

Now.

With robbery complete.

Misunderstanding resolved.

Dignity heavily damaged.

I returned to the station.

Boarded the train.

And finally departed.

The council smiles.

Homeward bound.

At last.

The wandering was ending.

Or so I believed.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Children.

The train journey is where things become strange.

Not normal Unbegun strange.

Not goat spooning strange.

Not mystery pill strange.

Something else.

Something entirely different.

And thus concludes Chapter Fourteen.

The Miscommunication.

The Digital Robbery.

And the Day The Unbegun Accidentally Shopped In The Wrong Marketplace.

The mountains faded behind me.

The train rolled onward.

And somewhere ahead,

waiting patiently,

was the weirdest part of the entire journey.

And thus begins Chapter Fifteen.

The Final Leg.

Now.

There I sat.

On the train.

Homeward bound.

The mountains behind me.

The journey nearly over.

And something strange kept happening.

The council leans forward.

People kept asking me if I had weed.

The council nods.

A reasonable assumption.

Children.

I did not.

My most recent attempt to acquire weed had resulted in being offered a prostitute and subsequently robbed.

The council applauds.

A truly educational experience.

Now.

The requests kept coming.

One person.

Then another.

Then another.

Until eventually curiosity overpowered confusion.

Why did everyone assume I had weed?

The council waits.

And then I looked down.

At the jacket.

The council already knows.

Correct.

The jacket.

My souvenir from Kasol.

The jacket I bought because I thought it was cool.

The jacket I never properly examined.

Children.

Across the back,

written in glorious neon lettering,

were the words.

“I HAVE WEED.”

The council collapses.

Oh.

That explains quite a lot.

Now.

The mystery solved,

I retired the jacket immediately.

Back into the bag it went.

And out came my natural camouflage.

Black hoodie.

Cargo shorts.

The council applauds.

The uniform.

Children.

If Nuo were a video game character,

this would be the default skin.

Now.

The journey resumed.

And this is where things became weird.

The council becomes concerned.

Again.

Now.

Most people who smoke on trains operate under a very specific philosophy.

Hide.

Smoke.

Return.

Deny everything.

A time honored tradition.

Not this train.

The council listens.

Children.

People were lighting up in their seats.

Casually.

Openly.

Like they were ordering tea.

Now.

Being a creature heavily influenced by context,

I reached a conclusion.

Must be the local culture.

The council groans.

A dangerous sentence.

And so I joined them.

The council buries their faces.

Now.

The cigarette had barely existed for thirty seconds when fate arrived.

Wearing a uniform.

The conductor.

The council erupts.

Children.

Of all the possible moments.

Now.

The conductor looked at me.

I looked at him.

We shared a moment.

A silent understanding.

Then I got fined.

The council applauds.

Justice.

Now.

As I looked around,

something remarkable happened.

The council waits.

Every cigarette vanished.

Every lighter disappeared.

Every smoker transformed into a model citizen.

The council erupts.

Children.

Not a trace remained.

I began questioning reality itself.

Five seconds ago I was practically inside a chimney.

Now everyone looked ready to receive national awards for public conduct.

Now.

I attempted diplomacy.

Explained my situation.

Brother.

I have no money.

The council nods.

A factual statement.

The conductor remained unconvinced.

Tribute was demanded.

The council waits.

And so I offered him a souvenir.

A wallet.

The one from Kasol.

The council already knows.

Children.

The wallet had a giant weed leaf on it.

The conductor looked at the wallet.

Then at me.

Then at the wallet.

Then at me.

The council collapses.

At this point I genuinely appeared to be a traveling ambassador for marijuana.

Now.

A full body search followed.

Then a luggage search.

The council applauds.

A thorough investigation.

And somehow,

against all odds,

I emerged victorious.

No contraband.

No additional fines.

No prison.

A free man.

Now.

The train rolled onward.

The mountains faded.

The plains returned.

And eventually.

Kerala.

The council smiles.

Home.

Then my city.

Then my street.

Then my house.

The council grows quiet.

And finally.

My room.

Children.

I opened the door.

Walked inside.

And collapsed.

Onto the bed.

The council nods.

A traditional homecoming.

Now.

You might think I collapsed because I was exhausted.

You would be wrong.

I collapsed because I missed my bed.

The council applauds.

An important distinction.

Now.

Lying there.

Back where everything began.

Something occurred to me.

The council listens.

The boy who boarded that train weeks ago had run away.

Not from people.

Not from responsibility.

Not even from life.

He ran because the world had become heavy.

Too heavy.

The council nods.

And somehow.

Somewhere between the mountains.

The pack.

The rave.

The snow.

The waterfall.

The dog.

The goat.

Hazel.

The brownie shop.

The conversations.

The silence.

And the road itself.

something shifted.

The council grows silent.

I returned lighter.

Not wiser.

Gods no.

The council laughs.

Let’s not get carried away.

But happier.

And sometimes,

children,

that is enough.

Thus concludes The Wanderings of the Unbegun.

Not with enlightenment.

Not with revelation.

Not with a grand speech atop a mountain.

But with a boy returning home.

A little bruised.

A little poorer.

Considerably weirder.

And undeniably happier.

The road had given him exactly what he needed.

Not answers.

Just enough room to breathe.

And for once,

that was more than enough.