Chapter 3 — The Tag
And thus begins Chapter Three.
Now, children.
When last we left the Unbegun,
he had arrived in Rishikesh.
No accommodation.
No plan.
No understanding of the city.
And naturally,
he had entrusted his navigation to a dog.
The council nods.
A proven system.
Now.
The dog walked.
So I followed.
And immediately encountered a problem.
The council already knows.
The road went upward.
Steeply.
Children.
I have always maintained a very reasonable position regarding vertical movement.
If nature intended humans to ascend mountains on foot,
it would not have invented vehicles.
The council applauds.
A sound philosophy.
Unfortunately,
the dog disagreed.
And children.
For dog?
Anything.
And so,
I climbed.
The dog walked.
I followed.
The dog continued.
I stopped.
The council pauses.
To admire the scenery?
No.
To resurrect my lungs.
The council nods.
A familiar ritual.
I would climb for several minutes,
stop,
place my hands on my knees,
attempt negotiations with my respiratory system,
and contemplate every cigarette I had ever smoked.
Then I would look up.
And there he was.
The dog.
Waiting.
The council grows soft.
He would simply stand there.
Look back.
Wait.
No judgment.
No impatience.
Just:
You coming?
And once sufficient oxygen had returned to the kingdom,
I would stand.
The dog would continue.
And so would I.
Upward.
Again.
And again.
Until eventually,
the dog stopped.
The council leans forward.
He lifted his nose.
And smelled.
Deeply.
Children.
I have lived long enough among questionable agriculture to recognize ceremony when I see it.
And so,
naturally,
I did the same.
The council pauses.
I inhaled.
And there it was.
Familiar.
Glorious.
Impossible to mistake.
Pot.
The council erupts.
THE DOG HAD DELIVERED.
Children.
Not accommodation.
Not enlightenment.
Not spiritual guidance.
Agriculture.
A better concierge I have never known.
I immediately bent down.
Patted his head.
“Who’s a good boy?”
The council smiles.
Then I checked.
The council waits.
Ah.
“Who’s a good girl?”
The council collapses.
Children.
Accuracy matters.
I thanked my four legged guide,
gave her another pat,
and followed the scent.
The council applauds.
The ancient compass.
And somehow,
through an absurd sequence of events beginning with following a random dog uphill,
I found myself standing before a hostel.
The council reads the sign.
Odin’s Abode.
The council nods solemnly.
An appropriately dramatic name.
Kasol had given me Valhalla.
Rishikesh had apparently decided to continue the Norse mythology.
Children.
At this rate,
I expected Thor to handle reception.
He did not.
A disappointing oversight.
Still,
the place existed.
It had beds.
It had shelter.
And most importantly,
my lungs were demanding an immediate ceasefire.
So I checked in.
The council cheers.
Accommodation achieved.
Entirely through canine assisted navigation.
Now.
I entered my room.
Dropped my bag.
Claimed a bed.
And then,
as tradition demanded,
a man entered.
The council immediately becomes interested.
A fellow traveler.
A roommate.
We spoke.
Naturally.
Where are you from?
Where are you going?
How long are you here?
The ordinary opening rituals.
Soon,
plans emerged.
Perhaps we would explore.
Perhaps we would grab food.
Perhaps adventures awaited.
The council already knows what happens.
Children.
I never saw him again.
The council applauds.
THE GHOST ROOMMATE RETURNS.
At this point,
it had become ritualistic.
Every wandering apparently required one man to enter my room,
establish the possibility of friendship,
make vague future plans,
and then vanish from the known universe.
The council writes:
Recurring Character:
The Man Who Will Not Be Seen Again.
A fine tradition.
Now.
Another ritual awaited.
The cigarette.
The council nods.
I went to the smoking area.
Lit one.
Sat down.
Waited.
Nothing happened.
The council pauses.
No Gunman.
No Beard Man.
No mysterious invitation.
No temporary pack materializing around shared smoke.
Nobody called out.
Nobody asked where I was from.
Nobody offered a joint.
Nobody adopted me.
The council grows concerned.
Children.
This was deeply inconvenient.
Because despite everything you’ve heard,
I am not actually good at meeting people.
My social strategy remains remarkably simple.
Step One:
Exist near humans.
Step Two:
Hope one of them adopts me.
The council applauds.
A flawless introvert ecosystem.
Unfortunately,
no adoption occurred.
So I finished my cigarette.
Stood.
And wandered.
Alone.
Now.
I wasn’t entirely aimless.
The council leans forward.
I had a mission.
A relic quest.
Children.
During the first wandering,
Kasol had given me something.
A necklace.
Simple.
Small.
A tag made of bone,
with the word:
KASOL.
And somewhere between that trip and this one,
the crow inside me had created a law.
Every wandering must leave behind a relic.
Not something expensive.
Not something useful.
Something small.
Something that could sit inside the archive and quietly say:
You were here.
The council approves.
And so,
Rishikesh required its own necklace.
Preferably identical.
A bone tag.
The city’s name.
Mission straightforward.
The council looks suspicious.
Nothing is straightforward.
Correct.
Shop One.
Nothing.
Shop Two.
Nothing.
Shop Three.
Nothing.
Children.
Kasol had these necklaces everywhere.
Rishikesh apparently had collectively agreed they should not exist.
I searched souvenir shops.
Jewelry stalls.
Tiny roadside stores.
Places displaying enough spiritual merchandise to open several independent religions.
Nothing.
The council sighs.
The crow grew restless.
The relic must be acquired.
Then,
someone approached me.
The council leans forward.
A child.
Children.
I called him The Child.
Because he was, in fact,
a child.
The archivist remains committed to efficient naming systems.
He could not have been much older than fifteen.
Maybe younger.
Maybe older.
Children become impossible to age once they begin confidently conducting business transactions.
He asked what I was searching for.
I explained.
Bone tag.
Necklace.
Rishikesh.
He nodded.
“I know.”
The council gasps.
A guide appears.
Now.
He offered to take me to a shop.
And bring me back.
One hundred rupees.
The council nods.
Reasonable.
I agreed.
Then,
approximately three seconds later,
my brain performed an unusual activity.
Thinking.
The council gasps again.
Wait.
How exactly was this child going to take me anywhere?
The Child gestured.
The council turns.
A scooter.
The council becomes silent.
Children.
This fifteen year old mountain entrepreneur was offering transportation services.
Apparently traffic law in northern India operates more as folklore than legislation.
The council nods.
A regional myth.
Still,
mission demanded sacrifice.
And so I climbed aboard.
The Child started the scooter.
And immediately,
I learned something.
The tuk tuk driver had been cautious.
The council erupts.
Children.
Compared to The Child,
that man was a driving instructor.
This boy did not drive.
He flew.
Potholes?
Launch ramps.
Speed breakers?
Suggestions.
Descending roads?
Gravity assistance.
Corners?
Opportunities.
The council begins praying.
I sat behind him,
clutching onto a child I had met approximately five minutes earlier,
while Rishikesh blurred past us.
And somewhere during this experience,
I discovered something unexpected.
The council leans forward.
Perhaps.
I did possess a will to live.
The council erupts.
A breakthrough!
Children.
Nothing teaches appreciation for life quite like watching a fifteen year old approach a pothole at speeds normally associated with aircraft.
Every existential thought vanished.
Every melancholy disappeared.
My entire philosophy condensed into one sacred mantra.
PLEASE DON’T DIE.
The council applauds.
Enlightenment comes in many forms.
Now.
Somehow,
we survived.
The Child stopped.
Pointed toward a shop.
And there,
waiting among necklaces and beads and trinkets,
I saw it.
The council grows quiet.
Bone.
A tag.
The same shape.
The same little relic I had imagined.
There was only one problem.
It did not say Rishikesh.
The council sighs.
Instead,
carved into it,
was an Om.
I stared at it.
The council waits.
Children.
Close enough.
The council erupts.
MISSION SUCCESSFUL.
It wasn’t perfect.
Which somehow made it better.
Kasol had its name.
Rishikesh would have its symbol.
Different wandering.
Different relic.
The necklace was purchased.
The crow was satisfied.
The archive had acquired another piece.
Now.
By the time we left the shop,
rain had begun.
The council looks outside.
Children.
You might assume rain would persuade The Child to drive more carefully.
Perhaps slower.
Perhaps cautiously.
Perhaps with the understanding that wet roads reduce traction.
The council begins laughing.
You sweet innocent creatures.
No.
The Child accelerated.
The council collapses.
And now,
we were going uphill.
Which somehow,
somehow,
was worse.
Because on the descent,
I had feared impact.
On the ascent,
I discovered physics.
The council leans forward.
You see,
the scooter climbed.
The Child leaned forward.
I sat behind him.
And my brain,
which had previously spent most of its processing power on panic,
remembered something from school.
Center of mass.
Torque.
Wheelies.
The council becomes concerned.
Children.
If I leaned too far backward,
the front wheel could lift.
I knew this.
I may be dumb,
but I know my physics.
The council applauds.
A tragically specific intelligence.
And so I spent the entire return journey performing advanced weight distribution calculations with my body.
Too far back?
Death.
Too far forward?
Crush child.
Neutral position?
Survival.
The council writes.
Practical Physics With The Unbegun.
Rain struck my face.
The scooter screamed.
The mountain rose beneath us.
And somehow,
against reason,
legislation,
and several laws of motion,
The Child returned me exactly where he found me.
The council cheers.
I climbed off.
Legs slightly uncertain about their contractual obligations.
Handed him the agreed amount.
And watched him disappear.
Another character.
Another road.
Another tiny story.
Now.
The necklace rested safely against my chest.
Relic acquired.
Quest completed.
And so I wandered back toward Odin’s Abode.
The council nods.
Surely now,
rest.
Perhaps food.
Perhaps sleep.
Perhaps another cigarette.
Something sensible.
Then I saw it.
The council leans forward.
A sign.
BUNGEE JUMPING.
The council falls silent.
Children.
There are moments when the universe presents you with a choice.
You can continue walking.
Return to your hostel.
Rest after two days on a train,
multiple death rides,
an uphill dog pilgrimage,
and a relic hunt conducted by a minor.
Or.
You can walk into the bungee jumping office.
The council looks at me.
I looked at the sign.
The sign looked at me.
And before whatever portion of my brain responsible for survival could file an objection,
I opened the door.
And walked inside.
Thus concludes Chapter Three.
The Dog.
The Ghost Roommate.
The Relic.
The Child.
And the Scooter Ride That Reintroduced The Unbegun To His Will To Live.
The first wandering had given me a bone tag marked with Kasol.
The second had given me a bone tag marked with Om.
One relic for where I had been.
One relic for where I was now.
And perhaps,
without realizing it,
I had begun a tradition.
Every wandering would leave something behind.
Something small enough to wear.
Something heavy enough to remember.
But children,
there was currently a considerably more urgent issue.
Because the Unbegun,
a creature who had spent the entire afternoon desperately trying not to die,
had just voluntarily entered an office dedicated to throwing people off high places.
