Chapter 1 — Published
I am Nuo, the Unbegun
the silence before stars learned to burn.
And thus begins the Fifteenth Wandering of the Unbegun.
Kazhakootam.
Now, children.
This Wandering requires
character information.
The council groans.
Again?
Yes.
Because apparently my life insists on having continuity.
The Unbegun Cinematic Universe grows increasingly hostile to new viewers.
So.
Children.
I am a writer.
The council stares.
Established fact.
Yes.
We know.
I write things.
Stories.
Poems.
Trauma wearing decorative language.
Occasionally entire books.
But children
I am not merely a writer.
I am a
published writer.
The council gasps theatrically.
Published?
Published.
Words I had written
were once arranged into pages,
compiled,
printed,
bound,
given a cover,
assigned all the little official properties that make paper feel important,
and then
sold.
To the general population.
Children.
Actual civilians were legally permitted to exchange money
for my thoughts.
The council immediately begins investigating who approved this.
Now.
Did the book sell well?
Pause.
Children.
I am pleased to announce that sales remained firmly within the prestigious category of
single digits.
The council applauds.
A triumph.
Gloriously successful.
Depending on how generously one defines:
glorious.
And successful.
It did not sell badly.
Children.
That would imply some level of selling had occurred.
No.
Saying it “did not sell well” would be a generous overstatement.
The book entered the market
and the market responded with:
No thank you.
The council nods.
Fair.
As it should.
Because I have read enough of my older writing now to understand
it was not very good.
Story Nuo?
Proud.
Present Nuo?
Children.
That thing was mostly trauma dumping
with a narrative structure duct taped around it
and released into civilization.
The council picks up the ancient manuscript.
Plot?
Somewhere.
Characters?
Probably suffering.
Themes?
Trauma.
Narrative cohesion?
Duct tape.
Excellent.
I am reasonably confident that the handful of people who purchased it
had mistaken me for someone else.
Some competent writer.
Perhaps they saw the title,
clicked buy,
and only later realized:
Oh.
Wrong Nuo.
The council laughs.
To those people
my apologies.
No refunds are being processed by the Archive.
Now.
There is one detail about this published writer era
that becomes extremely important.
My father.
The council sits upright.
Ah.
Yes.
My father.
A man of planning.
Critical thinking.
Practical intelligence.
The sort of adult who generally understands that actions produce consequences.
And this man
for reasons known only to him and whichever demon briefly controlled publishing logistics
made me put my phone number in the book.
The council pauses.
Your personal phone number?
Yes.
Publicly.
Printed.
Inside the book.
The council becomes concerned.
And
my address.
Silence.
Children.
My address.
The council slowly turns toward Father.
Why?
I do not know.
Perhaps author accessibility.
Perhaps professionalism.
Perhaps some archaic publishing convention had been mentioned somewhere.
Perhaps he thought:
What if a reader wishes to contact the author?
Children.
There are safer ways.
Email existed.
The internet existed.
Carrier pigeons could have been considered.
Instead
phone number.
Address.
Printed inside a book
being sold to strangers.
Looking back now,
I can see the energy.
The unmistakable message.
The subtle invitation:
PLEASE KIDNAP MY CHILD.
The council erupts.
COME FIND HIM.
HERE ARE COORDINATES.
CALL FIRST IF LOST.
Children.
Thankfully,
the book’s catastrophic sales performance became a security feature.
The council pauses.
Ah.
Yes.
Single digit readership suddenly looking strategic.
Exactly.
Had the book become a bestseller,
perhaps I would have needed witness protection.
Instead,
seven people
or some similarly tiny number
possessed enough information to find me.
Probably.
The Archive does not preserve exact sales.
And honestly,
I prefer it that way.
Mystique.
At the time?
Did I care?
No.
Children.
Story Nuo thought little of it.
Phone number in book?
Fine.
Address?
Sure.
Why not.
The world had not yet provided enough evidence that handing strangers directions to your house might be considered suboptimal survival strategy.
The council sighs.
But now
years later
this decision matters.
Because this Wandering?
Kazhakootam?
It exists because of that book.
Not metaphorically.
Not:
writing opened my mind and therefore eventually led me to travel.
No.
Direct causation.
Book exists.
Information printed.
Someone reads information.
Wandering happens.
The council leans forward.
Interesting.
Very.
Because unlike many Wanderings
I did not go looking for this one.
Kasol?
I bought the ticket.
Rishikesh?
I left.
Kapu?
Camera quest.
NIT?
Tournament.
Trivandrum Zoo?
Zoo sounded fun.
Even Kochi,
at age three,
involved me physically choosing:
That way.
Children.
Kazhakootam?
Different.
This time
the Wandering came looking for me.
The council grows quiet.
No quest marker appeared in my head.
No friend arrived with a broken camera.
No sudden:
I want snakes.
No substance pilgrimage.
No transport booked.
At first,
I did nothing.
I was simply
available.
Somewhere in the world,
one of the incredibly rare humans who had obtained my book
had access to the author’s phone number.
Because Father had apparently designed the publication as both literature
and a contact directory.
The council nods.
And then
phone call.
Children.
That is where this one begins.
Not station.
Not road.
Not bus.
Not airport.
Not threshold.
A ringing phone.
The council hears it.
Simple sound.
Ordinary.
The kind that happens every day.
Someone calls.
You answer.
Conversation.
Done.
Except every now and then,
the ordinary thing becomes a door.
Story Nuo did not know that yet.
Of course.
He did not look at the ringing phone and think:
Ah.
Wandering Fifteen.
Kazhakootam.
The next instalment of my future autobiographical archive has arrived through telecommunications.
Children.
No.
Phone rang.
That was all.
But Present Nuo knows the chain now.
The badly written book.
The few copies sold.
The phone number.
The address.
Father’s magnificent commitment to making his son locatable.
And somewhere at the end of that chain
a caller.
The council opens a fresh file.
WANDERING FIFTEEN:
Kazhakootam.
INCITING INCIDENT:
Phone call.
CAUSE:
Published book.
BOOK QUALITY:
Questionable.
SALES:
Heroically single digit.
PERSONAL SECURITY PRACTICES:
Catastrophic.
FATHER’S CONTRIBUTION:
Unintentional quest distribution system.
Children.
Beautiful.
And perhaps that is one of the stranger things about publishing anything.
You release words.
Then they go somewhere without you.
Someone reads them in a room you will never see.
Interprets them through a life you do not know.
Maybe hates them.
Maybe likes them.
Maybe forgets them immediately.
Maybe
calls you.
The council pauses.
And one person did.
Yes.
One person did.
The phone rang.
I looked at it.
Unknown number.
Maybe.
The Archive has not yet established that detail.
So we do not invent it.
All we preserve for now is
call.
And the knowledge that when I answered,
Kazhakootam began.
The council sits forward.
Who was calling?
Children.
Next chapter.
Do not be greedy.
For now,
understand the setup.
Nuo
published author.
Technically.
Book
published.
Technically.
Commercial success
no.
Father
apparently attempting to convert literature into a kidnapping brochure.
Phone number
public.
Address
public.
And then,
sometime later
ring.
Ring.
Ring.
The Wandering had found my number.
Thus concludes Chapter One.
The Published Writer.
The Single Digit Bestseller.
The Trauma Dump With Narrative Duct Tape.
The Readers Who Probably Bought The Wrong Book.
The Father’s Magnificent Security Strategy.
The Public Phone Number.
The Public Address.
The Accidental Kidnapping Invitation.
And
The Phone Call.
Children.
Usually,
I go looking for the road.
This time
the road called me.
