Chapter 2 — Bus
And thus begins Chapter Two.
Now, children.
There I stood.
At the bus station.
The same bus station.
The same battlefield where legitimate ticket vendors and scammers had once gathered beneath a sacred covenant requiring them to look completely indistinguishable from one another.
The council remembers.
Children.
Surely,
after one entire wandering,
after mountains,
after strangers,
after being robbed through a QR code,
after surviving transportation systems powered by both engines and livestock,
I had grown.
Surely I was wiser now.
More cautious.
More observant.
More capable of identifying legitimate public transportation.
The council waits.
Nay.
I selected the closest man.
Again.
The council collapses.
Children.
Character development is not always linear.
Sometimes the character develops directly back into the same idiot.
Now.
The negotiation began.
I spoke English.
He appeared to possess approximately the same amount of English as I possessed Hindi.
And thus,
once again,
human civilization returned to its earliest form.
Pointing.
Nodding.
Single words.
Confident noises.
The council prepares the transcript.
“Rishikesh.”
“Rishikesh?”
“Yes.”
“Rishikesh.”
“Yes.”
The council applauds.
Language conquered.
Diplomacy restored.
The man produced a QR code.
The council immediately becomes concerned.
Children.
You would think QR codes would trigger some sort of trauma response in me by now.
They do not.
Apparently my brain has classified financial danger under:
“Things We Will Worry About Afterwards.”
I scanned it.
Transferred the money.
And followed him.
The council sighs.
Again.
Now.
Naturally,
buses are generally located inside bus stations.
This is a concept so obvious that even I understand it.
Which is why I became slightly concerned when this man led me away from the buses.
And toward
something else.
The council leans forward.
Children.
Imagine an auto rickshaw.
Now remove every feature suggesting the manufacturer cared whether the passengers survived.
Remove the walls.
Remove anything resembling structural reassurance.
Keep two seats.
A motor.
And what appeared to be the skeletal remains of an auto that had died bravely in a previous life.
The council pauses.
Behold.
The tuk tuk.
The council erupts.
Now.
The driver appeared extremely proud of this machine.
I was less certain it qualified as transportation.
It looked like someone had discovered several pieces of metal behind a garage and thought:
Yes.
Humans can sit on this.
But children,
sit I did.
Because apparently purchasing a ticket from a stranger and entering his motorized skeleton carriage felt like the natural continuation of my afternoon.
Then we moved.
The council braces.
Holy hell.
We moved.
This man drove like an organ had been harvested twenty minutes ago and somewhere across the city a surgeon was checking his watch.
The council erupts.
Cars?
Obstacles.
Motorcycles?
Suggestions.
Other tuk tuks?
Target practice.
Children.
We rammed into things.
Not metaphorically.
Actually.
A car.
A bike.
Another tuk tuk.
The council gasps.
And every single time,
something remarkable happened.
The drivers would look at each other.
Laugh.
Perhaps exchange several words I lacked the linguistic qualifications to interpret.
And continue driving.
The council falls silent.
Gods.
What a city.
Where I came from,
a minor collision could produce an argument spanning three generations.
Here,
two vehicles attempted partial fusion,
everyone laughed,
and traffic continued.
The council writes this down.
Cultural adaptation required.
Now.
At first,
I found this exhilarating.
Then we kept driving.
And driving.
And driving.
The city began thinning.
Buildings became fewer.
People disappeared.
Civilization slowly retreated behind us.
The council grows concerned.
As did I.
Children.
I had paid this man.
Followed him willingly.
Climbed aboard his exposed engine death chariot.
And was now being transported increasingly far away from every place containing witnesses.
The conclusion seemed obvious.
I had sold myself.
The council pauses.
Worse.
I had apparently paid the buyer.
The council collapses.
There are scams.
There are kidnappings.
And then there is whatever advanced economic model I had accidentally participated in.
Now.
I began reviewing my choices.
Perhaps I should ask where we were going.
Perhaps I should insist he stop.
Perhaps I should attempt escape.
The council waits.
I did none of these things.
Naturally.
Instead,
I remained seated,
watching the landscape pass,
quietly wondering how much the human kidney currently fetched on the open market.
Then,
in the distance,
I saw something.
The council leans forward.
A bus.
An actual bus.
Children.
Not a skeleton.
Not livestock.
Not two chairs welded to an engine.
A bus.
A magnificent,
air conditioned,
fully enclosed bus.
The council cheers.
Civilization!
The tuk tuk screeched toward it.
My driver jumped out.
Approached the conductor.
And negotiations began.
The council listens.
Rapid Hindi.
Pointing.
More rapid Hindi.
Gestures toward me.
Gestures toward the bus.
More pointing.
Children.
For approximately five minutes,
I stood nearby like cargo whose shipping label had become damaged.
Then suddenly,
the negotiations ended.
The driver pointed toward the bus.
The conductor pointed toward a seat.
And somehow,
I had been transferred.
The council applauds.
The ancient relay system returns.
No paperwork.
No explanation.
No understanding whatsoever.
And yet,
transportation achieved.
Now.
I sat down.
Air conditioning washed over me.
The seat was comfortable.
The road stretched ahead.
And naturally,
my body made a suggestion.
Sleep.
The council screams.
NO.
Children.
I remembered.
I remembered what happens when the Unbegun sleeps on buses.
Stops disappear.
Destinations migrate.
Livestock becomes involved.
History had taught me a lesson.
And for perhaps the second time in recorded existence,
I listened.
The council applauds.
Growth!
Actual growth!
I fought sleep.
My eyelids descended.
I raised them.
My head dropped.
I recovered.
My body begged.
I refused.
Children.
It was a heroic battle.
Man versus biology.
Willpower versus exhaustion.
And for once,
willpower won.
Thank gods.
Because halfway through the journey,
the conductor looked toward me.
And said something.
The council pauses.
I understood none of it.
But the gestures were universal.
Get out.
The council erupts.
Children.
Imagine if I had been asleep.
I would have awakened three cities later,
started a completely different volume,
and Rishikesh would have become an unresolved subplot.
Instead,
I exited.
And there,
waiting beside the road,
was another tuk tuk.
The council sighs.
Of course there was.
The sequel.
Now.
I climbed aboard.
Because at this point,
resistance felt theatrical.
The motor screamed.
The driver accelerated.
And death ride number two commenced.
Children.
I will spare you the details.
Partly because my memory has blurred them.
Partly because I believe certain moments are removed from human consciousness as a protective mechanism.
But eventually,
the tuk tuk slowed.
The roads opened.
The mountains appeared.
The river revealed itself.
And suddenly,
there I was.
Rishikesh.
The council grows quiet.
Beautiful.
That is the first word I remember.
Not spiritual.
Not profound.
Not transformative.
Beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that makes you stop searching for vocabulary.
Mountains rising around the city.
The Ganga cutting through it.
Temples.
Bridges.
People.
Noise.
Color.
Smoke.
Prayer.
Movement.
Everything somehow existing at once.
The council watches.
I had arrived.
Properly this time.
No projectile exit.
No face first introduction to geography.
A surprisingly dignified entrance.
Now.
Most travelers,
upon arriving somewhere new,
perform several sensible tasks.
Find accommodation.
Check into a hostel.
Put down their luggage.
Perhaps locate a nice affordable Zostel.
Shower.
Rest.
Establish basic survival infrastructure.
The council looks at me.
Children.
Have you learned nothing?
I found a dog.
The council erupts.
Correct.
Accommodation could wait.
There was a dog.
Priorities.
Now.
I approached him.
Naturally.
Spoke to him.
Naturally.
I don’t remember exactly what I said.
Probably something deeply intellectual such as:
“Hello, brother.”
The council nods.
Diplomatic relations established.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
And then he began walking.
The council watches carefully.
So I followed him.
Children.
There was no reason for this.
No destination.
No plan.
No indication that this dog possessed useful information.
I had just crossed half the country,
survived two tuk tuks,
arrived in an unfamiliar city,
had no room,
no bearings,
and no idea where anything was.
And my first navigation decision was:
Follow dog.
The council applauds.
A flawless system.
Now.
At the time,
that was all it was.
A dog walking.
An idiot following.
Nothing profound.
Nothing cinematic.
Nothing suggesting that the universe had just moved one of its pieces across the board.
But memory has an advantage the present does not.
Memory knows what happens next.
The council grows quiet.
Looking back,
I can see it clearly.
That was the decision.
Not booking Rishikesh.
Not boarding the train.
Not choosing the tuk tuk.
That.
Following the dog.
A tiny,
meaningless decision made without thought.
The sort of decision you forget five minutes after making it.
Except I didn’t.
Because everything that came afterward grew from it.
The roads I walked.
The place I found.
The people I met.
The shape the wandering eventually took.
All of it.
A timeline branching from one completely unreasonable choice.
The council smiles.
Children.
The first wandering had taught me that destiny rarely announces itself.
Sometimes it looks like a hostel.
Apparently,
sometimes it has four legs and no concern whatsoever for your itinerary.
And so,
with my backpack still on my shoulders,
Rishikesh stretching around me,
and absolutely no accommodation arranged,
I followed the dog.
Thus concludes Chapter Two.
The Bus Station.
The Organ Delivery Driver.
The Tuk Tuk That Had Already Died Once.
And the first decision that mattered.
I had arrived in Rishikesh believing the wandering would begin when I found somewhere to stay.
I was wrong.
It had already begun.
And like most important moments in my life,
I didn’t recognize it when it happened.
I simply saw a dog.
And followed.
