Chapter 8 — Plan
And thus begins Chapter Eight.
Now, children.
We left the slum.
Victorious.
Hex had milked a cow.
I had vaguely washed one.
Grandma had surrendered the sacred little pack.
The barter economy had succeeded where modern finance had failed.
And so
back.
Back toward Hex’s “hostel.”
The quotation marks remain.
The council insists.
We entered.
And immediately
the smell.
Still there.
Of course.
Children.
Whatever ancient evil generated that smell had apparently survived demonetisation too.
I had hoped perhaps while we were gone,
someone might have found the source.
Removed it.
Burned the building.
Performed an exorcism.
Anything.
No.
The smell greeted us like an old friend.
Except unlike an old friend,
I did not want to hug it.
We climbed.
Stairs.
More stairs.
Room.
Bunk bed continent.
Lower platform.
Quadrant Two.
Home.
For now.
I sat.
Hex beside me.
Then
the pack.
The council grows serious.
Because children,
Story Nuo had experienced growth.
Not emotional growth.
Do not get excited.
Resource management growth.
I looked at the weed.
Judged quantity.
Looked at the remaining duration of my stay.
Then back at the weed.
Children.
Mathematics.
Very primitive mathematics.
But mathematics nonetheless.
And I reached two important decisions.
Two decisions that would alter the course of this Wandering.
The council opens the Book of Laws.
Decision One.
No bong.
Pause.
The council looks surprised.
Restraint?
Apparently.
Children.
The previous Conservation Constitution had failed.
Catastrophically.
Who could have predicted that a rule system where every possible Dota event rewarded me with a bong shot would consume the entire supply?
The council raises every hand.
Quiet.
Hindsight.
So
new system.
Joints.
The logic in Story Nuo’s head was simple.
They lasted longer.
Slower.
More ceremonial.
Less ability to repeatedly feed the Steam Engine every time somebody on the map sneezed.
The council nods.
And Hex?
Occasional puff.
Fair tribute.
Children.
Remember.
This man had just milked a cow for me.
Completely banning him from the reward would perhaps have violated some ancient friendship treaty.
So yes.
Hex could partake.
Occasionally.
A puff.
A little tribute to the agricultural worker.
The council approves.
How generous.
I am a benevolent ruler.
No.
Moving on.
Then came
Decision Two.
Children.
This was the important one.
I assessed the amount.
Approximately seven joints.
Maybe that was exact.
Maybe that was Story Nuo’s practical estimate.
But in my head?
Seven.
And suddenly
time had a new unit.
Not hours.
Not morning.
Not distance.
Not bus schedules.
Joints.
The council pauses.
Ah.
Yes.
Cigarette chronology had already entered the Archive.
Now
Joint Chronology.
Children.
I had roughly seven joints left.
Therefore:
I must be home
in seven joints.
Silence.
The council considers this.
That is not normally how return travel is planned.
Story Nuo disagrees.
The equation was flawless.
SEVEN JOINTS = REMAINING CHENNAI.
When Joint Seven ended,
Nuo should be
home.
Or at minimum,
on the bus returning home.
Preferably asleep.
Fast Travel active.
Supply depleted at exactly the same moment the trip concluded.
Children.
Efficiency.
Beautiful.
No leftovers.
No shortage.
No further cow.
Important.
Very important.
Because I had also reached another conclusion.
There would be no second pilgrimage.
Absolutely not.
No more hunting for cash.
No more ATM queues.
No more offering absurd conversion rates to shopkeepers.
No more old hostel reconnaissance.
No more returning to Grandma.
And most importantly
no washing another cow.
The council nods firmly.
Enough.
Yes.
Children.
I had discovered my limit.
Apparently it was:
one cow.
You may have wondered whether Nuo possesses boundaries.
There.
Documented.
ONE COW PER WANDERING.
The council records the regulation.
So once these seven joints ended?
Done.
Return home.
But
the council notices a flaw.
Didn’t you travel to Chennai because there was no weed at home?
Correct.
Dealer?
Still missing.
Yes.
Still apparently somewhere outside the state,
living whatever sequel his own life had become.
So why return?
Children.
Perspective.
Before Chennai,
finding another dealer back home had seemed difficult.
Annoying.
Inconvenient.
Possibly requiring effort.
After Chennai?
I had now:
stood before an ATM queue extending to the next junction,
begged shops for cash,
offered ridiculous premiums,
returned to my old college neighbourhood,
visited an old hostel,
walked into a slum,
located an elderly dealer,
and washed livestock.
The council pauses.
Suddenly local sourcing seems manageable.
Exactly.
Other dealers existed.
Harder to access?
Sure.
Harder than washing a cow?
Story Nuo’s verdict:
I think not.
Children.
Difficulty is relative.
Once your weed quest includes bovine hygiene,
your standards for inconvenience recalibrate.
So
home.
Decision made.
Now I required transport.
Bus.
Early morning.
Next day.
The council checks finances.
Problem.
Yes.
Cash?
Still no.
Electronic bank balance?
Present but not particularly useful for our immediate physical transactions.
Ticket?
Could potentially be purchased electronically.
But my personal financial status remained.
Unemployed.
The council opens the ancient funding system.
Ah.
Father.
Exactly.
Children.
Outsourcing.
One of Nuo’s oldest survival strategies.
When confronted with a problem requiring competence,
money,
planning,
or adulthood
identify qualified person.
Delegate.
In this case:
Dad.
I sent the request.
Probably some variation of:
Need ticket home.
Maybe with the appropriate level of:
Daaaad plssss.
The exact text is lost.
The system worked.
Because soon
response.
Ticket.
PDF.
The council holds it up.
Beautiful.
No cash required.
No ATM.
No cow.
Just Father somewhere far away
receiving a request from his unemployed disaster of a son
and quietly solving the transport problem.
Children.
Another good man.
Again
questionable life choices.
Because unlike Hex,
Father did not even get to choose me.
The council objects.
Correct.
He was assigned me biologically.
Still.
He continued associating with me voluntarily after adulthood.
Suspicious judgement.
But good man.
Ticket booked.
Early morning.
The plan now possessed structure.
Current time:
night.
Remaining supply:
approximately seven joints.
Departure:
morning.
Objective:
consume resources gradually,
play Dota,
sleep perhaps,
board bus,
Fast Travel home.
The council examines.
Could work.
Yes.
Children.
For the first time since the initial pack vanished,
order returned.
The luxury weekend had been shortened.
But not destroyed.
We had rescued the evening.
Supply existed.
Transport existed.
No further quests necessary.
The city had been defeated.
Story Nuo could retreat with dignity.
The council looks at cow washing record.
Relative dignity.
Fine.
With whatever remained.
And so
Day One began winding down.
I smoked another joint.
The council subtracts.
Seven?
Approximately six.
Children.
Already the clock had started.
Joint Chronology.
Every smoke now carried a tiny countdown.
Not in a tragic way.
No melodrama.
But I was aware.
This is finite.
This one gone.
That many remain.
And I looked at the remaining joints.
Children.
With emotion.
The council raises an eyebrow.
Emotion?
Yes.
The kind of look a woman gives her husband before he leaves for war.
The council explodes.
They’re joints.
They were brave.
They served their country.
No.
Children.
There I sat,
staring at the remaining little supply
with the solemn recognition that each one represented a diminishing portion of my Chennai life expectancy.
One by one,
they would leave me.
And eventually
bus.
The council plays imaginary violin.
Thank you.
Hex probably did not share the grief.
Because Hex was normal enough to understand that more weed could exist at another point in his life.
Story Nuo?
Every joint was a fallen soldier.
Then
Stalker.
Phone.
Children.
Our third party member had been present through much of this nonsense digitally.
She had received updates.
Arrival.
Weed.
Dota.
Supply collapse.
The Great Cash Quest.
Perhaps not every cow related detail in real time,
but enough to understand that the weekend had become significantly more complicated than:
smoke and game.
So I sent her an update.
Tomorrow
home.
Ticket booked.
Plan restored.
Maybe told her about the supply.
Maybe complained.
The Archive preserves the act,
not the exact text.
Then
goodnight.
Relationship duties.
Simple.
Comfortable.
A person existing at the other end of the phone.
The council smiles.
Goodnight.
Screen away.
Hex nearby.
Hostel around us.
The smell
probably still plotting.
And Day One
finally
came to a close.
Children.
Look at what one day had contained.
Twelve hour bus.
Fast Travel.
Hex reunion.
Where weed?
Hostel.
Quadrant Two.
Stalker online.
Dota marathon.
The most catastrophically designed conservation system in history.
Entire bag gone.
National cash crisis.
ATM queue.
Shop to shop begging.
Back to ICAT.
Marina Beach trauma resurfacing.
Former hostel.
Pity puffs.
Old slum.
Grandma.
Cow.
Barter.
Return.
And now
ticket home.
Story Nuo was done.
Not with Chennai forever.
Just with this trip.
I had what I came for.
Technically.
I had smoked plenty.
Seen Hex.
Played Dota.
Acquired a little more weed through labour that had permanently lowered the dignity of everyone involved.
Enough.
The council nods.
Morning.
Bus.
Home.
Simple.
Children.
Those words are dangerous.
You should know this by now.
Whenever Nuo says:
Simple.
The Archive begins sharpening a knife.
But Story Nuo did not know that.
He had constructed a perfectly reasonable ending.
Wake.
Smoke remaining as appropriate.
Pack.
Leave.
Board bus.
Fast Travel.
Home.
Done.
The Sixteenth Wandering could have ended quietly.
Perhaps too quietly.
Maybe years later I would barely have remembered it.
Just:
That time I went to Chennai for weed and washed a cow.
Already a respectable anecdote.
But not enough.
Not yet.
Children.
There are plans we make.
And then there is whatever hidden bureaucracy governs the road.
Story Nuo had decided:
seven joints.
That was the remaining lifespan of Chennai.
The universe?
The universe had apparently not signed the agreement.
The council looks upward.
Was there a response?
Not verbally.
But if I were to translate the mood
“We’ll see about that.”
Children.
I did not hear it then.
Of course not.
I was too busy looking at the remaining joints like they were departing troops
and feeling satisfied that I had finally engineered a competent exit strategy.
Ticket?
Booked.
Morning?
Departure.
Supply?
Calculated.
Home?
Imminent.
No second dealer quest.
No second cow.
No further nonsense.
The council slowly smiles.
Poor Story Nuo.
Yes.
Poor idiot.
He thought the Wandering was ending.
He had no idea the actual Chennai story was only beginning to stretch its legs.
But
Archive law.
No jumping forward.
For now,
Day One ends.
Nuo in Quadrant Two.
Hex nearby.
Stalker wished goodnight.
Ticket PDF safely on phone.
Approximately six joints remaining after the latest one.
And a bus waiting somewhere in tomorrow.
Children.
Everything was under control.
Which historically
is when things become dangerous.
Thus concludes Chapter Eight.
The Return To The “Hostel.”
The Returning Smell.
Quadrant Two.
The Supply Assessment.
The Revised Conservation Doctrine.
No Bong.
Joints Only.
Hex’s Fair Tribute Puff.
The Seven Joint Countdown.
The New Unit Of Time.
The Declaration:
Home In Seven Joints.
The Refusal To Wash Another Cow.
The Sudden Realization That Finding Weed Back Home Could Not Possibly Be Worse Than This.
The Early Morning Bus.
The Outsourced Financial Department.
Father.
The Ticket PDF.
Another Good Man With Questionable Association Choices.
The Fallen Joint.
The Remaining Soldiers.
The Stalker Update.
The Goodnight.
And
The Plan.
Children.
By morning,
I would be on a bus.
By the end of the final joint,
Chennai would be behind me.
That was the plan.
The universe looked at it.
Considered.
And somewhere,
quietly
laughed.
We’ll see about that.
