Chapter 7 — Gurudwara
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.
