Chapter 7 — Home
And thus begins Chapter Seven.
The final chapter.
Now, children.
We walked.
Away from the trinket stalls.
Away from the little pools of light.
Back through the darkness.
Stitch wearing her new bone tag.
Me carrying mine.
The camera
still broken.
The quest
spectacularly unsuccessful.
But the day?
Children.
Excellent.
Eventually
scooter.
The council nods.
Transportation acquired.
Home next.
Simple.
Then we noticed something.
Or rather
we noticed the absence of something.
The helmet.
Silence.
The council looks around.
Helmet?
Gone.
Children.
Gone.
Presumably stolen.
Perhaps adopted by another traveller.
Perhaps currently living a better life.
Perhaps,
as Story Nuo immediately imagined,
already dismantled for spare parts and distributed across the black market.
The council sighs.
International helmet trafficking operations were underway.
But practical issue:
helmet gone.
And we had rented this scooter with one.
Which meant somewhere between Kapu and Manipal
police.
Potentially.
And police might see:
two people.
Scooter.
No helmet.
Then
fine.
The council examines our finances.
How much money remained?
Scraps.
Exactly.
Children.
We had spent money on:
scooter.
Food.
More food.
Camera shop pilgrimage.
Trinkets.
Jet ski.
Horse for Stitch.
Various highly necessary nonsense.
Our remaining wealth was not prepared for law enforcement.
So we did what great strategists do when faced with a crisis.
We lit the final joint.
The council stares.
Brain fuel?
Apparently.
Children.
The last one.
Our remaining contraband inventory reduced to smoke,
which also meant our eventual return journey would possess one enormous advantage:
nothing incriminating left in our pockets.
The council nods.
Excellent timing.
Now
brainstorm.
Option one:
Buy another helmet.
The council approves.
Safe.
Sensible.
Legal.
Children.
For three days?
Absolutely not.
The council sighs.
Our scooter rental itself had only a short life remaining.
University ended in three days.
Buying an entire helmet for this tiny window felt economically offensive.
Option two:
Accept the fine.
The council considers.
Possible.
We considered it too.
Then remembered:
money.
No.
Option three
The council waits.
There was no option three.
Yet.
We sat there.
Smoked.
Thought.
And then
I saw it.
The council follows my gaze.
There.
Nearby.
Object.
Round.
Plastic.
Useful perhaps.
The council leans closer.
Helmet?
Children.
No.
The helmet was dead to us.
Let it go.
What I saw
was a bucket.
Silence.
The council blinks.
Bucket?
Bucket.
Children.
A humble vessel.
Usually entrusted with water.
Cleaning.
Construction.
Domestic labour.
Never,
to my knowledge,
certified by any road safety authority.
But Story Nuo looked at it
and something clicked.
The council immediately becomes nervous.
I walked over.
Picked it up.
Turned toward Stitch.
Held it up.
And produced the ancient sound of questionable proposal:
“Eh?”
The council pauses.
That’s the pitch?
That was the entire presentation.
No PowerPoint.
No engineering diagram.
No risk analysis.
Bucket.
“Eh?”
Stitch looked at it.
Then looked at me.
Then looked back at the bucket.
Children.
She considered it.
Really considered it.
The kind of contemplation normally reserved for:
Launching nuclear missiles.
Signing peace treaties.
Choosing whether civilization deserves another century.
The council waits.
Her eyes narrowed.
Possibilities calculated.
Consequences assessed.
Bucket evaluated.
Then
shrug.
“Eh.”
The council erupts.
PLAN APPROVED.
Children.
This was friendship.
Not:
That’s insane.
Not:
Absolutely not.
Not even:
Explain.
Just
Eh?
Eh.
Consensus.
The helmet problem had been solved.
Technically.
Spiritually.
Not legally.
But children
we were not lawyers.
We were idiots with transport.
Now.
Minor issue.
Bucket bigger than Stitch’s head.
The council looks concerned.
If placed directly over her head,
visibility becomes
none.
Correct.
Which is traditionally inconvenient when driving.
So we refined the design.
Children.
I would sit behind Stitch
and hold the bucket above her head.
Hovering.
Not covering her eyes.
Not resting properly.
Just
positioned.
The council takes several moments to process this.
And what exactly was the theory?
Police see scooter.
Police see helmet shaped object above driver’s head.
Police brain says:
helmet.
Children.
Our confidence in law enforcement’s visual processing was insulting.
But
plan.
The final joint ended.
No more contraband.
The scooter waited.
Stitch climbed on.
I climbed behind.
Bucket acquired.
The council updates inventory.
CAMERA:
Broken.
BONE TAGS:
Acquired.
HELMET:
Missing.
BUCKET:
Promoted.
NUO:
Helmet suspension apparatus.
STITCH:
Driver.
MISSION:
Return home.
And away we went.
Children.
The road home was easier.
No need for charades.
No need to find a repair shop.
No branching quest markers.
Google Maps.
Blue line.
Follow.
The council raises an eyebrow.
You trusted Google Maps again?
Yes.
Trauma?
Forgotten.
Children.
The same digital oracle that had confidently guided us to rubble
was now reinstated as navigation authority.
Why?
Because this time we knew home existed.
Important psychological difference.
The apartment had not,
to our knowledge,
been demolished.
So
blue line.
Road.
Turns.
Main roads returning.
The strange little roads of Kapu gradually giving way to familiar direction.
Stitch drove.
I sat behind.
One hand presumably doing whatever balance required.
The other?
Bucket duty.
Children.
Picture it.
Please.
Because I promise you,
from our perspective,
this had somehow become normal.
Stitch
half her head neon violet.
Other half shaved.
Psychedelic clothes.
Driving rented scooter.
Me
black hoodie.
Sleep deprived face.
Sitting behind.
Holding a plastic bucket above her head like some deranged ceremonial crown.
The council laughs.
Royalty protocol had evolved.
Now I was royal umbrella bearer
for the sovereign of poor decisions.
And we travelled.
Wind.
Dark road.
Occasional vehicle.
Bucket hovering.
Children.
Everything fine.
Then
checkpoint.
Silence.
The council looks up.
Again?
Again.
Police.
But something had changed since the first encounter.
The council studies Nuo.
Fear?
Less.
Children.
There is a particular kind of confidence you gain around law enforcement
when your pockets no longer contain approximately twelve joints.
Suddenly
officer?
Hello.
Documents?
Sure.
Stop?
Absolutely.
We had nothing interesting left.
The last joint had become memory.
The council nods.
Contraband anxiety:
zero.
Helmet anxiety:
bucket.
Different problem.
The officers signalled us to stop.
And children
this time,
we stopped.
Immediately.
Personal growth.
The council applauds sarcastically.
Stitch slowed.
Scooter halted.
I remained seated.
Bucket still hovering above her head.
And then
we looked at the police.
The police looked at us.
Silence.
Children.
Imagine their perspective.
A scooter arrives.
Driving:
young woman.
Half her head violet.
Clothing suggesting she had recently escaped from a psychedelic music festival.
Behind her:
young man.
Black hoodie.
Expression of someone who had not slept enough in years.
And above the woman’s head
a bucket.
Not worn.
Hovered.
By the man.
The council begins laughing.
There are moments when language is unnecessary.
This was one.
The officer looked at us.
Then
bucket.
Then back at us.
Perhaps another officer looked too.
Children.
I would give a great deal to know the internal monologue.
Was it:
What the fuck?
Was it:
These college students.
Was it:
I do not get paid enough for this.
Was it amusement?
Confusion?
Both?
The Archive cannot know.
Because
language.
Still Kannada.
Still us.
Still no common conversational bridge.
But honestly?
What explanation could have improved matters?
“Officer, our helmet was stolen, so we have repurposed this domestic water container as a symbolic substitute.”
The council considers.
No.
Silence was stronger.
The officer looked.
We looked.
Bucket remained.
Then
hand.
Go.
The council freezes.
Go?
GO.
Children.
Victory.
Absolute victory.
No fine.
No interrogation.
No confiscation of our remaining scraps of money.
No lecture we couldn’t understand.
Just
go.
We did.
Immediately.
The scooter moved forward.
Checkpoint behind.
The bucket
successful.
The council erupts.
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
Children.
Against all reasonable expectations,
our improvised helmet had passed inspection.
Not because anyone believed it was a helmet.
Let us be clear.
No sane adult looked at that bucket and thought:
Yes.
Safety equipment.
More likely,
the officers looked at the two of us,
calculated the amount of effort required to engage,
and decided:
Not today.
The council nods.
A tactical withdrawal by law enforcement.
We accepted.
No questions.
No celebration until distance had increased.
Possibly laughter again.
Probably.
Children.
The Archive does not need to force it.
The image itself is enough.
Two idiots.
A bucket.
Freedom.
On we went.
Road after road.
Closer.
Closer.
Manipal gradually returning around us.
The familiar nation.
English speaking civilization.
The streets we knew.
The routes that no longer required charades.
Home.
Eventually
my apartment.
The council relaxes.
Scooter entered the garage.
Engine off.
Bucket?
Its military service complete.
The Archive does not preserve what became of it.
Perhaps returned.
Perhaps abandoned.
Perhaps promoted into legend.
What mattered was:
we had arrived.
The scooter would be returned the next day.
For tonight?
Done.
Children.
We entered the apartment.
And inside
Axe.
Sharky.
Already stoned.
The council smiles.
Home.
Not parents.
Not dinner table.
Not:
How was your productive camera repair journey?
No.
Axe and Sharky,
existing in clouds,
rolling more.
We walked in.
Stitch.
Nuo.
Probably smelling like sea,
smoke,
road,
and consequences.
The council waits.
Sharky looked at us.
And asked the only question that mattered.
“So
camera fixed?”
Silence.
Children.
The entire expedition condensed into this moment.
Camera.
The stated objective.
The reason we rented the scooter.
The reason we left Manipal.
The reason we crossed that first checkpoint.
The reason we found the rubble.
The reason we left the highway.
The reason we got lost.
The reason we reached Kapu.
The council leans forward.
Stitch and I looked at each other.
Smiled.
“Nope.”
The council erupts.
QUEST FAILED.
Spectacularly.
Children.
Not partially.
Not:
We found the part but need another visit.
No.
Camera still broken.
The one task?
Incomplete.
And yet
what had we actually returned with?
The council opens the true inventory.
One accidental beach.
Several meals.
One police escape attempt defeated by architecture.
One demolished camera shop still allegedly “Currently Open.”
Several failed Kannada conversations.
One accidental discovery of Kapu.
Many dogs petted.
One horse ride for Stitch.
One jet ski ejection for Nuo.
One sunset.
One conversation about the future.
Two bone tags.
One violet trinket of uncertain taxonomy.
One final hurrah hug.
One stolen helmet.
One bucket.
Two successfully baffled police encounters.
And
three remaining days of university.
The council pauses.
Camera?
Still broken.
Yes.
But children
sometimes a quest exists only to move you.
The council grows quiet.
Story Nuo did not know that.
Story Nuo did not sit down and say:
The camera was merely the inciting incident through which the universe delivered Kapu.
No.
Story Nuo sat beside Axe and Sharky.
Stitch sat down too.
Joint passed.
Someone rolled another.
Smoke filled the room.
The question of camera repair was over for tonight.
The day dissolved into the apartment.
Our people.
The familiar place.
Children.
Three days.
Still three days.
Perhaps two soon.
The countdown continued whether we acknowledged it or not.
But that night?
We were still here.
Stitch still here.
Axe still here.
Sharky still here.
Nuo still here.
The old ecosystem intact for one more evening.
The council smiles.
So we smoked.
Talked.
Probably laughed about the rubble.
The police.
The bucket.
Maybe the jet ski.
Perhaps showed them the tag.
Perhaps not.
Archive law.
What remains certain?
We sat together.
Smoked.
And eventually
sleep.
Not an organized end.
No ceremony.
No speeches.
No acknowledgement that one of these nights would soon be the last night this exact group existed in this exact way.
Just bodies growing heavier.
Conversation slowing.
Eyes closing.
Children.
Sleep consumed us.
And somewhere nearby,
Stitch’s camera remained
broken.
Perfect.
The council closes the quest file.
Because in the strictest sense,
the expedition failed.
Go to repair shop.
Fix camera.
Return.
Result?
Nope.
But Wanderings have never been particularly respectful of stated objectives.
Sometimes you go searching for mushrooms
and find something else.
Sometimes you travel for a tournament
and find a first girlfriend.
Sometimes you follow a wave pool
and discover the freedom of disappearing from a school group.
And sometimes
you leave Manipal because your friend’s camera needs fixing
and come home with the camera still broken,
but with Kapu.
The council grows quiet.
Kapu had not been planned.
Not chosen.
Not researched.
We found it because the first shop was rubble,
the second was closed,
language failed,
directions collapsed,
and somewhere in the distance
ocean.
So we followed blue.
That was all.
And the place gave us a final little pocket of university life
three days before that life ended.
Children.
Not a grand farewell.
Better.
An errand gone wrong.
A beach found accidentally.
Two friends wandering because the road stopped being useful.
Stitch on a horse.
Nuo temporarily airborne above a jet ski.
Joints by the sea.
Darkness.
Trinkets.
The tag around her neck.
“To commemorate our last hurrah.”
Idiot.
Moron.
A bucket held over violet hair while police tried to decide whether reality was worth engaging with.
And finally
“So camera fixed?”
“Nope.”
The council smiles.
Sometimes failure is very productive.
Present Nuo can look at the tag now
and see the doorway.
Kapu.
Not because the tag was some ordained relic at the time.
It wasn’t.
I simply liked bone tags.
Found one I liked.
Bought another for Stitch.
That was all.
But memory came later.
Meaning came later.
The Archive came later.
And now
when I look backward
there is that beach.
Stitch.
Three days.
The final hurrah.
The council nods.
The camera quest failed.
The Wandering did not.
And so ends
the Thirteenth Wandering of the Unbegun.
Kapu.
The Broken Camera.
The Psychedelic Ambassador.
The Rental Scooter.
The Police Checkpoint.
The Hidden Gate.
The Rubble That Was Currently Open.
The Language Collapse.
The Accidental Ocean.
The Dog Protocol.
The Horse.
The First Jet Ski Launch Before The Second Jet Ski Launch.
The Sunset.
The Three Day Countdown.
The Two Crows.
The Two Bone Tags.
The Last Hurrah.
The Missing Helmet.
The Bucket.
And The Question Waiting Back Home:
“Camera fixed?”
Children.
No.
Not even slightly.
Thus concludes Chapter Seven.
And thus concludes
the Thirteenth Wandering of the Unbegun.
Kapu.
We left to repair a camera.
We returned with the camera still broken.
The council considers this.
Mission failed?
Technically.
Wandering complete?
Absolutely.
