Chapter 7 — Triumphant
And thus begins Chapter Seven.
Now, children.
There we stood.
Alleyway.
Hex beside me.
Grandma Dealer before us.
The fate of the weekend hanging upon the decision of a woman who looked like she had personally survived several different versions of India.
She had heard the problem.
No usable cash.
Need pot.
Story Nuo desperate enough to return to a dealer he had not seen in years.
And now
verdict.
Grandma reached somewhere.
Produced
a pack.
Pause.
Children.
Small.
Very small.
But inside?
Weed.
The council erupts.
SALVATION.
Yes.
Not abundance.
Not enough to restart Steam Engine Nuo at full industrial capacity.
But supply.
Actual supply.
Physical.
Present.
Grandma had accepted the proposal.
Some form of barter could happen.
Excellent.
Now
terms.
The council leans forward.
What does Grandma want?
We waited.
She did not explain immediately.
Instead
she stood.
Slowly.
Children.
Very slowly.
The way elderly people sometimes stand when every joint in the body has entered collective bargaining.
The council raises an eyebrow.
You described it differently.
Fine.
She stood with the measured pace of a woman who appeared to have a somewhat sooner appointment with the Grim Reaper than Hex or I did.
No disrespect.
Observation.
The council accepts this under protest.
Grandma began walking.
Again
slowly.
Hex and I followed.
Because obviously.
She had the weed.
She could have led us into the Bay of Bengal and Story Nuo would probably have asked:
How deep?
The council sighs.
We followed through the little maze.
Past homes.
Past people.
Past whatever daily life was happening there.
And then
Grandma stopped.
Before
cow.
Silence.
The council looks at the cow.
Cow?
Cow.
Children.
Actual cow.
Not metaphor.
Not nickname.
Not dealer code.
Bovine.
Four legs.
Tail.
The whole package.
Grandma pointed.
Then provided instructions using the beautifully efficient language available between us.
“Wash.”
Gesture.
Then
“Milk.”
Gesture.
Pause.
The council processes.
Two words.
Two jobs.
Two idiots.
Perfect.
Division of labour.
Children.
This was barter.
The ancient economy.
No ATMs.
No card machines.
No demonetisation queues.
No electronic transfers.
No exchange premium.
No cash.
Grandma possessed weed.
Grandma required cow related labour.
We possessed
apparently
arms.
The council opens the contract.
GRANDMA PROVIDES:
Small pack of weed.
NUO AND HEX PROVIDE:
Cow maintenance.
Capitalism temporarily defeated.
Excellent.
Now.
We had to assign jobs.
Option one:
Milk cow.
Option two:
Wash cow.
I considered both.
Milking?
Children.
Theoretically simple.
Sit.
Bucket.
Cow.
Interact with the relevant cow infrastructure.
The council waits.
And?
Ewwwww.
Immediate veto.
Could I have done it?
Probably.
Was I going to?
No.
Because there are limits even desperation cannot immediately erase.
The council looks at all previous evidence.
Are there?
Occasionally.
Milking cow crossed one.
Therefore
Hex.
The council turns toward him.
Poor man.
Yes.
Children.
Hex got milk duty.
I selected washing.
My reasoning was flawless.
Wash cow?
More labour.
Yes.
More movement.
Yes.
Potentially exhausting.
Yes.
Lungs may complain.
Muscles may file formal grievances.
But
less ewwww.
The council writes:
NUO’S DECISION MAKING FRAMEWORK:
Avoid teat.
Accurate.
So Grandma delivered us to the cow.
Presumably with whatever basic things were needed already nearby.
And the labour began.
Hex
milking.
Nuo
washing.
Children.
Take a moment.
Please.
Stop the narrative.
Look at Hex.
Really appreciate this man.
Hex had already served many functions throughout my life.
Best friend.
Dota teammate.
Social Interaction Department.
Nuo Manager.
Logistics Department.
Supplier.
Translator when needed.
Keeper of common sense.
Man who calmly followed me while I attempted to convert debit card money into increasingly overpriced physical cash.
And now?
Cow milker.
The council applauds.
Promotion?
Sideways transfer.
Fair.
This man had woken up that day expecting
what?
Best friend arrives.
Smoke.
Play Dota.
Maybe eat.
Sleep.
Instead
by evening,
he was in a slum
milking a cow
so his best friend could acquire weed.
Weed
important detail
that Hex was not even going to be allowed to smoke much of.
The council goes silent.
Because pack small?
Exactly.
Children.
Supply had returned.
But scarcity remained.
And Story Nuo had learned absolutely nothing from the previous bag.
Well
perhaps one lesson.
Hex should not consume my emergency reserves.
The council stares.
That is not the correct lesson.
It was Story Nuo’s lesson.
Protect continuity.
So there was Hex.
Performing dairy labour.
For cannabis.
That I intended to ration primarily toward myself.
Children.
Good man.
Very good friend.
Questionable judgement.
Because at some point in his life,
he had looked at Nuo and thought:
Yes.
This one.
Best friend.
The council shakes its head.
His mistake.
My gain.
Meanwhile
I washed the cow.
Now.
Important qualification.
I had never bathed an animal before.
Not once.
Bongo?
No.
Dyno?
No.
Children.
Dogs had existed deeply within my life.
I had loved them.
Fed them.
Played with them.
Held them.
Slept beside them.
But bathing?
Apparently outsourced.
So my first recorded animal bathing experience
cow.
In Chennai.
During demonetisation.
In exchange for weed.
The council slowly closes every career aptitude test ever designed.
Wonderful.
Did I know what I was doing?
No.
Did the cow know that?
Almost certainly.
Children.
There is a particular look animals give humans when they recognize incompetence.
Maybe the cow gave me that look.
Maybe not.
The Archive refuses to fabricate bovine facial expressions.
But I imagine my technique lacked professional certification.
Water.
Cow.
Attempt.
Move around.
Wash some part.
Realize another part remains cow like.
Continue.
The council asks for quality assessment.
Vague.
The cow was vaguely washed.
That is the official result.
Not sparkling.
Not commercial ready.
No shampoo advertisement.
But cleaner than before?
Probably.
Good enough for Grandma?
Eventually.
And children
time.
Time becomes strange when you are sober,
desperate for weed,
and performing agricultural labour you had not anticipated when boarding a twelve hour bus.
A few minutes?
No.
It felt like civilization rose and fell twice.
Actual duration?
Roughly thirty minutes.
Something around that.
The council checks Story Nuo’s internal clock.
ETERNITY.
Correct.
Thirty ordinary minutes.
Several geological ages in sober Nuo time.
Hex continued milking.
I continued washing.
Occasionally we probably looked at each other with the silent understanding:
How did we get here?
The Archive does not preserve the exchange.
But honestly
look at the situation.
Twelve hours earlier?
Bus.
Earlier afternoon?
Dota.
A few hours ago?
Weed conservation constitution.
Then:
no cash.
ATM queue.
Shop negotiations.
ICAT.
Old hostel.
Old alley.
Grandma.
Now
cow.
Children.
This is the moment a supply run stopped resembling a supply run.
The council nods.
The road had won.
Story Nuo still didn’t know that.
He knew only that cow labour stood between him and pot.
Therefore
cow labour.
Do what must be done.
There are people who retain dignity through adversity.
They maintain standards.
Boundaries.
A sense of personal pride.
Children.
I possess none whatsoever.
This is useful.
Dignity creates hesitation.
Nuo?
Need thing.
Task required.
Do task.
Could the task be ridiculous?
Irrelevant.
Will this make an embarrassing story years later?
Even better.
Though Story Nuo did not yet think that way.
At that moment,
the equation was simple.
Wash cow.
Receive weed.
So I washed the cow.
Hex milked.
And somewhere
Grandma watched two grown men perform livestock chores in exchange for a small bag of questionable cannabis.
The council wonders who got the better deal.
Grandma.
Probably.
Eventually
the cow had been sufficiently milked.
Hex finished.
Perhaps stood with a new appreciation for the dairy industry.
And my side?
Cow
vaguely washed.
The council examines.
Acceptable?
Grandma apparently thought so.
Because
exchange.
Children.
The pack changed hands.
Grandma to Nuo.
The council erupts.
QUEST COMPLETE.
Not cash.
Not card.
Not ATM.
Not premium conversion.
Labour.
We had successfully bypassed a national currency crisis
with
cow.
The council applauds the ancient economy.
Barter.
Beautiful.
Grandma got services.
We got weed.
No denomination required.
No invalid notes.
No cash withdrawal.
No queue stretching to the next junction.
Children.
Humanity had spent thousands of years developing increasingly sophisticated financial systems,
and Story Nuo had solved demonetisation by returning to:
You do cow.
I give plant.
The council nods.
Civilization is circular.
Pack secured.
I held it.
Small.
Precious.
The luxury weekend?
Maybe not restored to full premium status.
But life support
online.
The council checks Hex.
Can he smoke?
Limited access.
Children.
Again
pack small.
We had learned scarcity.
Or rather,
I had recognized scarcity.
Whether I had learned restraint?
The council looks at the previous chapter.
No evidence.
Fair.
Still.
We exited the alley.
Hex beside me.
Me
triumphant.
Hex
perhaps processing the fact that his day now included manual cow milking.
The council assesses dignity.
HEX DIGNITY:
Mild damage.
NUO DIGNITY:
Cannot damage what does not exist.
Exactly.
Children.
Freedom.
You cannot embarrass a man who has already accepted being ridiculous.
This is perhaps my greatest defensive trait.
The council refuses to classify it as wisdom.
Fine.
Practical advantage.
We walked back out toward conventional Chennai.
Behind us
Grandma.
Cow.
Barter dimension.
Ahead
the city.
And somewhere beyond that
the hostel.
Quadrant Two.
Laptops.
Stalker.
Dota.
The itinerary.
The council looks at the little pack.
Enough?
For now.
Those are dangerous words around Story Nuo.
Yes.
But still
for now.
Victory.
And perhaps this was the first great triumph of the actual Wandering.
We had encountered a problem modern infrastructure could not solve.
Money existed.
Could not use it.
ATM existed.
Could not reasonably access it.
Debit card existed.
Dealer did not care.
Shops had cash.
Would not trade it.
Story Nuo’s old hostel had weed.
Would not sell enough.
Then
Grandma.
A woman from another chapter of my life,
still sitting in the same ecosystem years later,
recognizing me by name.
“NUOO!”
And instead of asking for rupees
cow.
Children.
Some solutions cannot be predicted.
That is why wandering works.
Present Nuo thought.
Story Nuo?
WE GOT POT.
Correct.
And so Hex and I emerged from the slum victorious.
Not rich.
Not dignified.
Not particularly clean.
But supplied.
The council raises the pack like a championship trophy.
Please do not mythologize narcotics.
Fair.
Small bag.
Acquired through unexpected chores.
That is enough.
We had entered with no spendable money.
We left with weed.
Grandma had milk.
Cow had
a vague bath.
The council pauses.
Everybody wins?
Broadly.
Hex may disagree.
Especially because you weren’t letting him smoke much.
True.
Everybody except Hex wins.
The council laughs.
But children
friendship.
There are grand gestures.
Driving across cities.
Holding someone through grief.
Showing up when life collapses.
And then there are smaller,
stranger gestures.
Like milking a cow in Chennai
because your idiot best friend smoked the entire weekend’s weed before evening.
The council grows quiet for exactly one second.
Hex.
Good man.
I mean that.
Questionable judgement.
But good man.
And me?
I looked at the pack.
Mission accomplished.
The city had told me:
No.
The ATM said:
No.
The shops said:
No.
Scarcity said:
No.
And an elderly dealer from my old college days looked at a cow and essentially said:
Work.
Story Nuo?
“Aight.”
Children.
Do what must be done.
Thus concludes Chapter Seven.
The Verdict.
The Small Pack.
The Terms Of Barter.
The Slow Walk.
The Cow.
The Two Words:
“Wash.”
“Milk.”
The Division Of Labour.
The Immediate Rejection Of Teat Duty.
The Assignment Of Hex To Dairy Operations.
The First Animal Bath Of Nuo’s Life.
The Vaguely Washed Cow.
The Sufficiently Milked Cow.
The Thirty Minute Eternity.
The Appreciation Of Hex.
The Man Who Became A Cow Milker For A Best Friend’s Weed Quest.
The Successful Barter.
The Pack Changing Hands.
And
Victory.
Children.
The national currency system had failed us.
ATMs had failed us.
Debit cards had failed us.
Cash had failed us.
Modern finance had collapsed.
But humanity had an older system.
Grandma pointed at a cow.
We understood.
And half an hour later,
Hex had milked it,
I had vaguely washed it,
and we had pot.
The council stares at the historical record.
Do what must be done.
