Chapter 6 — The Battalion
And thus begins Chapter Six.
Now, children.
The next morning arrived.
The council nods.
And with it,
hunger.
Not ordinary hunger.
Not:
“I could eat.”
Children.
Starvation.
Because in the infinite wisdom of the Unbegun,
I had somehow managed to arrive in Rishikesh,
throw myself from 109 meters,
wander beside the Ganga,
collect sacred water,
get lost,
hitchhike back to the hostel,
and survive multiple questionable agricultural encounters
while consuming approximately
chai.
The council falls silent.
That was it.
Chai.
The council erupts.
FOOD?
Apparently optional.
Children.
My digestive system had finally submitted a formal complaint.
And this time,
the paperwork was urgent.
So I climbed toward the rooftop cafe at Odin’s Abode.
The council leans forward.
A pleasant little place.
Quiet.
Quaint.
Open air.
A nice view.
Tables scattered around.
And most importantly
cigarettes allowed.
The council applauds.
Fine dining.
Now.
I opened the door.
And there they were.
The council recognizes them.
The men from before.
My newly infiltrated agricultural society.
And floating around them,
that familiar smell.
The council nods.
Of course.
I approached.
And something strange happened.
They greeted me warmly.
With familiarity.
More familiarity than I personally possessed.
The council pauses.
Children.
This is a strange side effect of getting catastrophically high with strangers.
Apparently bonds are formed.
Memories?
Less guaranteed.
They smiled.
Called out.
Made space.
And before I had successfully completed the process of sitting down,
someone handed me an already lit joint.
The council sighs.
Breakfast.
Children.
No.
But apparently yes.
I took a puff.
And reality disconnected.
Again.
The council watches.
Not completely this time.
Progress.
Some tolerance had been acquired.
The previous encounter had launched me beyond the solar system.
This time,
I remained somewhere within Earth’s general administrative region.
The council applauds.
Adaptation.
Now.
As I attempted to participate in whatever conversation was happening,
I saw her.
The council smiles.
The dog.
My dog.
Well.
Not my dog.
But children,
the dog who had guided me uphill.
The dog who had stopped for my dying lungs.
The dog who had smelled agriculture,
delivered me directly toward Odin’s Abode,
and unknowingly altered the entire wandering.
There she was.
Tail moving.
Perfectly at home.
The council waits.
And then I learned something.
She belonged to the hostel owner.
The council becomes very still.
Children.
A theory emerged.
Had this man trained his dog to locate wandering idiots?
The council gasps.
Consider the evidence.
Tourist arrives.
Tourist follows dog.
Dog walks directly toward hostel.
Tourist books room.
The council erupts.
MARKETING.
Children.
If true,
this man was operating several levels beyond conventional hospitality management.
No websites.
No advertisements.
No sales pitch.
Just deploy dog.
Absolute respect.
A madlad.
Now.
I sat beside her.
Petted her.
Rubbed her belly.
Spoke to her with considerably greater fluency than I had spoken to most humans since arriving in northern India.
The council nods.
Finally.
A language I understand.
After several minutes of meaningful canine diplomacy,
I attempted conversation with the men.
The council applauds.
Growth.
And among them sat someone new.
A local.
Quiet confidence.
The sort of man everyone else seemed to know.
And apparently,
the source.
The council leans forward.
The dealer.
Naturally,
my highly sophisticated naming system activated.
He wore sunglasses.
The council waits.
Sunglasses.
The council erupts.
An inspired title.
Children.
He could have introduced himself as anything.
Amit.
Rahul.
Arjun.
Emperor of the Northern Agricultural Territories.
It would not have mattered.
He wore sunglasses indoors,
outdoors,
day,
night.
He was Sunglasses.
The archive had spoken.
Now.
Sunglasses offered assistance.
The council becomes concerned.
I had very little money remaining.
Remember,
I had already invested most of my finances into gravity.
A sensible traveler would preserve what remained.
Food.
Transport.
Accommodation.
Emergency expenses.
The council looks at me.
Children.
I paid Sunglasses nearly all of it.
The council collapses.
Financial literacy continues its undefeated streak.
Now.
Sunglasses presented two options.
Option One.
The same stuff everyone else had.
The same stuff which,
with my practically nonexistent tolerance,
had already disconnected me from basic operating systems.
The council nods.
Clearly sufficient.
Then came Option Two.
Stronger.
The council groans.
Children.
There are moments in life where the correct decision is so obvious,
so simple,
so generously illuminated by experience,
that choosing incorrectly requires genuine dedication.
I looked at Sunglasses.
And said,
“The strongest.”
The council erupts.
Of course you did.
Children.
Consistency is a virtue.
Not always a useful one.
But a virtue nonetheless.
Now.
The joint reached me.
One puff.
The council waits.
One.
And the world vanished.
Not metaphorically.
Children.
My internal map ceased functioning.
My understanding of time resigned.
My sense of location submitted notice.
Everything that happened next entered the archive damaged.
The council writes:
File corrupted.
I remember Odin’s.
Then
nothing.
Then
Ganga.
The council pauses.
Again?
Again.
Children.
Somehow,
hours had passed.
I was standing near the river.
How did I get there?
Did I walk?
Possible.
Did I climb onto another scooter operated by someone young enough to require parental consent?
Also possible.
Did I simply materialize beside the Ganga through advanced cryptid teleportation?
At this point,
equally possible.
The council nods.
Evidence insufficient.
Now.
There was another mystery.
I looked down.
The council leans forward.
My clothes had changed.
The council erupts.
Children.
Apparently,
somewhere inside the missing hours,
I had gone shopping.
And Travel Nuo had made decisions.
Hippie clothes.
Loose.
Colorful.
Comfortable.
The sort of clothing that announced,
from approximately forty meters away:
This man has opinions about agriculture.
The council applauds.
Camouflage abandoned.
Children.
During the previous wandering,
I accidentally bought a jacket that said:
I HAVE WEED.
This time,
I had apparently decided words were unnecessary.
The outfit itself conveyed the message.
Evolution.
Now.
The day had progressed.
My memory remained negotiable.
And eventually,
I decided to return to Odin’s Abode.
The council nods.
Wise.
How?
The council waits.
Children.
I had no idea.
No map retained.
No useful understanding of direction.
No linguistic abilities.
No functioning budget.
But by this point,
Rishikesh had already taught me something.
Trust the process.
The council becomes suspicious.
And more importantly
follow the dogs.
The council erupts.
THE NAVIGATION SYSTEM RETURNS.
And so I walked.
Whenever I saw a dog,
I approached.
Pat.
Treat.
Continue.
Another dog.
Pat.
Treat.
Continue.
Children.
I had somehow acquired little snacks,
because apparently even in my altered state,
canine diplomacy remained operational.
The archivist might forget where he is.
The dog protocol survives.
The council applauds.
Priorities intact.
Now.
One dog followed.
The council smiles.
Then another.
Then another.
Children.
At first,
I thought nothing of it.
Dogs like me.
This is established lore.
I continued walking.
Pet dog.
Give treat.
Gain follower.
Repeat.
The council begins counting.
One.
Two.
Three.
More.
And eventually,
I noticed something strange.
People were moving away from me.
The council pauses.
Rude.
Exactly.
Children.
I was offended.
Here I was,
peacefully wandering through Rishikesh,
and pedestrians were giving me an increasingly generous amount of personal space.
Some crossed the road.
Others stepped aside.
One group moved entirely out of my path.
The council looks behind me.
I did the same.
And understood.
The council erupts.
Behind me marched dogs.
Not one.
Not two.
A unit.
A squad.
A rapidly expanding canine military formation.
The council applauds.
The Unbegun had acquired an escort.
Children.
Apparently every treat had been interpreted as enlistment paperwork.
And they had accepted.
I kept walking.
They kept following.
The council nods.
Protective detail established.
Then,
as if the universe decided the scene lacked sufficient absurdity,
there was a cow.
The council pauses.
A cow?
A cow.
One I had apparently also fed.
The council loses composure.
Children.
I had assembled a battalion.
Canines.
Plus bovine support.
The streets parted before us.
People moved aside.
Dogs marched.
Cow marched.
And at the center,
wearing newly acquired hippie clothes,
deeply high,
with no clue where he was going,
walked the Unbegun.
The council rises.
A WARLORD.
No.
A lost tourist.
But visually,
the distinction may have been difficult.
Now.
Something remarkable happened.
I kept walking.
Trusting absolutely nothing except instinct,
dogs,
and the vague belief that all roads eventually lead somewhere useful.
And then
I recognized something.
A corner.
A shop.
A road.
The council leans forward.
Odin’s Abode.
The council erupts.
Navigation successful.
Children.
I had returned.
No phone directions.
No tuk tuk.
No truck.
No Child.
Just walking.
And an army.
Now.
At the entrance,
I stopped.
The council waits.
Because a proper commander does not simply abandon his troops.
I turned toward them.
And said goodbye.
Individually.
The council grows soft.
One dog.
Pat.
Goodbye.
Another.
Pat.
Goodbye.
Another.
Pat.
Thank you.
And finally,
the cow.
The council nods solemnly.
Bovine auxiliary dismissed.
Children.
They had accompanied me through roads I couldn’t remember,
in a city I barely understood,
while my brain operated at perhaps twelve percent capacity.
Maybe they were following the food.
Almost certainly they were following the food.
But allow me the mythology.
The council approves.
For one afternoon,
I had an escort.
And that is considerably funnier.
Now.
I entered Odin’s Abode.
Walked toward my room.
Opened the door.
The Ghost Roommate remained committed to his title.
The council applauds.
Professional consistency.
I reached the bed.
Collapsed.
And stared at the ceiling.
Children.
The last few days had included:
a dog guiding me to a hostel,
a teenager nearly launching me from a scooter,
109 meters of voluntary falling,
the Ganga,
Sunglasses,
missing hours,
spontaneous hippie fashion,
and enough animals to invade a small principality.
The council nods.
A productive beginning.
And as consciousness slowly began preparing to leave,
I thought about tomorrow.
Because surely,
after all this nonsense,
the appropriate next step was something calmer.
Something spiritual.
Something reflective.
Something Rishikesh.
The council leans forward.
An ashram.
Yes.
Tomorrow,
I would visit an ashram.
See what it was like.
Perhaps meditate.
Perhaps sit quietly.
Perhaps discover inner peace.
The council stares at me.
Children.
I did not yet know what tomorrow held.
But I was optimistic.
A recurring mistake.
Thus concludes Chapter Six.
Sunglasses.
The Strongest Agriculture Available.
The Missing Hours.
The Hippie Transformation.
And the Day The Unbegun Accidentally Raised An Army.
I had begun the day looking for breakfast.
I ended it leading dogs and a cow through Rishikesh.
The council nods.
A natural progression.
But beneath the absurdity,
something else had begun happening.
I was approaching people.
Following roads.
Trusting strangers.
Trusting dogs.
Trusting myself.
Not intelligently.
Let us not rewrite history.
But more easily.
The second wandering was beginning to feel different.
Kasol had taught me I could become someone else when nobody knew me.
Rishikesh was beginning to ask a stranger question.
What happens when I stop waiting for the world to invite me?
The council grows quiet.
Tomorrow,
I would seek an ashram.
A place supposedly built for stillness.
And children,
considering everything we know about the Unbegun,
placing him anywhere near inner peace was always going to be an interesting experiment.
