Chapter 3 — Hotel
And thus begins Chapter Three.
Now, children.
We exited the bus.
Bangalore.
At last.
Students stretched.
Bags came down.
Faculty began herding everyone toward accommodation.
And before us stood
a hotel.
The council pauses.
Hotel?
Children.
That word is generous.
Very generous.
Perhaps hostel?
The council considers.
No.
Too warm.
Too communal.
Too much dignity.
This place was
prison.
The council goes silent.
Actually,
prison might have possessed better ventilation.
We entered.
And immediately,
I understood something.
The university had not booked accommodation.
It had booked survival.
The council nods.
Bare minimum edition.
Now.
Beds?
Kind of.
The council leans forward.
Mattresses.
On the floor.
Some stacked.
Some spread out.
Some existing in arrangements that suggested the room had been designed by someone whose only requirement was:
Humans can technically become horizontal here.
The council sighs.
Sleeping infrastructure achieved.
Air conditioning?
Yes.
The council gasps.
Luxury?
No.
Children.
There was an air conditioner attached to the wall.
That is all I can confidently say.
Did it turn on?
No.
Did it cool anything?
No.
Did it contribute to the room aesthetically?
Barely.
The council stares at it.
So basically
metal box.
Exactly.
A decorative monument to temperature control.
The council nods solemnly.
Fan?
Yes.
The council regains hope.
It moved.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Children.
I have seen leaves rotate faster while falling from trees.
The fan appeared to be turning through time itself.
One rotation.
Several geological periods.
Another rotation.
The council watches.
Was there airflow?
Theoretical.
Perhaps one molecule of air was moved every few minutes.
Enough to remind us what wind used to feel like.
The council collapses.
And then
toilet.
The council becomes concerned.
Children.
I never entered it.
The council pauses.
Never?
Never.
Why?
Because I could smell it from the room entrance.
The council goes completely silent.
That was enough.
Some doors do not need opening.
Some mysteries are better left unresolved.
The council nods firmly.
Whatever lived in there
that was between it and God.
I had no jurisdiction.
Now.
We began unloading.
Bags opened.
Clothes appeared.
Toiletries.
Towels.
Things functional travelers bring.
The council looks toward me.
And by “we unloaded our things,”
children,
I mean:
everyone else unloaded their things.
Axe had luggage.
Sharky had luggage.
The other students had luggage.
And Nuo?
The council checks inventory.
Phone.
Wallet.
Charger.
Cigarettes.
The council pauses.
That’s it?
Children.
That was the travel kit.
Why carry clothes
when someone else probably brought clothes?
Why carry soap
when society contains soap?
Why carry toothpaste
when friendships exist?
The council becomes offended.
This is not minimalism.
This is parasitic logistics.
Semantics.
Children.
Everything else I required could be acquired through the ancient university economy:
“Bro, lend me that.”
The council sighs.
And historically,
it worked.
So while everyone carefully arranged possessions,
I completed unpacking in approximately zero seconds.
Phone still in pocket.
Wallet still in pocket.
Cigarettes accounted for.
Charger somewhere.
Done.
The council applauds unwillingly.
Maximum efficiency through dependency.
Now.
We looked around the cursed room.
Mattresses.
Dead AC.
Fan rotating at the speed of bureaucracy.
The smell of the forbidden bathroom drifting faintly through reality.
And collectively,
without much discussion,
we decided
leave.
The council cheers.
Excellent.
We walked back outside.
Fresh air.
Children.
Actual air.
Beautiful.
One of civilization’s greatest achievements.
Behind the bus,
the trio reunited.
Nuo.
Sharky.
Axe.
The council becomes suspicious.
And naturally
joint.
The council sighs.
One.
Then another.
Two joints.
Children.
Why two?
Preparation.
We were going to a film festival.
And university film festivals possess a particular reputation.
The council leans forward.
Not popcorn cinema.
Not action heroes.
Not happy little romantic comedies.
No.
These events often contain the type of films where a man stares at a wall for seventeen minutes
while rain represents capitalism.
The council pauses.
Art.
Exactly.
Children.
We needed chemical assistance.
The first joint disappeared.
Then the second.
By the end,
the three of us had reached the appropriate level of cultural appreciation.
The council puts quotation marks around “appropriate.”
We boarded the bus again.
This time
no Fast Travel.
The council gasps.
Character development?
No.
Axe was awake.
I was awake.
And we still had an unfulfilled contractual agreement from the previous journey.
The council remembers.
Ah.
Yes.
Children.
The Window Seat Treaty.
I had surrendered victory in exchange for bus based make out privileges.
The original transaction had failed due to server disconnection.
Now?
The server remained online.
The council prepares itself.
The bus moved.
Students talked.
Some discussed films.
Some looked out windows.
Some probably possessed notebooks.
Actual enthusiasm.
Children.
A metal box full of college students eager to learn.
And among them
Sharky.
Dealer.
Sitting nearby.
Probably minding his own business.
And two idiots
very high
making out.
The council collapses.
University education.
Beautiful.
Children.
Somewhere at the front,
faculty members likely believed they were transporting young minds toward artistic enrichment.
Behind them,
the artistic enrichment had taken a different form.
Axe leaned in.
I leaned in.
The bus rattled forward.
Bangalore passed outside.
Did I look at it?
Rarely.
Did I know where we were going?
Absolutely not.
Did I care?
Children.
Not even slightly.
For perhaps the first time in the Archive,
I had entered a city
and immediately ignored the city.
The council notices.
Later Wanderings would make me obsessive about place.
Roads.
Stalls.
Smells.
People.
Little details.
But University Nuo?
The world existed mostly as background infrastructure for whatever immediate pleasure was available.
The council grows quiet.
That is important.
Not because we need to moralize about him.
He simply hadn’t learned attention yet.
The Archivist did not exist.
The wanderer did not exist.
The boy who would someday stare at flowers,
clouds,
rivers,
bone tags,
and strangers’ faces
not yet.
The council nods.
Bangalore could have been magnificent outside that window.
I wouldn’t know.
I had other priorities.
Axe.
Weed.
Three weeks attendance.
The council sighs.
A simple creature.
And so we travelled.
Not asleep this time.
Just distracted.
The metal box rolled through Bangalore,
carrying an entire university delegation toward cinema.
One dealer.
One woman from Pune.
One idiot who had brought no luggage.
And enough marijuana in the trio’s collective system to make even experimental cinema seem potentially reasonable.
The council laughs.
Eventually,
the bus slowed.
The destination approached.
The festival.
Children.
The actual supposed purpose of this entire expedition.
We were about to enter.
Watch films.
Learn things.
Become cultured.
The council leans forward.
Did that happen?
Children.
You know me better than that.
But for now
there we were.
High.
Happy.
Completely unconcerned with the cursed accommodation waiting for us later.
The council nods.
Thus concludes Chapter Three.
The Prison Hotel.
The Decorative Air Conditioner.
The Forbidden Bathroom.
The Two Joint Preparation Ritual.
And The Educational Make Out Session.
Children.
We had arrived in Bangalore for a film festival.
The university had provided accommodation.
Technically.
We had provided intoxication.
Enthusiastically.
And with the bus moving through the city,
Sharky nearby,
Axe beside me,
and absolutely no idea what the next day would contain
the earliest Wandering continued.
