I am Nuo, the Unbegun
the silence before stars learned to burn.

And thus begins the Wanderings of the Unbegun.

Now children,

when historians write journeys, they usually begin at the beginning.

An absurd habit.

Because beginnings are rarely understood while you’re living them.

Only afterward.

Only when enough roads connect together to reveal the shape of the map.

So no.

This is not my first journey.

Not chronologically.

Not even close.

But it is the journey that changed every journey that came before it.

The journey that handed me a new pair of eyes.

Now.

Picture this.

Nuo is sad.

The council gasps dramatically.

Correct.

A shocking development.

The philosopher who converted existential dread into a personality trait was, in fact, sad.

One moment I was sitting there contemplating my misery.

The next moment I was on a train.

No planning.

No wisdom.

No strategy.

Just sadness with purchasing power.

The council nods.

A dangerous combination.

Now.

I was alone.

Truly alone.

Not alone in the physical sense.

The train was overflowing with people.

Entire families.

Students.

Vendors.

Sleep deprived creatures whose purpose seemed to be occupying every available square inch of space.

No.

I was alone in a different way.

For the first time in my life,

Anything could happen.

Adventure.

Wonder.

Friendship.

Self discovery.

A missing persons report.

The possibilities were endless.

Now.

Being an esteemed scholar of poor financial decisions,

I purchased the cheapest ticket available.

The council applauds.

Naturally.

My seat was less a seat and more a diplomatic arrangement between several exhausted strangers.

I shared space with a man who looked exactly as homeless as I felt.

And somehow.

it was wonderful.

Terrible at the time.

Absolutely miserable.

But wonderful now.

The council understands.

The best stories often begin as terrible experiences.

Now.

The journey lasted two days.

Two entire days.

The council erupts.

Children.

My previous travel record was five hours.

Five.

Anything beyond that felt like crossing an ocean.

And suddenly I was trapped inside a metal tube for forty-eight hours.

A monumental upset.

Now.

Somewhere between the bad food,

the questionable sleeping arrangements,

and my spine filing official complaints,

something happened.

Something glorious.

A realization.

A tiny revelation hidden inside discomfort.

The council leans forward.

No one knew me.

Not one person.

No one knew my history.

My wounds.

My failures.

My masks.

My mistakes.

Nobody knew I was broken.

And if nobody knew.

then perhaps I didn’t have to be.

The council falls silent.

Because they understand immediately.

Children.

For most of my life,

I entered rooms carrying myself.

All of myself.

The weight.

The ache.

The assumptions.

The expectations.

And suddenly I was somewhere none of that existed.

A blank page.

A fresh save file.

A new character.

Protocol.

Fake It Till You Make It.

Activated.

The council cheers.

Now.

Something strange happened.

I talked to strangers.

Voluntarily.

Without social anxiety strangling me from behind.

I laughed.

Not because I was forcing it.

Because I wanted to.

I got excited about things.

Without immediately following it with cynicism.

For two days,

I became someone else.

Or perhaps,

for two days,

I became myself.

The council writes this down.

A dangerous distinction.

Now.

Among my many accomplishments during this legendary voyage,

I befriended the tea vendor.

The council applauds.

An important alliance.

At first he asked.

“Tea or coffee?”

Every time.

A reasonable system.

An efficient system.

Then eventually he stopped asking.

The council smiles.

He would simply appear.

Hand me coffee.

And continue walking.

Children.

I have rarely felt more seen in my life.

No introductions.

No deep conversations.

No emotional revelations.

Just.

“There is the coffee idiot.”

And there was my coffee.

A friendship forged in caffeine.

Now.

At this point,

you may be wondering something.

The council nods.

Because they are wondering too.

“Wait.”

“I thought this chapter was about the journey.”

Children.

It is not.

The council pauses.

Because this is where Wanderings differs from every volume before it.

A wound can fit inside a chapter.

A memory can fit inside a chapter.

A relic can fit inside a chapter.

A journey cannot.

Journeys are greedy.

They spill over.

They refuse containment.

They bleed into each other.

A wandering is not a destination.

It is an era.

A chapter of life disguised as a location.

And this train?

This terrible glorious train?

Was merely the doorway.

The first step.

The realization that the world was larger than my sadness.

Larger than my history.

Larger than the version of myself I thought was permanent.

And once that realization enters your bloodstream,

there is no going back.

Thus concludes the first chapter of the Wanderings of the Unbegun.

Not the destination.

Not even the adventure.

Merely the departure.

For the train was not the journey.

The train was the moment the cage door opened.

And beyond it waited the world.

Last chapter ended with a train.

A glorious train.

A terrible train.

A train that taught me I could become someone new.

Now.

Two days pass.

The train arrives.

And finally,

at long last,

I reach the destination.

The council applauds.

Children.

Please.

We’re not even halfway there.

The council groans.

Correct.

Because after the train came the bus.

And before the bus.

came the ticket.

Now.

Picture this.

I step into the bus station.

Confident.

Victorious.

Fresh from my great railway pilgrimage.

And immediately I am swarmed.

The council braces.

Bandits?

Thieves?

Cult recruiters?

Children.

Worse.

Ticket vendors.

The council erupts.

Now.

The problem wasn’t the ticket vendors.

The problem was that legitimate ticket vendors and scammers appeared to be operating from the exact same character model.

Identical clothing.

Identical confidence.

Identical energy.

There was absolutely no way to tell who was real.

The council asks how I solved this problem.

Simple.

I selected the closest human being within arm’s reach.

The council collapses.

Children.

I never claimed competence.

Now.

A fascinating complication emerged.

I knew English.

He did not.

He knew Hindi.

I did not.

Thus began one of the most sophisticated negotiations of my life.

The council prepares.

Ticket?

Ticket.

Destination?

Destination.

Pointing.

Nodding.

Confusion.

More pointing.

The council applauds.

A flawless multilingual exchange.

Now.

Eventually he produced a QR code.

I scanned it.

Transferred money.

The council waits.

Then?

Nothing.

No receipt.

No ticket.

No confirmation.

No paperwork.

No evidence.

The council grows concerned.

Children.

At this point I was approximately ninety percent certain I had just funded someone’s lunch.

The transaction was complete.

My money was gone.

And all I possessed was faith.

A dangerous thing to place in bus stations.

Now.

The man pointed toward another man.

Who pointed toward another man.

Who pointed toward a bus.

The council nods.

The ancient relay system.

And so I followed.

Entirely convinced I had been scammed.

Yet somehow,

there it was.

A bus.

An actual bus.

The council applauds.

A shocking twist.

Now.

You may imagine this bus ride was filled with adventure.

New friendships.

Interesting conversations.

Personal growth.

Children.

No.

Two days in the train had transformed my spine into modern art.

The moment I found a flat surface,

I disconnected from reality.

Instantly.

No resistance.

No hesitation.

One moment conscious.

The next moment unavailable.

The council writes.

“Archivist has left the server.”

Correct.

Now.

Hours later,

I reconnected.

The council waits.

And immediately realized something was wrong.

The scenery looked unfamiliar.

The atmosphere felt suspicious.

The bus contained fewer people.

A terrible truth emerged.

Children.

I had missed my stop.

The council erupts.

Of course you did.

Now.

For a brief moment,

I accepted my fate.

This is it, I thought.

The journey ends here.

Not with adventure.

Not with enlightenment.

But with me accidentally migrating to an undisclosed location because I took a nap too aggressively.

A fitting end.

Then salvation arrived.

The council leans forward.

A vehicle.

Not a car.

Not a bus.

Not a taxi.

Children.

A cow powered vehicle.

The council loses composure.

Now.

I have no idea whether it was technically a cart,

a carriage,

or some rural transportation system beyond my understanding.

What matters is this.

There was a cow.

The cow was moving.

And I was moving with it.

The council nods.

Transportation achieved.

Now.

At long last,

I arrived.

Finally.

The destination.

The council cheers.

Children.

Have you learned nothing?

The council immediately stops cheering.

No.

I arrived at the next bus stop.

The council collapses.

Correct.

Because journeys are deceptive.

They pretend destinations exist.

They lure you with promises of arrival.

Then reveal another road.

Another vehicle.

Another wrong turn.

Another chapter.

And so ended the train.

And the bus.

And the cow powered sequel.

Not with arrival.

But with proximity.

The closest thing wanderers ever truly get.

Thus concludes Chapter Two.

The lesson?

If a journey requires a train,

a bus,

and livestock,

you are not travelling.

You are being transported by fate itself.

And fate,

as we will soon discover,

has absolutely no idea where it’s going.

And thus begins Chapter Three.

Now.

At long last,

I arrived at another bus stop.

The council groans.

Children.

This one was different.

This one mattered.

Because unlike every bus stop before it,

this one possessed only a single destination.

The destination.

The council leans forward.

The mountains.

The escape.

Little Israel.

Kasol.

The council applauds.

At last.

Now.

I boarded the bus.

A veteran traveler by this point.

A seasoned explorer.

A man forged through trains, confusion, and livestock powered transportation.

And most importantly,

a man determined not to repeat his mistakes.

The council nods.

Growth.

Character development.

Maturity.

I refused to fall asleep.

The council applauds harder.

Children.

Occasionally I learn.

Rarely.

But occasionally.

And thus I remained awake.

Watching the roads.

Watching the scenery.

Watching every turn.

Every mountain.

Every cliff.

Every sign.

Terrified that consciousness itself might betray me again.

Now.

The thing about learning from your mistakes is that it can become dangerous.

Because eventually,

you begin compensating too hard.

The council grows concerned.

Correct.

You see,

I had become so determined not to miss my stop

that I abandoned all patience.

Before the bus even stopped,

I was already moving.

The council covers their faces.

Children.

The bus slowed.

I sprinted.

The driver hadn’t even finished parking.

I had already committed to the exit strategy.

Then the bus stopped.

And physics arrived.

The council erupts.

Physics.

The oldest villain.

The undefeated champion.

Children.

Momentum is a cruel mistress.

I essentially achieved escape velocity.

One moment I was inside the bus.

The next moment I was outside the bus.

Briefly airborne.

Then suddenly introduced to Kasol face first.

The council applauds.

A proper arrival.

Now.

Most travelers arrive with dignity.

Grace.

Elegance.

I arrived as a projectile.

And somehow that feels appropriate.

Now.

The moment I stood up,

the archivist awakened.

The council smiles.

Because they know exactly what comes next.

Phone.

Camera.

Record.

Everything.

Children.

There was no selection process.

No quality control.

No artistic vision.

Mountain?

Recorded.

Cow?

Recorded.

Tree?

Recorded.

Suspiciously interesting rock?

Recorded.

A dog scratching itself?

Probably recorded.

The council nods.

A true archivist.

You see,

most people travel to experience.

I travel to document the experience while simultaneously experiencing it.

An inefficient but deeply committed system.

There was no filter.

No strategy.

Only instinct.

Nuo sees.

Nuo records.

The oldest law of the archive.

Now.

Eventually,

through wandering and stumbling and generally existing without a plan,

I arrived at a hostel.

A small place.

An ordinary place.

At least on the surface.

The council listens.

I call it Destiny.

Not because it was grand.

Not because it was beautiful.

Not because it possessed some mystical significance.

But because every road that followed emerged from that single choice.

Children.

Had I chosen another hostel,

everything changes.

Every friendship.

Every adventure.

Every disaster.

Every chapter.

Gone.

Replaced by different stories.

Different people.

Different roads.

The council grows quiet.

Because this is one of the strange truths of wandering.

The great turning points rarely announce themselves.

They don’t arrive with music.

Or prophecy.

Or divine revelation.

Sometimes they arrive disguised as accommodation.

A random choice.

A left turn instead of a right.

A room booked because it looked decent enough.

And only years later do you realize.

That was the crossroads.

That was the moment.

That was where the timeline split.

Now.

Standing outside that hostel,

camera in hand,

mountains looming overhead,

covered in the dust of three separate transportation systems,

I had no idea.

None.

To me,

it was merely a place to sleep.

A checkpoint.

A temporary stop.

The council smiles.

Because they know better.

And so does the archivist.

Thus concludes Chapter Three.

The Arrival.

Or at least the closest thing a wanderer ever gets to one.

For beyond the doors of that hostel waited strangers.

And children,

strangers are where journeys truly begin.

And thus begins Chapter Four.

At last.

After trains.

After buses.

After additional buses pretending to be destinations.

After livestock assisted navigation.

I finally arrived.

The council applauds.

Children.

Standing before me was Destiny.

And Destiny had a name.

Valhalla Inn.

The council nods.

An appropriately dramatic name.

A place where exhausted travelers arrived after battling public transportation.

A place where wanderers crawled ashore after crossing oceans of poor decision making.

A fitting name indeed.

Now.

The first thing I did was check in.

The second thing I did was discover civilization.

The council looks confused.

Children.

A proper toilet.

The council erupts.

You laugh.

But after three days of squatting over holes,

encountering porcelain feels like reuniting with an old friend.

A glorious friend.

A noble friend.

And thus commenced an event best described as geological.

The council immediately moves on.

Wise.

Now.

After civilization had been appreciated appropriately,

I entered my room.

It was.

cozy.

The council waits.

That is genuinely the entire description.

Not luxurious.

Not magnificent.

Not beautiful.

Cozy.

It felt safe.

And after three days of wandering through trains, stations, buses, and confusion,

safe was exactly what I needed.

Now.

Curiously,

the hostel appeared empty.

No travelers.

No backpackers.

No wandering philosophers.

Nothing.

A ghost town.

The council grows suspicious.

Correct.

Now.

Having arrived in a new place,

I performed the ancient ritual of travelers everywhere.

I smoked a cigarette.

Then wandered aimlessly.

And eventually stumbled upon a pub.

The council applauds.

Of course.

Now.

I ordered a beer.

Simple.

Reasonable.

A perfectly ordinary decision.

Then the barkeep smiled.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Children.

Never trust a man smiling mysteriously in a mountain town.

Nothing good has ever followed.

The barkeep leaned forward.

And asked.

“Want magic pancakes?”

The council pauses.

Now.

Being the intellectual giant that I am,

I assumed exactly what you would assume.

Pancakes.

Perhaps decorative pancakes.

Festive pancakes.

Pancakes with sparklers.

The sort of thing restaurants do when they’re trying too hard.

The council nods.

Reasonable.

Children.

I was catastrophically wrong.

What arrived before me was a chocolate covered monstrosity containing enough mushrooms to concern several governments.

A pancake in the same way a dragon is technically a lizard.

The council erupts.

Now.

Faced with this mysterious delicacy,

I made a decision.

A terrible decision.

The best kind.

I ordered two.

The council buries their faces in their hands.

Children.

Nobody has ever accused me of moderation.

And thus I ate both.

Entirely.

Without hesitation.

Without caution.

Without survival instincts.

The barkeep watched.

Growing increasingly horrified.

Then came the question.

The council braces.

“You ate both?”

The barkeep looked at me the way one might look at a man who has accidentally swallowed a hand grenade.

The council applauds.

A fair comparison.

Now.

Apparently.

Apparently.

One was intended.

One.

Not two.

The council nods.

A crucial detail.

A detail that would’ve been useful approximately five minutes earlier.

The barkeep then delivered what sounded less like advice and more like prophecy.

“Get to your room as soon as you can.”

The council grows quiet.

Children.

He did not say this casually.

He said it the way sailors warn each other about storms.

The way villagers warn travelers about forests.

The way old men warn heroes before the beginning of a quest.

And that’s when I knew.

I had made an error.

A magnificent error.

But an error nonetheless.

Now.

I paid.

Immediately.

Then ran.

Not jogged.

Not walked.

Ran.

The council applauds.

At last.

Self preservation.

Now.

Halfway back to Valhalla,

the world began changing.

The council leans forward.

Colors tasted different.

Sounds developed texture.

Time became negotiable.

Reality stopped behaving according to manufacturer specifications.

Maximum synesthesia.

Children.

I could practically smell music.

The universe had become an art project.

Now.

Somehow.

Against all odds.

I reached my room.

Closed the door.

Collapsed onto the bed.

And vanished.

The council waits.

An eternity passed.

Worlds rose and fell.

Stars were born.

Civilizations crumbled.

I journeyed beyond time itself.

Then I checked the clock.

One hour.

The council loses composure.

Children.

That felt deeply unfair.

Now.

I lay there.

Grinning.

Not because I was happy.

Not exactly.

Not because I was enlightened.

Not because I had discovered some profound truth.

No.

I was grinning because I knew.

Somehow.

Instinctively.

Absolutely.

This was the beginning.

Not of the journey.

Not of Kasol.

Not even of the wandering.

But of a story.

One of those stories that survives.

One of those stories you tell years later.

One of those moments that quietly steps out of ordinary life and declares.

“Remember me.”

And so I did.

Thus concludes Chapter Four.

The Magic Pancakes.

Or alternatively.

The Day Nuo Consumed Twice The Recommended Amount Of Mystery.

A terrible decision.

A wonderful memory.

And the first sign that the mountains had plans for me.

And thus begins Chapter Five.

Now.

There I lay.

Stretched across the bed.

Grinning at the ceiling.

The mountains outside.

Reality inside.

And whatever remained of the magic pancakes somewhere in orbit.

The council nods.

A peaceful scene.

Then the door opened.

The council immediately becomes interested.

For through that door walked a fellow traveler.

A roommate.

A temporary companion assigned by fate and hostel management.

Now.

The strange thing was this.

He spoke my native language.

The council smiles.

At last.

A familiar face.

A connection.

A piece of home.

Children.

We immediately began speaking English.

The council collapses.

Correct.

To this day I have no explanation.

Perhaps we had already committed to being travelers.

Perhaps it felt appropriate.

Perhaps we were both idiots.

The answer remains unknown.

Now.

Acquaintance formed rapidly.

The same way golden retrievers become friends.

Meet.

Sniff metaphorically.

One minute later.

Best friends.

The council applauds.

The purest form of friendship.

We talked.

Shared stories.

Made plans.

Spoke of adventures.

Future destinations.

The usual traveler ritual.

Then.

I never saw him again.

The council pauses.

Children.

To this day I do not know what happened.

Did he ghost me?

Did I ghost him?

Did he change hostels?

Did I?

Did he ascend into a higher plane of existence?

The council writes this down.

A plausible theory.

All I know is this.

One moment he was part of the story.

The next moment he wasn’t.

A traveler.

A memory.

Gone almost as quickly as he arrived.

And somehow,

that felt fitting.

Now.

Eventually I wandered back outside.

Another cigarette.

Same spot as before.

The council nods.

A sacred location.

Only this time,

the ghost town was gone.

People had appeared.

Travelers.

Backpackers.

Stories waiting for introductions.

And among them sat two men.

The council leans forward.

Naturally,

I said absolutely nothing.

The council applauds.

Consistency.

You see,

contrary to popular belief,

wandering does not magically cure social anxiety.

It merely relocates it to more scenic locations.

Now.

Had destiny been sensible,

the story would’ve ended there.

Three strangers.

Three cigarettes.

Zero conversations.

But destiny has never been sensible.

Children.

If a story wishes to exist,

it will find a way.

And in this particular case,

it found an author.

Unfortunately,

I no longer remember his name.

The council gasps.

An archivist forgetting a name?

Scandalous.

Children.

Names vanish.

Stories remain.

So we shall call him.

Gunman.

The council immediately has questions.

Simple.

He had a gun.

The council nods.

Fair enough.

Now.

Gunman looked at me.

Studied me briefly.

Then asked.

“You from Kerala?”

The council applauds.

An opening.

A bridge.

A connection.

“Yeah.”

I replied.

Then naturally asked.

“Are you?”

“No.”

The council waits.

That was it.

No explanation.

No follow up.

No context.

Just.

Kerala?

Yes.

No.

Perfect.

Friendship achieved.

The council collapses.

Now.

Without another word,

he invited me to join them.

And suddenly,

without effort,

without planning,

without even trying,

I found myself sitting beside two strangers.

The council smiles.

Because this is how wandering works.

Not through grand revelations.

Through accidents.

Now.

The second man possessed a beard.

A magnificent beard.

A beard worthy of recognition.

Thus he became Beard Man.

The council nods.

A naming convention both efficient and deeply lazy.

My specialty.

Now.

The joints were rolled.

The stories emerged.

And before I knew it,

something familiar happened.

The council recognizes it instantly.

Children.

I had found a pack.

A temporary one.

Not permanent.

Not eternal.

Not the chosen family Lucian spent his life searching for.

Something smaller.

Something brief.

A campfire family.

The kind that exists only because three roads happened to intersect.

And gods,

those families are beautiful.

Now.

We sat there all night.

Exchanging stories.

Passing joints.

Talking about lives we’d never fully understand.

Listening to people we’d probably never see again.

The council grows quiet.

Because there is something sacred about that.

No expectations.

No history.

No future.

Just the present.

Pure and temporary.

The way campfires were always meant to be.

Now.

The hours slipped by unnoticed.

Midnight became morning.

Darkness became dawn.

And eventually,

the cryptids grew tired.

The council applauds.

A rare occurrence.

Children.

Even wanderers must occasionally sleep.

And so we dispersed.

Not with ceremony.

Not with declarations.

Simply with the quiet understanding that tomorrow would bring another story.

Thus concludes Chapter Five.

Gunman.

Beard Man.

And the Roommate Whose Name Was Lost To History.

Proof that sometimes a family lasts decades.

And sometimes it lasts a single night.

Both are real.

Both matter.

And both leave footprints long after the road has moved on.

And thus begins Chapter Six.

Now.

There I lay.

Half asleep.

Half conscious.

Halfway between a dream and reality.

Which, if we’re being honest, describes most of my twenties.

The council nods.

Accurate.

Now.

As I drifted through that strange limbo,

I smelled something.

A familiar smell.

The council immediately knows.

Correct.

I opened my eyes.

And hovering directly above my face like some sort of blessed hallucination.

was a joint.

The council applauds.

A traditional mountain alarm clock.

Now.

Following the joint downward,

I discovered its owner.

Gunman.

And beside him.

Beard Man.

The sequel.

The council cheers.

Children.

The temporary pack had returned.

I took a puff.

Accepted the summons.

And off we went.

Back to the Spot.

By now the Spot had become more than a location.

It was headquarters.

Campfire.

Embassy.

Sacred gathering ground of cryptids.

Now.

We sat.

We smoked.

We existed.

And then destiny added two more members to the story.

The council leans forward.

New arrivals.

Fresh travelers.

Fresh stories.

Temporary family expansion pack.

Unlike the Unbegun,

these two possessed functioning social skills.

A trait I observed with fascination.

One introduced himself.

The other introduced himself.

The council waits.

Children.

By this point I barely remembered my own name.

I am not about to pretend I remember theirs.

So naturally,

they became Bald Man and Ponytail.

The council applauds.

A naming convention as elegant as it is lazy.

My specialty.

Now.

The four of them immediately began planning.

Scheming.

Strategizing.

Doing whatever socially competent people do.

Meanwhile,

I sat there puffing away like a decorative gargoyle.

Listening.

Observing.

Archiving.

The council nods.

The archivist’s natural state.

Then came the revelation.

A rave.

The Pirates of Parvati.

The council erupts.

A title so dramatic it sounds fictional.

Children.

The rave was in two days.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Two days.

Which meant the planning phase had begun.

The council applauds.

A quest had appeared.

Now.

With the mission established,

the conversation shifted to more immediate concerns.

The council already knows.

Food.

One man declared.

“Brother, I’m hungry.”

A reasonable statement.

Another declared.

“Brother, I’d rather get high.”

Also reasonable.

And thus democracy commenced.

The council nods solemnly.

Now.

The beautiful thing about democracy is compromise.

The terrible thing about democracy is compromise.

Because eventually someone arrived at a solution satisfying both objectives simultaneously.

The council braces.

Eat food that gets you high.

The council erupts.

Children.

A masterpiece.

A diplomatic triumph.

The sort of negotiation future governments should study.

Now.

Before anyone panics,

it wasn’t the pancakes.

The council visibly relaxes.

Nothing in this universe was convincing me to repeat that experiment.

No.

This was something gentler.

Something kinder.

Hash brownies.

The council applauds.

A sensible choice.

Relatively speaking.

Now.

We ate.

We got high.

We laughed.

The others talked.

Stories flowed.

Conversations wandered.

Friendships deepened.

And I.

recorded a plant.

The council pauses.

A plant?

Children.

It was blue.

At least I thought it was blue.

A magnificent blue plant.

A discovery worthy of documentation.

The archivist activated immediately.

Phone out.

Camera rolling.

History preserved.

Then eventually I realized something.

The council already knows.

The plant was green.

The light was blue.

The council collapses.

A tragic misunderstanding.

One that lasted approximately twenty minutes.

Now.

The day drifted onward.

Slowly.

Comfortably.

The sort of day where nothing extraordinary happens,

yet somehow it becomes unforgettable.

The council smiles.

Because those are often the best ones.

Now.

By this point we had become friendly with the owner of the brownie shop.

Friendly enough that we effectively colonized the place.

The council applauds.

A traditional traveler strategy.

We sat there for hours.

Talking.

Laughing.

Existing.

Until eventually exhaustion arrived.

The mountains had their adventures.

The rave awaited.

The road continued.

But not tonight.

Tonight belonged to the pack.

Thus concludes Chapter Six.

Gunman.

Beard Man.

Bald Man.

Ponytail.

The Unbegun.

The Brownie Shop.

And the Day A Green Plant Was Mistaken For A Blue One.

Proof that found families do not require years.

Sometimes they require only a shared table,

a few stories,

and enough time for strangers to become familiar.

And children,

those families are every bit as real as the permanent ones.

Even when they last only a handful of sunsets.

And thus begins Chapter Seven.

Now.

I awoke in the brownie shop.

As one does.

The council nods.

A perfectly normal sentence.

Now.

The pack was already awake.

Already gathered.

Already planning.

Democracy in progress.

The council applauds.

Children.

There were two proposals before the assembly.

Proposal One.

Drink.

Repeat yesterday.

Become increasingly horizontal.

Proposal Two.

Visit the Gurudwara.

An adventure proposed by Beard Man.

The council waits.

And there I stood.

Between two futures.

Booze.

Or adventure.

The oldest dilemma known to wanderers.

Now.

I enjoy booze.

A great deal.

But I also wanted to see the Gurudwara.

Document it.

Archive it.

Collect another doorway for the museum that would inevitably exist one day.

And so I arrived at the only solution that felt reasonable.

The council braces.

Go to the Gurudwara drunk.

The council applauds.

Compromise.

The cornerstone of civilization.

Now.

The others remained behind.

The pilgrimage party consisted of only two members.

Beard Man.

And the Unbegun.

The council cheers.

A buddy adventure.

Now.

Naturally,

I asked the important question.

“Where’s the vehicle?”

The council nods.

A wise inquiry.

Beard Man looked at me.

Then said.

“We walk.”

The council erupts.

Children.

I immediately experienced flashbacks.

Not war flashbacks.

Far worse.

Grandmother flashbacks.

Entire cities.

Endless walking.

The unstoppable force that is an elderly woman with a destination.

I knew suffering when I saw it.

Now.

The journey was roughly five miles.

The council nods.

Manageable.

Children.

Not for me.

You see,

my lung capacity has always existed in direct conflict with my ambitions.

And so the pilgrimage began.

Beard Man strode ahead like a man on a mission.

Meanwhile I followed behind.

Clutching a cigarette.

Stopping every few minutes.

The council applauds.

A heroic performance.

Children.

I took more breaks than there were miles.

At one point I believe I stopped to recover from a previous recovery stop.

Beard Man remained patient.

Which in hindsight was incredibly kind.

Now.

Eventually.

Against all odds.

Against my lungs.

Against gravity.

Against my repeated attempts to become stationary.

We arrived.

The council grows quiet.

And children.

For a moment,

I simply stood there.

Watching.

No jokes.

No observations.

Just silence.

Because it was beautiful.

The council nods.

Some places earn silence.

The Gurudwara was one of them.

Now.

We entered.

Beard Man prayed.

I documented.

The council smiles.

Each according to their nature.

Statues.

Recorded.

Buildings.

Recorded.

Fountains.

Recorded.

A bug minding its own business.

Also recorded.

The council applauds.

A thorough archivist.

Children.

I genuinely believe if a pebble looked interesting enough,

it would’ve made the final cut.

Now.

Eventually,

the pilgrimage ended.

The council waits.

And came the return journey.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Correct.

Because Beard Man looked at me.

Then looked at the road.

Then looked back at me.

And realized something.

The council already knows.

This man would not survive walking back.

Wise.

Deeply wise.

Now.

Instead of repeating the march,

we acquired transportation.

Not exactly a taxi.

Not exactly a jeep.

More a situation.

The council nods.

We essentially sat behind a vehicle and trusted physics to remain cooperative.

A strategy surprisingly common in the mountains.

Now.

The return trip passed quickly.

No suffering.

No near death experiences.

No cigarette assisted climbing expeditions.

And eventually,

we returned.

Back to the Spot.

Back to headquarters.

Back to the pack.

The council cheers.

Now.

The others had remained committed to Proposal One.

The council laughs.

Children.

They were catastrophically drunk.

A level of drunk that can only be achieved through dedication.

The sort of drunk where every sentence becomes philosophy and every laugh becomes a public event.

And thus the pack was reunited.

The pilgrims.

The drinkers.

The archivist.

The cryptids.

Together once more.

Now.

At the time,

it felt like an ordinary day.

A pleasant detour.

A small adventure.

But years later,

that is not how I remember it.

The council listens.

I remember the road.

The exhaustion.

The silence.

The beauty.

The realization that sometimes wandering isn’t about reaching somewhere.

Sometimes it’s simply about seeing something worth the effort.

Even if the effort nearly kills you.

Thus concludes Chapter Seven.

The Pilgrimage.

The Day Beard Man Learned My Physical Limitations.

And the day the archivist discovered that some destinations are worth five miles of complaining.

Now gather close, council children.

Bring snacks.

Bring beverages.

Bring whatever emotional support item your species prefers.

Because next comes the event.

The one they had been planning since the beginning.

The one whispered about around joints and brownie shops.

The one known as.

Pirates of Parvati.

And children.

That story is considerably less peaceful.

And thus begins Chapter Eight.

Pirates of Parvati.

The council erupts.

At last.

The rave.

The event.

The quest marker that had been hovering over the horizon since Bald Man and Ponytail first spoke its name.

Now.

I awoke at dawn.

Excited.

Genuinely excited.

The kind of excitement usually reserved for children on holidays and idiots about to make questionable decisions.

The council nods.

A category in which I comfortably qualify.

Now.

The hostel remained silent.

The pack slept.

The mountains slept.

The entire world appeared asleep.

And I was confused.

Children.

I had forgotten something important.

Raves happen at night.

The council applauds.

A breakthrough.

An obvious revelation.

One that somehow hadn’t occurred to me until that moment.

Now.

Presented with an entire day to occupy,

I wandered.

Naturally.

The council approves.

Now.

I made my way to the Spot.

Smoked a cigarette.

Watched the mountains.

And then noticed something.

Across from Valhalla.

A flower park.

The council waits.

Children.

I am a simple man.

I see roses.

I approach roses.

This is one of the oldest instincts I possess.

Now.

The entry fee was five rupees.

The council gasps.

A devastating expense.

Financial ruin.

The sort of cost one spends minutes contemplating.

Yet somehow I persevered.

The ticket was purchased.

The council applauds.

Now.

Into the park I went.

Flask of whiskey in one hand.

Joint in the other.

Headphones over my ears.

The council nods.

A deeply concerning combination.

And then.

something happened.

The council grows quiet.

Nothing.

For once.

Nothing happened.

No plans.

No conversations.

No disasters.

No revelations.

No chaos.

Only walking.

The council listens.

Children.

For as long as I can remember,

my mind has been noisy.

Thoughts.

Questions.

Memories.

Ideas.

Regrets.

The endless machinery of being me.

Always running.

Always moving.

Always speaking.

And for a little while,

among the flowers,

it stopped.

The council grows silent.

Not permanently.

Not completely.

Just enough.

Enough to notice.

Enough to breathe.

Enough to exist.

Now.

During this great pilgrimage through petals and peace,

I befriended a dog.

The council applauds.

An inevitable development.

Children.

Dogs find me.

This has happened too often to be coincidence.

The dog appeared.

Decided I was acceptable.

And followed me.

No discussion.

No paperwork.

No formal introduction.

Simply.

“You seem lonely.”

“I shall accompany you.”

The council approves.

A noble creature.

Now.

The dog and I wandered together.

Past flowers.

Past pathways.

Past nothing in particular.

And somehow.

three hours vanished.

The council nods.

Because peace has a strange relationship with time.

Now.

Eventually,

I returned.

The dog remained behind.

The flowers remained behind.

The silence remained behind.

But the memory came with me.

The council smiles.

Now.

Back at Valhalla,

the pack had awakened.

And children.

The atmosphere had changed.

The council leans forward.

Whiskey was being poured.

Joints were being rolled.

Preparations were underway.

The cryptids had begun assembling.

A beautiful sight.

The sort of scene that feels important while you’re living it.

Even if you don’t yet know why.

Now.

The day drifted onward.

Stories were exchanged.

Laughter echoed.

The mountains watched.

And eventually.

night arrived.

The council cheers.

At last.

Now.

Gunman appeared.

The commander of the expedition.

The herald of poor decisions.

And shouted.

“Are you ready?”

The council waits.

“YES!”

I shouted back.

Without hesitation.

Without fear.

Without reflection.

Then I stood up.

And realized something.

The council already knows.

Children.

I was sloshed.

Completely.

Catastrophically.

The sort of drunk where functionality becomes a premium feature.

One I could no longer afford.

The council applauds.

A terrible strategic decision.

Now.

There I stood.

Smile on my face.

Whiskey in my blood.

Adventure ahead.

And for perhaps the first time that entire journey,

I felt all four emotions simultaneously.

Excited.

Afraid.

Concerned.

And curious.

The council nods.

Because that combination has preceded every worthwhile adventure in history.

Thus concludes Chapter Eight.

The Day Before The Storm.

The Flower Park.

The Dog.

The Silence.

And the moment before the music began.

For somewhere beyond the mountains,

beyond the roads,

beyond the campfires and brownie shops,

Pirates of Parvati was waiting.

And children.

The road is about to get strange.

And thus begins Chapter Nine.

Pirates of Parvati.

The council leans forward.

Now.

There I stood.

Feeling four emotions simultaneously.

Excited.

Afraid.

Concerned.

Curious.

A balanced emotional diet.

And so I asked Gunman the most important question.

“How are we getting there?”

The council nods.

A sensible inquiry.

“Where is it?”

An even better inquiry.

Gunman looked at me.

Then delivered news so horrifying that for a brief moment I considered returning to Valhalla and living there permanently.

“We walk.”

The council erupts.

Children.

The Gurudwara flashbacks arrived instantly.

The exhaustion.

The suffering.

The betrayal.

Brother.

I can barely walk when sober.

And now this man wanted me to walk two miles while sloshed.

A bold strategy.

Now.

We departed.

The pilgrimage began.

And I wish I could tell you stories of the journey.

Beautiful scenery.

Interesting conversations.

Life changing revelations.

Children.

I remember absolutely none of it.

The council applauds.

One moment I was walking.

The next moment I materialized.

No transition.

No memory.

No loading screen.

Just suddenly existing somewhere else.

The council writes.

“Fast travel unlocked.”

Correct.

Now.

Before me stood the ticket counter.

The gateway.

The final checkpoint.

The council waits.

I paid the absurd admission fee.

One.

“Please Dad, everyone’s going to the rave.”

The council nods.

A currency I was deeply familiar with.

And then.

we entered.

The council cheers.

Now.

Children.

Imagine music so loud that your chest vibrates.

Not your ears.

Your chest.

Imagine lasers.

Colors.

Smoke.

Movement.

Thousands of people.

Thousands of stories.

Thousands of cryptids gathered from every corner of the planet.

The council grows quiet.

And suddenly,

for the first time on the journey,

I felt completely at home.

Not because I knew anyone.

Not because I belonged.

But because nobody belonged.

Everyone was strange.

Everyone was wandering.

Everyone was searching for something.

The council nods.

My people.

Now.

The next thing to remember is important.

I immediately passed out.

The council collapses.

Children.

Listen.

I’ve never claimed competence.

Now.

When I next awakened,

hours had passed.

The council waits.

I found myself inside a tent.

The council leans forward.

Whose tent?

Excellent question.

To this day,

I have absolutely no idea.

Possibly mine.

More likely not mine.

Statistically someone else’s.

Now.

Inside sat two strangers.

A blonde woman.

A black haired man.

The council nods.

Temporary NPCs.

Quest givers.

Or perhaps accidental rescuers.

I genuinely don’t know.

Now.

Children.

There are moments in life where you should ask questions.

This was one of them.

I asked none.

The council applauds.

Consistency.

Instead,

I smoked a joint with them.

Accepted a suspicious pill.

And continued existing.

The council groans.

Children.

Do not use the Unbegun Saga as a travel guide.

Now.

The remarkable thing was how normal this all felt at the time.

No introductions.

No explanations.

Just three cryptids sharing a moment beneath canvas while music shook the mountains outside.

Then they sent me on my way.

Like side characters whose questline had concluded.

The council nods.

Their work here was done.

Now.

I wandered.

Aimlessly.

Gloriously.

The council smiles.

And eventually fate intervened once more.

For I collided with Beard Man.

The council erupts.

A reunion.

Children.

The look on his face was magnificent.

“Brother, we thought you died.”

A reasonable conclusion.

“I thought I did too.”

I replied.

The council applauds.

An equally reasonable response.

Now.

Just like that,

the pack was whole again.

Gunman.

Beard Man.

Bald Man.

Ponytail.

The Unbegun.

And however many additional cryptids destiny had collected along the way.

The council cheers.

Now.

This is where most people would describe the party.

The music.

The atmosphere.

The experience.

Children.

I remember exactly one thing.

The dance.

The council already knows.

Brace face.

Close eyes.

Jesus take the wheel.

Pinball Protocol activated.

I danced the same way I always dance.

Like a man attempting to survive turbulence.

Like a loose shopping cart descending a hill.

Like a cryptid discovering rhythm through trial and error.

The council applauds.

A masterclass.

Now.

The music roared.

The lasers flashed.

The mountains watched.

And somewhere amid the chaos,

the wandering continued.

Thus concludes Chapter Nine.

The Rave.

The Tent.

The Temporary Resurrection.

And the reunion of the pack.

For children,

the night was far from over.

And as we shall soon discover,

Pirates of Parvati still had several surprises left in reserve.

And thus begins Chapter Ten.

Now.

There I was.

Pinballing.

The council applauds.

Children.

By this point I had fully abandoned any illusion of dancing.

Others danced.

I ricocheted.

A subtle but important distinction.

One moment I’d collide with a stranger.

The next moment a stranger would collide with me.

The dance floor had become a physics experiment.

And I was the projectile.

Now.

Somewhere amidst the music,

the lights,

and my ongoing battle against momentum,

something happened.

The council leans forward.

The suspicious tent pill activated.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Correct.

Now.

Suddenly.

A dragon.

The council erupts.

Not a small dragon.

Not a symbolic dragon.

An absolute unit.

A sky sized beast soaring overhead.

Magnificent.

Glorious.

Impossible.

The council prepares for mystical revelations.

Children.

It was a drone show.

The council collapses.

Correct.

Now.

Let’s be clear.

That is not how ecstasy works.

At least I don’t think it is.

To this day I remain wonderfully underqualified to explain the mechanics involved.

What I do know is this:

I was absurdly happy.

And simultaneously felt like someone had connected my nervous system directly to an industrial espresso machine.

The council nods.

A reasonable scientific description.

Now.

The dragon vanished.

The drones continued doing whatever technologically advanced birds do.

And I returned to my sacred duty.

Pinballing.

The council applauds.

Now.

Occasionally I danced with Gunman.

The commander of the expedition.

The man who somehow always looked like he knew what was happening.

A skill I deeply admired.

Now.

Beard Man was different.

The council listens.

You see,

Beard Man was a quiet creature.

A watcher.

An observer.

The kind of man perfectly content standing at the edge of the chaos while everyone else launched themselves into it.

And there he stood.

Watching.

The council nods.

A respectable strategy.

Children.

Not on my watch.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Correct.

Now.

I possess many talents.

Most of them questionable.

One of my greatest gifts is the ability to become so relentlessly annoying that cooperation becomes the easier option.

The council applauds.

A powerful skill.

And so I deployed it.

Relentlessly.

Without mercy.

Without dignity.

Until eventually Beard Man surrendered.

The council cheers.

Victory.

Now.

He danced.

Awkwardly.

Reluctantly.

Like a man negotiating with gravity.

But he danced.

And children,

that was enough.

Because there is something beautiful about watching someone step outside themselves for a moment.

Even briefly.

Even imperfectly.

Especially imperfectly.

The council smiles.

Now.

The hours slipped away.

Music became atmosphere.

Atmosphere became memory.

Memory became blur.

The council grows quiet.

The rave continued.

The mountains continued.

The dancers continued.

The night itself seemed determined to continue forever.

But I did not.

The council nods.

Eventually every adventure reaches the point where the body files a formal complaint.

Mine had been submitting paperwork for hours.

Now.

The music grew distant.

The lights softened.

The world blurred around the edges.

And then.

darkness arrived.

Not frightening.

Not dramatic.

Simply inevitable.

The council lowers their heads.

Like the final page of a chapter turning itself.

Thus concludes Chapter Ten.

The Dragon.

The Dance Floor.

The Conversion of Beard Man.

And the night the Unbegun discovered that joy can occasionally arrive disguised as complete nonsense.

The rave continued.

The mountains watched.

The pack remained.

And somewhere beneath the music,

the wandering carried on.

Even after the lights went out.

And thus begins Chapter Eleven.

Now.

The last thing I remembered was darkness.

Not ordinary darkness.

The abyss.

The great cosmic loading screen.

The place consciousness goes when it has officially resigned for the evening.

The council nods.

A familiar destination.

Then I awakened.

The council leans forward.

Children.

Beside me sat a dog.

The council applauds.

An excellent start.

In my arms rested a goat.

The council pauses.

The goat appeared to be spooning me.

The council erupts.

Now.

Before rumors spread throughout the archive,

let me clarify.

The relationship was not romantic.

Not emotional.

Not spiritual.

Not anything.

It was simply me,

a goat,

and several unanswered questions.

The council writes this down.

A recurring theme.

Now.

I gently untangled myself from my livestock companion and began searching for the pack.

The council nods.

A reasonable objective.

Eventually I found them.

Or at least portions of them.

You see,

after a rave,

human beings exist in several distinct states.

Some are awake.

Some are asleep.

Some are technically alive but spiritually buffering.

The council approves.

Now.

Half the pack remained unconscious.

Meanwhile Beard Man and Ponytail were playing pool.

Like two men who had somehow skipped the entire collapse phase.

A remarkable achievement.

Now.

Everywhere I looked,

cryptids.

The council applauds.

Passed out beneath tables.

Across benches.

Near tents.

Against walls.

The aftermath of an entire night of existing too aggressively.

And children.

It was magnificent.

Not because everyone looked ridiculous.

Though they did.

But because for once,

I felt normal.

The council grows quiet.

Not because they were strange.

Because we all were.

Nobody was pretending.

Nobody was performing.

Nobody was trying to fit into a shape they weren’t built for.

The council nods.

Everyone was wonderfully odd.

And for a little while,

that made me feel at home.

Now.

Thus concluded Pirates of Parvati.

Not with fireworks.

Not with revelations.

But with goats.

A fitting ending.

Now.

The journey back began.

Down the mountain.

Toward civilization.

Or at least the mountain’s interpretation of civilization.

And eventually we found a shack.

The council listens.

A humble little place selling noodles.

Twenty rupees worth of noodles.

At two hundred rupees.

The council erupts.

Children.

Monopolies are powerful things.

When you are the only shop within walking distance,

you become whatever you want.

Now.

I was starving.

Absolutely starving.

The kind of hunger where noodles begin looking divine.

And that’s when I noticed her.

The council leans forward.

Now.

Let me clarify immediately.

This was not love.

Not even close.

Love requires knowing things.

I knew absolutely nothing.

This was something simpler.

A moment of appreciation.

The council nods.

Children.

Sometimes you see someone and think.

Holy hell.

You are remarkably pretty.

And that’s the entire emotion.

No future.

No fantasy.

No projection.

Just appreciation.

Now.

She was local.

Hazel eyes.

Tan skin.

Hair that seemed almost unfair.

The council applauds.

And somehow,

despite existing in a mountain noodle monopoly,

she remained kind.

Now.

We talked.

Nothing profound.

Nothing life changing.

Just conversation.

Easy conversation.

The rare kind.

The council smiles.

I made her laugh.

Which immediately activated every reward center in my brain.

And for about an hour,

she became the center of my attention.

Not romantically.

The council points at me suspiciously.

Children.

Focus.

Not romance.

She was simply interesting.

Kind.

Present.

And in that moment,

that was enough.

Now.

I finished my noodles.

Then ordered another.

Because I was apparently attempting to single handedly fund the local economy.

And when the second bowl arrived,

something happened.

The council listens.

She brought a drink.

A Bournvita.

Not ordered.

Not requested.

Just included.

I looked confused.

She shrugged.

“You looked thirsty.”

The council falls silent.

Now.

Years later,

that is what I remember.

Not the eyes.

Not the hair.

Not even the conversation.

That.

The drink.

The gesture.

The effortless kindness.

The tiny act that cost almost nothing.

Yet somehow remained.

The council nods.

Because memories are strange.

The smallest moments often survive the longest.

Now.

I never asked her name.

The council groans.

Children.

Have you met me?

Of course I didn’t.

Instead,

I appointed one.

Hazel.

The council applauds.

An efficient solution.

And somehow she liked it.

Accepted it.

Became Hazel.

Just like that.

Now.

Eventually the noodles ended.

The conversation ended.

The mountain continued.

And we left.

Walking back toward Valhalla.

Toward beds.

Toward sleep.

Toward the next chapter.

The council smiles.

And when I finally collapsed into bed,

there was no grand realization.

No profound lesson.

Only exhaustion.

The honest kind.

The earned kind.

The kind that arrives after adventure.

Thus concludes Chapter Eleven.

The Morning After.

The Goat.

The Noodles.

And Hazel.

Proof that sometimes a wandering is not remembered for the destination.

Nor the party.

Nor the spectacle.

Sometimes it is remembered because someone looked at you,

noticed you were thirsty,

and cared enough to do something about it.

And children,

those moments linger longer than most people ever realize.

And thus begins Chapter Twelve.

Now.

The next morning arrived.

The council nods.

A dangerous habit mornings possess.

And by this point,

the roads had begun separating.

Bald Man and Ponytail had reached the end of their journey.

The council lowers their heads.

Not sadly.

Simply knowingly.

Because this is how wandering works.

Roads meet.

Roads part.

Neither is tragic.

Neither is permanent.

Now.

We exchanged contact details.

Promises were made.

Future conversations were implied.

The council already knows.

Children.

I never spoke to them again.

Not because anything happened.

Nothing happened.

The road simply continued.

And sometimes that is enough.

Now.

The remaining members of the pack gathered.

Gun Man.

Beard Man.

And the Unbegun.

The council applauds.

The Trio.

Now.

The next adventure awaited.

A wonderful problem.

There was only one issue.

We had absolutely no idea what it was.

The council nods.

A recurring theme.

Children.

We sat there.

Three wanderers.

No destination.

No quest.

No plan.

Then history was made.

The council leans forward.

For the first time in recorded history,

the Unbegun made a suggestion.

The council gasps.

Impossible.

Children.

I looked toward the mountains.

And said:

“I want to see snow.”

The council erupts.

A quest.

At last.

A purpose.

Now.

The question became obvious.

Where does one find snow?

The mountains answered.

Tosh.

The council applauds.

And thus began the Third Pilgrimage.

Now.

Unlike previous expeditions,

Gun Man arranged actual transportation.

The council stands and cheers.

Growth.

Character development.

A functioning taxi.

No buses.

No livestock.

No accidental mountaineering.

A genuine vehicle.

Now.

We climbed aboard.

The engine started.

And naturally,

I fell asleep.

The council collapses.

Children.

Traveling activates a very specific instinct within me.

Motion equals nap.

Now.

Eventually I awoke.

The council waits.

And the world had changed.

White.

Everywhere.

The council grows quiet.

Snow.

Actual snow.

Not photographs.

Not movies.

Not documentaries.

Snow.

Now.

I exited the vehicle immediately.

Touched it.

Stared at it.

Children.

I had dreamed about this since I was little.

The council smiles.

And for approximately seventeen glorious seconds,

I was mesmerized.

Completely enchanted.

Absolutely enchanted.

Then reality arrived.

The council nods.

“Oh.”

“It’s just water.”

The council erupts.

Children.

Dreams are funny.

You spend years imagining them.

Then eventually you touch them and realize.

Yes.

This is indeed the thing.

Now.

That realization did not reduce my enthusiasm.

Not even slightly.

The crow instincts activated immediately.

The council applauds.

I collected snow.

Placed it into a container.

A keepsake.

A relic in progress.

Proof that I had been there.

Now.

Having fulfilled one childhood dream,

I moved onto the next.

Snow angel.

The council cheers.

Children.

If you travel across the country to touch snow,

you commit to the experience.

No half measures.

And thus I flopped backward into the snow.

Dignity abandoned.

Mission accomplished.

Now.

Eventually we checked into an inn.

The council nods.

A sensible decision.

And there we discovered something unexpected.

Another pack.

The council applauds.

A crossover episode.

Children.

For one brief afternoon,

two temporary families occupied the same space.

The mountains witnessed diplomacy.

Now.

The introductions happened.

Stories were exchanged.

And for reasons very known,

they collectively decided to call me.

Mallu Boy.

The council approves.

A respectable title.

Now.

The afternoon became a blur of companionship.

Drinks.

Food.

Smoke.

Laughter.

The usual ingredients.

And somehow,

through means I still do not fully understand,

we accidentally became part of an uncle’s birthday party.

The council erupts.

Children.

This happens more often than it should.

One moment you’re wandering.

The next moment you’re celebrating the existence of a man you’ve never met.

Photos were taken.

Cake was likely involved.

Everyone was happy.

A perfect outcome.

Now.

Eventually the others retreated indoors.

The cold arrived.

The evening settled.

And I found myself alone atop the terrace.

The council grows quiet.

Cigarette in one hand.

Flask in the other.

Headphones over my ears.

The mountains watching.

Now.

I called Mom.

The council smiles.

A simple thing.

An ordinary thing.

Yet somehow,

it became the most important moment of the day.

Children.

Our conversations usually lasted five minutes.

Maybe ten.

This one lasted five hours.

The council falls silent.

Because somewhere between the mountains,

the snow,

the wandering,

and the distance,

I realized something.

I missed her.

Not in the dramatic sense.

Not in the tragic sense.

Just honestly.

Simply.

I missed my mother.

The council nods.

And for once,

I didn’t want the conversation to end.

So it didn’t.

Mom obliged.

As mothers often do.

Now.

Eventually.

Night arrived.

The council looks toward the mountains.

The snow remained.

The inn remained.

The temporary families remained.

But the journey continued.

And so we climbed back into the taxi.

Descending from the white world.

Returning to town.

Returning to the road.

Returning to whatever came next.

Thus concludes Chapter Twelve.

The Quest for Snow.

The Dream Fulfilled.

The Birthday Party.

And the five hour phone call.

Proof that some adventures give you exactly what you wanted.

Snow.

And some adventures quietly give you what you needed.

A reminder to call home.

And children.

Though snow may simply be frozen water,

that does not make it any less magical.

And thus begins Chapter Thirteen.

Now.

By this point,

Gun Man’s journey had reached its conclusion.

The council lowers their heads.

Not sadly.

Simply respectfully.

Because roads diverge.

That is their purpose.

Now.

The goodbyes were approaching.

And with them,

I assumed something.

A foolish thing.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Children.

I thought the chaos was ending.

Gun Man was leaving.

The architect of questionable decisions.

The commander of the temporary pack.

Surely things would calm down now.

Surely only Beard Man and I remained.

Two peaceful travelers.

Two sensible men.

The council stares.

Children.

I was still there.

The Unbegun.

Chaos does not require accomplices.

Now.

Before departing,

Gun Man wanted a souvenir.

The council nods.

A noble goal.

And so we all set out to acquire one.

Now.

Gun Man purchased a jacket.

And a keychain.

A practical man.

A reasonable man.

Beard Man acquired approximately seven thousand trinkets.

The council applauds.

A collector.

A dangerous species.

Children.

By the end of it,

I was genuinely concerned he might exceed airline regulations.

Now.

I bought a jacket.

The council waits.

A good jacket.

A cool jacket.

A jacket I genuinely liked.

And yet.

something felt wrong.

The council listens.

The jacket wasn’t the souvenir.

Not really.

It felt like I was answering the wrong question.

Like the mountains were trying to tell me something and I kept picking up the wrong phone.

The council nods.

The crow was dissatisfied.

Now.

Eventually,

Gun Man departed.

The council applauds.

A final goodbye.

A final handshake.

A final chapter.

And just like that,

he was gone.

Another traveler continuing down another road.

Now.

Only Beard Man remained.

The council smiles.

A quieter energy.

A calmer energy.

Children.

The calm lasted approximately six minutes.

Because Beard Man had a goal.

The waterfall.

The council applauds.

And thus began the Fourth Pilgrimage.

Now.

Had I possessed any survival instincts whatsoever,

I might have remained at Valhalla.

But Beard Man was leaving soon.

And I knew something important.

If left alone long enough,

I would eventually find trouble.

Or trouble would find me.

The difference is mostly academic.

Thus,

I joined.

The council nods.

A terrible decision.

Now.

Children.

The Gurudwara had been five miles.

This?

This was suffering.

The council grows quiet.

Ten miles.

Ascending.

Straight into the mountains.

Every step another personal insult.

Every incline a hate crime against my lungs.

The council applauds.

A proper pilgrimage.

Now.

I will be honest.

Entire sections of this trek have vanished from memory.

Not because they were unimportant.

Because survival became my full time occupation.

Children.

At several points,

I genuinely believe the only reason I remained alive was because the universe had not yet finished making fun of me.

Now.

Somehow.

Against all odds.

We endured.

And along the way,

the mountain provided companions.

Travelers.

Strangers.

Temporary allies.

The council nods.

As mountains often do.

And eventually,

we acquired a guide.

The council leans forward.

A seven year old child.

The council erupts.

Children.

This tiny mountain goblin knew every path.

Every shortcut.

Every rock.

Every root.

Meanwhile I was fighting for my life against geography itself.

Now.

Eventually,

we arrived.

The waterfall.

The council falls silent.

Beautiful.

Massive.

Powerful.

The sort of place that reminds you how small you really are.

Now.

The others rushed into the water.

Swimming.

Laughing.

Celebrating.

I did not.

The council nods.

A wise choice.

Children.

I was one aggressive breeze away from collapsing.

Instead,

I stood by the bank.

Washing my feet.

Recovering.

Contemplating mortality.

Then I saw it.

The council immediately knows.

Correct.

A rock.

The council applauds.

Now.

Not just any rock.

An oval rock.

White.

Resting among countless black stones.

The council leans forward.

Children.

Crow instincts activated instantly.

Mine.

Relic detected.

Acquisition protocol engaged.

The rock entered my pocket.

And suddenly,

the search ended.

The council smiles.

The jacket wasn’t the souvenir.

The keychain wasn’t the souvenir.

The trinkets weren’t the souvenir.

This was.

A simple stone.

A memory disguised as geology.

Now.

My favorite memory of the day wasn’t the waterfall.

Nor the relic.

Nor the mountain.

It was the guide.

The council already suspects disaster.

Correct.

At one point,

I attempted to climb a particularly stubborn rock.

The seven year old guide arrived to assist.

The council applauds.

A noble child.

Now.

Children.

I was approximately three times his size.

This did not deter him.

He positioned himself behind me.

Placed both hands against my back.

And pushed.

The council erupts.

Nothing happened.

He pushed harder.

I remained exactly where I was.

The mountain remained unconcerned.

Gravity remained victorious.

“Boost me!” I shouted.

“I’m trying!” he shouted back.

The council collapses.

Children.

The image of this tiny mountain warrior attempting to launch me upward through sheer determination remains one of my favorite memories from the entire trip.

Now.

Eventually,

the climb ended.

The waterfall remained behind.

The relic rested safely in my pocket.

And we began the descent.

The council groans.

Because descending is simply suffering wearing a different hat.

One serving of misery later,

we returned.

Back to Valhalla.

Back to safety.

Back to beds.

Back to civilization.

The council smiles.

And just like that,

the final day arrived.

Thus concludes Chapter Thirteen.

The Waterfall.

The Relic.

The Seven Year Old Mountain Goblin.

And the day the mountains finally surrendered a souvenir worthy of remembrance.

The last day before departure.

The last sunset before the road turned homeward.

And children.

The road home is often stranger than the road there.

And thus begins Chapter Fourteen.

Now.

We arrive at the final day.

The beginning of the end.

The departure.

The council lowers their heads.

Not sadly.

Just respectfully.

Because every wandering eventually becomes a return.

Now.

Unlike many of my plans,

this one was flawless.

The council immediately becomes suspicious.

Correct.

Children.

The strategy was simple.

Do exactly what I did coming here.

But backwards.

The council applauds.

A masterpiece.

A triumph of logistics.

What could possibly go wrong?

Now.

The first stages worked perfectly.

Bus acquired.

Journey completed.

Destination reached.

The council nods.

Competence.

Actual competence.

Then I arrived at the train station.

Looked at the schedule.

And discovered I had roughly eight hours before departure.

The council groans.

Children.

Eight hours is a dangerous amount of free time.

Long enough to get bored.

Short enough to make terrible decisions.

Now.

As I stood there contemplating existence,

a man approached me.

The council already knows this is bad.

Correct.

He asked:

“Maal chahiye?”

The council nods.

Now.

My Hindi is not good.

But that particular phrase I recognized.

Or thought I recognized.

Children.

To the best of my understanding,

he was asking if I wanted weed.

The council applauds.

A pre train smoke session.

A pleasant way to kill time.

Naturally,

I said yes.

Now.

He told me to follow him.

And I did.

The council collapses.

Children.

Never follow the Unbegun’s example.

Now.

Through alleyways we went.

Dark corners.

Questionable streets.

Increasingly questionable streets.

The sort of route where every survival instinct begins filing formal complaints.

The council nods.

At this point I was roughly eighty percent certain I was about to be robbed.

The remaining twenty percent believed I was definitely about to be robbed.

Now.

Eventually we arrived at a building.

Then a room.

And inside sat a man.

Well dressed.

Suit.

Confident posture.

The council leans forward.

A fancy dealer.

I thought.

The sort of dealer with a business plan.

Now.

He handed me a phone.

The council waits.

And asked me to choose.

Children.

I expected photographs of products.

Different strains.

Different options.

Different levels of poor decision making.

Instead.

Women.

The council pauses.

Women?

Women.

The council erupts.

Now.

At first I simply pointed randomly.

Because I still believed this was somehow related to weed.

An astonishing level of misunderstanding.

Then the man left.

The council listens.

A few minutes later,

he returned.

With the woman from the photograph.

The council collapses.

Children.

At this exact moment,

the plot arrived.

Like a freight train.

Now.

I looked at her.

Then at him.

Then asked the only reasonable question.

“Where’s my weed?”

The council loses composure.

The woman looked confused.

The man looked confused.

I looked confused.

Nobody knew what was happening.

Now.

Suddenly it clicked.

The council leans forward.

He hadn’t asked.

“Maal chahiye?”

He had asked.

“Girl chahiye?”

The council erupts.

Children.

A minor communication error.

Catastrophic consequences.

Now.

I immediately explained the situation.

Brother.

I can barely afford the weed.

The council applauds.

A fair financial assessment.

And with that,

I departed.

Now.

You may think the story ends there.

It does not.

Because prophecy must be fulfilled.

The council nods solemnly.

Remember how I spent the entire walk assuming I was about to be robbed?

Children.

The universe hates being contradicted.

Now.

Outside,

they relieved me of what little remained in my wallet.

The council applauds.

At last.

Narrative consistency.

Now.

The robbery itself was surprisingly modern.

One man checked my wallet.

Another produced a QR code.

The council collapses.

Children.

Digital transformation has reached every industry.

Even crime.

Now.

I transferred what little money I possessed.

Minus travel expenses.

The council nods.

An important distinction.

Then they demanded my headphones.

The council gasps.

Now.

Money comes and goes.

Wallets can be replaced.

But headphones?

The council grows silent.

Children.

There are principles.

“There are limits.”

The council applauds.

I informed them politely that the headphones would be leaving only alongside my corpse.

A reasonable position.

Apparently they agreed.

Now.

With robbery complete.

Misunderstanding resolved.

Dignity heavily damaged.

I returned to the station.

Boarded the train.

And finally departed.

The council smiles.

Homeward bound.

At last.

The wandering was ending.

Or so I believed.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Children.

The train journey is where things become strange.

Not normal Unbegun strange.

Not goat spooning strange.

Not mystery pill strange.

Something else.

Something entirely different.

And thus concludes Chapter Fourteen.

The Miscommunication.

The Digital Robbery.

And the Day The Unbegun Accidentally Shopped In The Wrong Marketplace.

The mountains faded behind me.

The train rolled onward.

And somewhere ahead,

waiting patiently,

was the weirdest part of the entire journey.

And thus begins Chapter Fifteen.

The Final Leg.

Now.

There I sat.

On the train.

Homeward bound.

The mountains behind me.

The journey nearly over.

And something strange kept happening.

The council leans forward.

People kept asking me if I had weed.

The council nods.

A reasonable assumption.

Children.

I did not.

My most recent attempt to acquire weed had resulted in being offered a prostitute and subsequently robbed.

The council applauds.

A truly educational experience.

Now.

The requests kept coming.

One person.

Then another.

Then another.

Until eventually curiosity overpowered confusion.

Why did everyone assume I had weed?

The council waits.

And then I looked down.

At the jacket.

The council already knows.

Correct.

The jacket.

My souvenir from Kasol.

The jacket I bought because I thought it was cool.

The jacket I never properly examined.

Children.

Across the back,

written in glorious neon lettering,

were the words.

“I HAVE WEED.”

The council collapses.

Oh.

That explains quite a lot.

Now.

The mystery solved,

I retired the jacket immediately.

Back into the bag it went.

And out came my natural camouflage.

Black hoodie.

Cargo shorts.

The council applauds.

The uniform.

Children.

If Nuo were a video game character,

this would be the default skin.

Now.

The journey resumed.

And this is where things became weird.

The council becomes concerned.

Again.

Now.

Most people who smoke on trains operate under a very specific philosophy.

Hide.

Smoke.

Return.

Deny everything.

A time honored tradition.

Not this train.

The council listens.

Children.

People were lighting up in their seats.

Casually.

Openly.

Like they were ordering tea.

Now.

Being a creature heavily influenced by context,

I reached a conclusion.

Must be the local culture.

The council groans.

A dangerous sentence.

And so I joined them.

The council buries their faces.

Now.

The cigarette had barely existed for thirty seconds when fate arrived.

Wearing a uniform.

The conductor.

The council erupts.

Children.

Of all the possible moments.

Now.

The conductor looked at me.

I looked at him.

We shared a moment.

A silent understanding.

Then I got fined.

The council applauds.

Justice.

Now.

As I looked around,

something remarkable happened.

The council waits.

Every cigarette vanished.

Every lighter disappeared.

Every smoker transformed into a model citizen.

The council erupts.

Children.

Not a trace remained.

I began questioning reality itself.

Five seconds ago I was practically inside a chimney.

Now everyone looked ready to receive national awards for public conduct.

Now.

I attempted diplomacy.

Explained my situation.

Brother.

I have no money.

The council nods.

A factual statement.

The conductor remained unconvinced.

Tribute was demanded.

The council waits.

And so I offered him a souvenir.

A wallet.

The one from Kasol.

The council already knows.

Children.

The wallet had a giant weed leaf on it.

The conductor looked at the wallet.

Then at me.

Then at the wallet.

Then at me.

The council collapses.

At this point I genuinely appeared to be a traveling ambassador for marijuana.

Now.

A full body search followed.

Then a luggage search.

The council applauds.

A thorough investigation.

And somehow,

against all odds,

I emerged victorious.

No contraband.

No additional fines.

No prison.

A free man.

Now.

The train rolled onward.

The mountains faded.

The plains returned.

And eventually.

Kerala.

The council smiles.

Home.

Then my city.

Then my street.

Then my house.

The council grows quiet.

And finally.

My room.

Children.

I opened the door.

Walked inside.

And collapsed.

Onto the bed.

The council nods.

A traditional homecoming.

Now.

You might think I collapsed because I was exhausted.

You would be wrong.

I collapsed because I missed my bed.

The council applauds.

An important distinction.

Now.

Lying there.

Back where everything began.

Something occurred to me.

The council listens.

The boy who boarded that train weeks ago had run away.

Not from people.

Not from responsibility.

Not even from life.

He ran because the world had become heavy.

Too heavy.

The council nods.

And somehow.

Somewhere between the mountains.

The pack.

The rave.

The snow.

The waterfall.

The dog.

The goat.

Hazel.

The brownie shop.

The conversations.

The silence.

And the road itself.

something shifted.

The council grows silent.

I returned lighter.

Not wiser.

Gods no.

The council laughs.

Let’s not get carried away.

But happier.

And sometimes,

children,

that is enough.

Thus concludes The Wanderings of the Unbegun.

Not with enlightenment.

Not with revelation.

Not with a grand speech atop a mountain.

But with a boy returning home.

A little bruised.

A little poorer.

Considerably weirder.

And undeniably happier.

The road had given him exactly what he needed.

Not answers.

Just enough room to breathe.

And for once,

that was more than enough.

I am Nuo, the Unbegun
the silence before stars learned to burn.

And thus begins another Wandering of the Unbegun.

Now, children.

You may remember how the previous one began.

Nuo was sad.

The council nods.

A shocking development.

Then somewhere between trains, mountains, strangers, goats, snow, terrible decisions, and several violations of common sense,

the weight disappeared.

Not forever.

Nothing good ever seems to understand the concept of forever.

But for a while.

For a beautiful little while,

my chest felt lighter.

The world felt larger.

Breathing required less negotiation.

The council smiles.

And I thought perhaps that was enough.

Perhaps the wandering had worked.

Perhaps whatever ancient machinery inside me had finally stopped grinding against itself.

Children.

It had not.

The council sighs.

Because the thing about weight is this.

Sometimes you lose it.

Sometimes you wake up one morning and realize your chest no longer feels like someone built a house inside it and filled every room with stones.

And you think.

Ah.

Wonderful.

I am cured.

The council immediately begins laughing.

Cruel.

But fair.

Because for cryptids like me,

the weight has a habit of returning.

Quietly at first.

A little heaviness.

A little exhaustion.

A little less light.

Until one day you realize it has moved back in completely,

rearranged the furniture,

and somehow acquired legal ownership of the property.

The council grows quiet.

This time,

it returned with vengeance.

I was miserable.

Not poetic miserable.

Not beautiful tragic protagonist staring dramatically through rainy windows miserable.

Just miserable.

The ordinary kind.

The exhausting kind.

The kind where even your own house begins feeling hostile.

Children.

Home was draining my light.

Every room felt smaller.

Every wall felt closer.

Everything familiar had somehow become heavy.

And somewhere inside all that noise,

I remembered something.

The council leans forward.

A train.

A terrible train.

A glorious train.

A cage door opening.

The world waiting on the other side.

And suddenly,

for the first time,

I knew what to do.

I must wander once more.

The council erupts.

THE SEQUEL.

Correct.

Now.

Last time,

I fled with approximately the planning ability of a startled pigeon.

One moment miserable.

Next moment train.

This time?

Children.

Character development.

I booked the ticket in advance.

The council gasps.

How far in advance?

A week.

The council stands in stunned silence.

Seven entire days.

Planning.

Forethought.

Responsibility.

Who was this man?

What had he done with the Unbegun?

I was practically a functioning adult.

The council begins preparing awards.

Do not.

Because apparently the universe had no intention of rewarding this growth.

You see,

somehow,

despite booking an entire week ahead,

I received almost exactly the same seating arrangement as last time.

The council collapses.

Of course.

A shared seat.

That magnificent invention designed by someone who clearly hated the human spine.

Children.

It was horrible.

Cramped.

Uncomfortable.

A diplomatic negotiation between limbs.

And yet.

Wonderful as well.

The council understands.

Because I knew this place.

Not the train.

Not the seat.

The feeling.

That strange moment before departure.

The anticipation.

The uncertainty.

The little voice whispering:

What if this doesn’t work?

The council listens.

What if Rishikesh isn’t what you need?

What if the first wandering was a fluke?

What if the road doesn’t make you lighter this time?

What if you return exactly as you left?

Children.

The first journey had been ignorance.

I didn’t know what wandering could do.

This time,

I did.

And somehow that made leaving scarier.

Because now I had expectations.

Now I knew what freedom tasted like.

And I was afraid the world might refuse to serve it twice.

The council grows quiet.

Still.

The train moved.

Home began disappearing behind me.

And there I was again.

Sitting behind the cage doors,

waiting for them to open.

The same principle remained.

Nobody knew me.

Nobody knew the weight.

Nobody knew who I had been yesterday.

Nobody knew the version of me trapped inside that house.

To everyone on that train,

I was simply some strange boy with messy hair, questionable sleeping posture, and suspiciously frequent trips toward the toilet.

The council raises an eyebrow.

We will get there.

Children.

The beautiful thing remained unchanged.

If nobody knew me,

I could become whoever I wanted.

A blank page.

Again.

Not the first save file.

A New Game Plus.

The council applauds.

All previous stupidity carried forward.

Now.

The journey began almost exactly as the first had.

Me.

My soon to be shared seat.

Excitement.

Anticipation.

A little fear.

A little hope.

And eventually,

sleep.

The council nods.

My most dependable travel companion.

Children.

Motion equals unconsciousness.

This is one of the fundamental laws governing the Unbegun.

Put me inside a moving vehicle long enough,

and my brain simply decides:

We have contributed enough to reality today.

Shutdown initiated.

And so,

I passed out.

Hours later,

I awakened.

Disoriented.

Confused.

Neck damaged in ways modern medicine may never fully repair.

And then I noticed something.

The council leans forward.

The other passenger had not arrived.

My shared seat

remained unshared.

The council erupts.

GLORY.

Children.

Do you understand what this meant?

Space.

Actual space.

Horizontal space.

The rarest commodity in Indian rail travel.

I stared at that empty portion of the seat like a medieval peasant seeing electricity for the first time.

Then,

without hesitation,

I claimed it.

The council applauds.

Manifest destiny.

For once,

I could sleep horizontally.

No folded limbs.

No diplomatic treaties with strangers.

No waking up with someone else’s knee participating in my internal organs.

Just me.

Stretched out.

Luxurious.

Royal.

A king among sleeper class cryptids.

Now.

There was, however,

one problem.

The council already knows.

Nicotine.

Children.

An addict must occasionally answer the ancient call.

And trains,

rather inconveniently,

have opinions regarding indoor smoking.

So every now and then,

I performed a ritual.

Stand.

Look innocent.

Walk toward the toilet.

Disappear.

Smoke.

Return pretending absolutely nothing suspicious had occurred.

The council sighs.

A master criminal.

Now.

During one of these highly sophisticated operations,

I met him.

The council leans forward.

A stranger.

Naturally,

we never exchanged names.

Because apparently I learned absolutely nothing from the previous wandering.

The council applauds.

Consistency.

We talked.

Where are you from?

Where are you going?

The usual questions strangers ask before deciding whether fate has accidentally assigned them a side quest together.

I told him I was from Kerala.

And so,

naturally,

he called me Kerala.

The council nods.

Efficient.

He was either from Nepal,

going to Nepal,

had recently been in Nepal,

or possessed some other Nepal related characteristic my archivist brain has since deleted.

Children.

The details are gone.

The title remains.

He became Nepal.

The council approves.

Kerala.

Nepal.

Two nations represented by two idiots hiding near a train toilet.

Diplomacy had never looked finer.

Now.

We spoke for a while.

Nothing particularly profound.

Nothing destined for history.

Until Nepal asked me a question.

The council braces.

“Do you smoke weed?”

Now.

A normal person might have become suspicious.

A normal person might have wondered why a stranger aboard a train was conducting a narcotics survey.

A normal person possesses something called survival instincts.

Children.

I am Nuo.

The council collectively lowers their heads.

Correct.

I looked at him.

And asked the obvious question.

“You got pot?”

The council erupts.

And thus began the remainder of the train journey.

Now.

I will say this.

Nepal’s contribution to international relations was strong.

Very strong.

The council nods.

Perhaps unnecessarily strong.

From that point onward,

the train stopped behaving like transportation and became more of an ongoing philosophical uncertainty.

Events occurred.

I witnessed them.

Probably.

The distinction became increasingly difficult to establish.

At one point,

I saw a woman threatening to jump from the train.

The council goes silent.

Children.

To this day,

I am approximately twenty percent certain that actually happened.

The remaining eighty percent has been placed in archival quarantine under:

“Did That Just Happen?”

The council writes this down.

A rapidly expanding department.

Perhaps she was real.

Perhaps the argument was real.

Perhaps nobody threatened anything and I witnessed an entirely ordinary conversation through the interpretive lens of Nepal’s agricultural diplomacy.

History may never know.

What I do know is that somewhere between sleep,

smoke,

coffee,

strangers,

stations,

and reality occasionally forgetting its job,

two days passed.

Two strange,

familiar,

wonderful days.

And then,

the train stopped.

The council grows quiet.

I stepped out.

Looked around.

And recognized the place immediately.

The bus station.

That bus station.

The same one.

The council smiles.

Children.

Years, or what felt like years, had somehow folded over themselves.

There I stood again.

At the place where the first wandering had once continued toward the mountains.

Except this time,

I wasn’t the same person who had arrived there before.

The first Nuo had stumbled into that station terrified someone would scam him over a bus ticket.

This Nuo had survived Kasol.

The pack.

Pirates of Parvati.

Snow.

Waterfalls.

Goats.

Digital robbery.

And a jacket publicly advertising narcotics he did not possess.

The council nods.

Veteran status achieved.

I stood there with my bag over my shoulder,

the weight still somewhere inside my chest,

but home now far behind me.

And I felt it again.

That tiny shift.

That first breath.

That almost imperceptible loosening.

The cage doors.

The council watches.

Last time,

I hadn’t known they existed.

This time,

I had travelled all this way specifically to find them.

And children,

there they were.

Opening.

Again.

Thus concludes Chapter One.

The Return.

The Shared Seat That Wasn’t.

Kerala and Nepal.

And Two Days Filed Under Questionable Reality.

The first wandering had taught me that the cage could open.

The second began because I remembered.

And somewhere beyond that familiar bus station,

past another road,

another vehicle,

another collection of strangers,

waited Rishikesh.

I didn’t know whether it would make me lighter.

I didn’t know whether the road could perform the same miracle twice.

But for the moment,

I was outside the cage.

And that was enough.

The Unbegun had begun wandering again.

And thus begins Chapter Two.

Now, children.

There I stood.

At the bus station.

The same bus station.

The same battlefield where legitimate ticket vendors and scammers had once gathered beneath a sacred covenant requiring them to look completely indistinguishable from one another.

The council remembers.

Children.

Surely,

after one entire wandering,

after mountains,

after strangers,

after being robbed through a QR code,

after surviving transportation systems powered by both engines and livestock,

I had grown.

Surely I was wiser now.

More cautious.

More observant.

More capable of identifying legitimate public transportation.

The council waits.

Nay.

I selected the closest man.

Again.

The council collapses.

Children.

Character development is not always linear.

Sometimes the character develops directly back into the same idiot.

Now.

The negotiation began.

I spoke English.

He appeared to possess approximately the same amount of English as I possessed Hindi.

And thus,

once again,

human civilization returned to its earliest form.

Pointing.

Nodding.

Single words.

Confident noises.

The council prepares the transcript.

“Rishikesh.”

“Rishikesh?”

“Yes.”

“Rishikesh.”

“Yes.”

The council applauds.

Language conquered.

Diplomacy restored.

The man produced a QR code.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Children.

You would think QR codes would trigger some sort of trauma response in me by now.

They do not.

Apparently my brain has classified financial danger under:

“Things We Will Worry About Afterwards.”

I scanned it.

Transferred the money.

And followed him.

The council sighs.

Again.

Now.

Naturally,

buses are generally located inside bus stations.

This is a concept so obvious that even I understand it.

Which is why I became slightly concerned when this man led me away from the buses.

And toward

something else.

The council leans forward.

Children.

Imagine an auto rickshaw.

Now remove every feature suggesting the manufacturer cared whether the passengers survived.

Remove the walls.

Remove anything resembling structural reassurance.

Keep two seats.

A motor.

And what appeared to be the skeletal remains of an auto that had died bravely in a previous life.

The council pauses.

Behold.

The tuk tuk.

The council erupts.

Now.

The driver appeared extremely proud of this machine.

I was less certain it qualified as transportation.

It looked like someone had discovered several pieces of metal behind a garage and thought:

Yes.

Humans can sit on this.

But children,

sit I did.

Because apparently purchasing a ticket from a stranger and entering his motorized skeleton carriage felt like the natural continuation of my afternoon.

Then we moved.

The council braces.

Holy hell.

We moved.

This man drove like an organ had been harvested twenty minutes ago and somewhere across the city a surgeon was checking his watch.

The council erupts.

Cars?

Obstacles.

Motorcycles?

Suggestions.

Other tuk tuks?

Target practice.

Children.

We rammed into things.

Not metaphorically.

Actually.

A car.

A bike.

Another tuk tuk.

The council gasps.

And every single time,

something remarkable happened.

The drivers would look at each other.

Laugh.

Perhaps exchange several words I lacked the linguistic qualifications to interpret.

And continue driving.

The council falls silent.

Gods.

What a city.

Where I came from,

a minor collision could produce an argument spanning three generations.

Here,

two vehicles attempted partial fusion,

everyone laughed,

and traffic continued.

The council writes this down.

Cultural adaptation required.

Now.

At first,

I found this exhilarating.

Then we kept driving.

And driving.

And driving.

The city began thinning.

Buildings became fewer.

People disappeared.

Civilization slowly retreated behind us.

The council grows concerned.

As did I.

Children.

I had paid this man.

Followed him willingly.

Climbed aboard his exposed engine death chariot.

And was now being transported increasingly far away from every place containing witnesses.

The conclusion seemed obvious.

I had sold myself.

The council pauses.

Worse.

I had apparently paid the buyer.

The council collapses.

There are scams.

There are kidnappings.

And then there is whatever advanced economic model I had accidentally participated in.

Now.

I began reviewing my choices.

Perhaps I should ask where we were going.

Perhaps I should insist he stop.

Perhaps I should attempt escape.

The council waits.

I did none of these things.

Naturally.

Instead,

I remained seated,

watching the landscape pass,

quietly wondering how much the human kidney currently fetched on the open market.

Then,

in the distance,

I saw something.

The council leans forward.

A bus.

An actual bus.

Children.

Not a skeleton.

Not livestock.

Not two chairs welded to an engine.

A bus.

A magnificent,

air conditioned,

fully enclosed bus.

The council cheers.

Civilization!

The tuk tuk screeched toward it.

My driver jumped out.

Approached the conductor.

And negotiations began.

The council listens.

Rapid Hindi.

Pointing.

More rapid Hindi.

Gestures toward me.

Gestures toward the bus.

More pointing.

Children.

For approximately five minutes,

I stood nearby like cargo whose shipping label had become damaged.

Then suddenly,

the negotiations ended.

The driver pointed toward the bus.

The conductor pointed toward a seat.

And somehow,

I had been transferred.

The council applauds.

The ancient relay system returns.

No paperwork.

No explanation.

No understanding whatsoever.

And yet,

transportation achieved.

Now.

I sat down.

Air conditioning washed over me.

The seat was comfortable.

The road stretched ahead.

And naturally,

my body made a suggestion.

Sleep.

The council screams.

NO.

Children.

I remembered.

I remembered what happens when the Unbegun sleeps on buses.

Stops disappear.

Destinations migrate.

Livestock becomes involved.

History had taught me a lesson.

And for perhaps the second time in recorded existence,

I listened.

The council applauds.

Growth!

Actual growth!

I fought sleep.

My eyelids descended.

I raised them.

My head dropped.

I recovered.

My body begged.

I refused.

Children.

It was a heroic battle.

Man versus biology.

Willpower versus exhaustion.

And for once,

willpower won.

Thank gods.

Because halfway through the journey,

the conductor looked toward me.

And said something.

The council pauses.

I understood none of it.

But the gestures were universal.

Get out.

The council erupts.

Children.

Imagine if I had been asleep.

I would have awakened three cities later,

started a completely different volume,

and Rishikesh would have become an unresolved subplot.

Instead,

I exited.

And there,

waiting beside the road,

was another tuk tuk.

The council sighs.

Of course there was.

The sequel.

Now.

I climbed aboard.

Because at this point,

resistance felt theatrical.

The motor screamed.

The driver accelerated.

And death ride number two commenced.

Children.

I will spare you the details.

Partly because my memory has blurred them.

Partly because I believe certain moments are removed from human consciousness as a protective mechanism.

But eventually,

the tuk tuk slowed.

The roads opened.

The mountains appeared.

The river revealed itself.

And suddenly,

there I was.

Rishikesh.

The council grows quiet.

Beautiful.

That is the first word I remember.

Not spiritual.

Not profound.

Not transformative.

Beautiful.

The kind of beautiful that makes you stop searching for vocabulary.

Mountains rising around the city.

The Ganga cutting through it.

Temples.

Bridges.

People.

Noise.

Color.

Smoke.

Prayer.

Movement.

Everything somehow existing at once.

The council watches.

I had arrived.

Properly this time.

No projectile exit.

No face first introduction to geography.

A surprisingly dignified entrance.

Now.

Most travelers,

upon arriving somewhere new,

perform several sensible tasks.

Find accommodation.

Check into a hostel.

Put down their luggage.

Perhaps locate a nice affordable Zostel.

Shower.

Rest.

Establish basic survival infrastructure.

The council looks at me.

Children.

Have you learned nothing?

I found a dog.

The council erupts.

Correct.

Accommodation could wait.

There was a dog.

Priorities.

Now.

I approached him.

Naturally.

Spoke to him.

Naturally.

I don’t remember exactly what I said.

Probably something deeply intellectual such as:

“Hello, brother.”

The council nods.

Diplomatic relations established.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

And then he began walking.

The council watches carefully.

So I followed him.

Children.

There was no reason for this.

No destination.

No plan.

No indication that this dog possessed useful information.

I had just crossed half the country,

survived two tuk tuks,

arrived in an unfamiliar city,

had no room,

no bearings,

and no idea where anything was.

And my first navigation decision was:

Follow dog.

The council applauds.

A flawless system.

Now.

At the time,

that was all it was.

A dog walking.

An idiot following.

Nothing profound.

Nothing cinematic.

Nothing suggesting that the universe had just moved one of its pieces across the board.

But memory has an advantage the present does not.

Memory knows what happens next.

The council grows quiet.

Looking back,

I can see it clearly.

That was the decision.

Not booking Rishikesh.

Not boarding the train.

Not choosing the tuk tuk.

That.

Following the dog.

A tiny,

meaningless decision made without thought.

The sort of decision you forget five minutes after making it.

Except I didn’t.

Because everything that came afterward grew from it.

The roads I walked.

The place I found.

The people I met.

The shape the wandering eventually took.

All of it.

A timeline branching from one completely unreasonable choice.

The council smiles.

Children.

The first wandering had taught me that destiny rarely announces itself.

Sometimes it looks like a hostel.

Apparently,

sometimes it has four legs and no concern whatsoever for your itinerary.

And so,

with my backpack still on my shoulders,

Rishikesh stretching around me,

and absolutely no accommodation arranged,

I followed the dog.

Thus concludes Chapter Two.

The Bus Station.

The Organ Delivery Driver.

The Tuk Tuk That Had Already Died Once.

And the first decision that mattered.

I had arrived in Rishikesh believing the wandering would begin when I found somewhere to stay.

I was wrong.

It had already begun.

And like most important moments in my life,

I didn’t recognize it when it happened.

I simply saw a dog.

And followed.

And thus begins Chapter Three.

Now, children.

When last we left the Unbegun,

he had arrived in Rishikesh.

No accommodation.

No plan.

No understanding of the city.

And naturally,

he had entrusted his navigation to a dog.

The council nods.

A proven system.

Now.

The dog walked.

So I followed.

And immediately encountered a problem.

The council already knows.

The road went upward.

Steeply.

Children.

I have always maintained a very reasonable position regarding vertical movement.

If nature intended humans to ascend mountains on foot,

it would not have invented vehicles.

The council applauds.

A sound philosophy.

Unfortunately,

the dog disagreed.

And children.

For dog?

Anything.

And so,

I climbed.

The dog walked.

I followed.

The dog continued.

I stopped.

The council pauses.

To admire the scenery?

No.

To resurrect my lungs.

The council nods.

A familiar ritual.

I would climb for several minutes,

stop,

place my hands on my knees,

attempt negotiations with my respiratory system,

and contemplate every cigarette I had ever smoked.

Then I would look up.

And there he was.

The dog.

Waiting.

The council grows soft.

He would simply stand there.

Look back.

Wait.

No judgment.

No impatience.

Just:

You coming?

And once sufficient oxygen had returned to the kingdom,

I would stand.

The dog would continue.

And so would I.

Upward.

Again.

And again.

Until eventually,

the dog stopped.

The council leans forward.

He lifted his nose.

And smelled.

Deeply.

Children.

I have lived long enough among questionable agriculture to recognize ceremony when I see it.

And so,

naturally,

I did the same.

The council pauses.

I inhaled.

And there it was.

Familiar.

Glorious.

Impossible to mistake.

Pot.

The council erupts.

THE DOG HAD DELIVERED.

Children.

Not accommodation.

Not enlightenment.

Not spiritual guidance.

Agriculture.

A better concierge I have never known.

I immediately bent down.

Patted his head.

“Who’s a good boy?”

The council smiles.

Then I checked.

The council waits.

Ah.

“Who’s a good girl?”

The council collapses.

Children.

Accuracy matters.

I thanked my four legged guide,

gave her another pat,

and followed the scent.

The council applauds.

The ancient compass.

And somehow,

through an absurd sequence of events beginning with following a random dog uphill,

I found myself standing before a hostel.

The council reads the sign.

Odin’s Abode.

The council nods solemnly.

An appropriately dramatic name.

Kasol had given me Valhalla.

Rishikesh had apparently decided to continue the Norse mythology.

Children.

At this rate,

I expected Thor to handle reception.

He did not.

A disappointing oversight.

Still,

the place existed.

It had beds.

It had shelter.

And most importantly,

my lungs were demanding an immediate ceasefire.

So I checked in.

The council cheers.

Accommodation achieved.

Entirely through canine assisted navigation.

Now.

I entered my room.

Dropped my bag.

Claimed a bed.

And then,

as tradition demanded,

a man entered.

The council immediately becomes interested.

A fellow traveler.

A roommate.

We spoke.

Naturally.

Where are you from?

Where are you going?

How long are you here?

The ordinary opening rituals.

Soon,

plans emerged.

Perhaps we would explore.

Perhaps we would grab food.

Perhaps adventures awaited.

The council already knows what happens.

Children.

I never saw him again.

The council applauds.

THE GHOST ROOMMATE RETURNS.

At this point,

it had become ritualistic.

Every wandering apparently required one man to enter my room,

establish the possibility of friendship,

make vague future plans,

and then vanish from the known universe.

The council writes:

Recurring Character:
The Man Who Will Not Be Seen Again.

A fine tradition.

Now.

Another ritual awaited.

The cigarette.

The council nods.

I went to the smoking area.

Lit one.

Sat down.

Waited.

Nothing happened.

The council pauses.

No Gunman.

No Beard Man.

No mysterious invitation.

No temporary pack materializing around shared smoke.

Nobody called out.

Nobody asked where I was from.

Nobody offered a joint.

Nobody adopted me.

The council grows concerned.

Children.

This was deeply inconvenient.

Because despite everything you’ve heard,

I am not actually good at meeting people.

My social strategy remains remarkably simple.

Step One:

Exist near humans.

Step Two:

Hope one of them adopts me.

The council applauds.

A flawless introvert ecosystem.

Unfortunately,

no adoption occurred.

So I finished my cigarette.

Stood.

And wandered.

Alone.

Now.

I wasn’t entirely aimless.

The council leans forward.

I had a mission.

A relic quest.

Children.

During the first wandering,

Kasol had given me something.

A necklace.

Simple.

Small.

A tag made of bone,

with the word:

KASOL.

And somewhere between that trip and this one,

the crow inside me had created a law.

Every wandering must leave behind a relic.

Not something expensive.

Not something useful.

Something small.

Something that could sit inside the archive and quietly say:

You were here.

The council approves.

And so,

Rishikesh required its own necklace.

Preferably identical.

A bone tag.

The city’s name.

Mission straightforward.

The council looks suspicious.

Nothing is straightforward.

Correct.

Shop One.

Nothing.

Shop Two.

Nothing.

Shop Three.

Nothing.

Children.

Kasol had these necklaces everywhere.

Rishikesh apparently had collectively agreed they should not exist.

I searched souvenir shops.

Jewelry stalls.

Tiny roadside stores.

Places displaying enough spiritual merchandise to open several independent religions.

Nothing.

The council sighs.

The crow grew restless.

The relic must be acquired.

Then,

someone approached me.

The council leans forward.

A child.

Children.

I called him The Child.

Because he was, in fact,

a child.

The archivist remains committed to efficient naming systems.

He could not have been much older than fifteen.

Maybe younger.

Maybe older.

Children become impossible to age once they begin confidently conducting business transactions.

He asked what I was searching for.

I explained.

Bone tag.

Necklace.

Rishikesh.

He nodded.

“I know.”

The council gasps.

A guide appears.

Now.

He offered to take me to a shop.

And bring me back.

One hundred rupees.

The council nods.

Reasonable.

I agreed.

Then,

approximately three seconds later,

my brain performed an unusual activity.

Thinking.

The council gasps again.

Wait.

How exactly was this child going to take me anywhere?

The Child gestured.

The council turns.

A scooter.

The council becomes silent.

Children.

This fifteen year old mountain entrepreneur was offering transportation services.

Apparently traffic law in northern India operates more as folklore than legislation.

The council nods.

A regional myth.

Still,

mission demanded sacrifice.

And so I climbed aboard.

The Child started the scooter.

And immediately,

I learned something.

The tuk tuk driver had been cautious.

The council erupts.

Children.

Compared to The Child,

that man was a driving instructor.

This boy did not drive.

He flew.

Potholes?

Launch ramps.

Speed breakers?

Suggestions.

Descending roads?

Gravity assistance.

Corners?

Opportunities.

The council begins praying.

I sat behind him,

clutching onto a child I had met approximately five minutes earlier,

while Rishikesh blurred past us.

And somewhere during this experience,

I discovered something unexpected.

The council leans forward.

Perhaps.

I did possess a will to live.

The council erupts.

A breakthrough!

Children.

Nothing teaches appreciation for life quite like watching a fifteen year old approach a pothole at speeds normally associated with aircraft.

Every existential thought vanished.

Every melancholy disappeared.

My entire philosophy condensed into one sacred mantra.

PLEASE DON’T DIE.

The council applauds.

Enlightenment comes in many forms.

Now.

Somehow,

we survived.

The Child stopped.

Pointed toward a shop.

And there,

waiting among necklaces and beads and trinkets,

I saw it.

The council grows quiet.

Bone.

A tag.

The same shape.

The same little relic I had imagined.

There was only one problem.

It did not say Rishikesh.

The council sighs.

Instead,

carved into it,

was an Om.

I stared at it.

The council waits.

Children.

Close enough.

The council erupts.

MISSION SUCCESSFUL.

It wasn’t perfect.

Which somehow made it better.

Kasol had its name.

Rishikesh would have its symbol.

Different wandering.

Different relic.

The necklace was purchased.

The crow was satisfied.

The archive had acquired another piece.

Now.

By the time we left the shop,

rain had begun.

The council looks outside.

Children.

You might assume rain would persuade The Child to drive more carefully.

Perhaps slower.

Perhaps cautiously.

Perhaps with the understanding that wet roads reduce traction.

The council begins laughing.

You sweet innocent creatures.

No.

The Child accelerated.

The council collapses.

And now,

we were going uphill.

Which somehow,

somehow,

was worse.

Because on the descent,

I had feared impact.

On the ascent,

I discovered physics.

The council leans forward.

You see,

the scooter climbed.

The Child leaned forward.

I sat behind him.

And my brain,

which had previously spent most of its processing power on panic,

remembered something from school.

Center of mass.

Torque.

Wheelies.

The council becomes concerned.

Children.

If I leaned too far backward,

the front wheel could lift.

I knew this.

I may be dumb,

but I know my physics.

The council applauds.

A tragically specific intelligence.

And so I spent the entire return journey performing advanced weight distribution calculations with my body.

Too far back?

Death.

Too far forward?

Crush child.

Neutral position?

Survival.

The council writes.

Practical Physics With The Unbegun.

Rain struck my face.

The scooter screamed.

The mountain rose beneath us.

And somehow,

against reason,

legislation,

and several laws of motion,

The Child returned me exactly where he found me.

The council cheers.

I climbed off.

Legs slightly uncertain about their contractual obligations.

Handed him the agreed amount.

And watched him disappear.

Another character.

Another road.

Another tiny story.

Now.

The necklace rested safely against my chest.

Relic acquired.

Quest completed.

And so I wandered back toward Odin’s Abode.

The council nods.

Surely now,

rest.

Perhaps food.

Perhaps sleep.

Perhaps another cigarette.

Something sensible.

Then I saw it.

The council leans forward.

A sign.

BUNGEE JUMPING.

The council falls silent.

Children.

There are moments when the universe presents you with a choice.

You can continue walking.

Return to your hostel.

Rest after two days on a train,

multiple death rides,

an uphill dog pilgrimage,

and a relic hunt conducted by a minor.

Or.

You can walk into the bungee jumping office.

The council looks at me.

I looked at the sign.

The sign looked at me.

And before whatever portion of my brain responsible for survival could file an objection,

I opened the door.

And walked inside.

Thus concludes Chapter Three.

The Dog.

The Ghost Roommate.

The Relic.

The Child.

And the Scooter Ride That Reintroduced The Unbegun To His Will To Live.

The first wandering had given me a bone tag marked with Kasol.

The second had given me a bone tag marked with Om.

One relic for where I had been.

One relic for where I was now.

And perhaps,

without realizing it,

I had begun a tradition.

Every wandering would leave something behind.

Something small enough to wear.

Something heavy enough to remember.

But children,

there was currently a considerably more urgent issue.

Because the Unbegun,

a creature who had spent the entire afternoon desperately trying not to die,

had just voluntarily entered an office dedicated to throwing people off high places.

And thus begins Chapter Four.

Now, children.

There I stood.

Inside the bungee jumping office.

The council watches carefully.

And immediately,

something miraculous occurred.

They spoke English.

The council gasps.

Fluently.

Perfectly.

No pointing.

No interpretive hand gestures.

No ancient caveman diplomacy.

Actual sentences.

Children.

Of course they spoke English.

This was a business dedicated to convincing tourists to voluntarily leap from enormous structures.

Maximum customer retention required maximum communication.

The council nods.

A sound economic strategy.

Now.

The man behind the desk presented the options.

Different jumps.

Different heights.

Different prices.

Each package essentially asking the same question.

How much money would you like to pay us to terrify you?

The council applauds.

Capitalism.

There were smaller jumps.

Reasonable jumps.

Affordable jumps.

Jumps designed for sensible human beings possessing a healthy respect for mortality.

And then,

there was the highest one.

The council becomes concerned.

109 meters.

The council falls silent.

Children.

That is a very large number when the unit being measured is:

Distance Between You And The Ground.

Now.

A financially responsible traveler might have considered his budget.

Perhaps checked his remaining funds.

Perhaps remembered that accommodation,

food,

transportation,

and eventually returning home

all traditionally require money.

The council looks toward me.

Fortunately,

I was fully financially stable.

The council pauses.

I emptied my entire bank account.

The council collapses.

Children.

Not literally every final coin.

I retained enough to continue existing.

Barely.

But spiritually?

Financial ruin.

I pointed toward the highest jump.

“That one.”

The council stares.

109 meters?

109 meters.

The council begins drafting my obituary.

Now.

Payment completed,

the man handed me the details.

Tomorrow.

8 AM.

Be there.

The council nods.

Excellent.

A scheduled appointment with gravity.

I walked out.

And strangely,

I wasn’t scared.

Not yet.

That emotion apparently had a delayed delivery time.

For now,

the jump belonged to Tomorrow Nuo.

And children,

Tomorrow Nuo is an idiot I frequently assign problems to.

The council applauds.

A powerful coping mechanism.

So I wandered back toward Odin’s Abode.

Relic around my neck.

Bank account undergoing emergency medical treatment.

The rain fading.

The day slowly settling.

And that’s when I saw them.

The council leans forward.

A group of men.

Sitting slightly away from everything.

Not completely hidden.

But hidden enough.

The kind of hidden where everyone involved would insist they were simply enjoying the scenery.

And then,

the smell reached me.

The council already knows.

Agriculture.

Glorious,

familiar,

highly recognizable agriculture.

The council erupts.

Now.

I did what came naturally.

I lit a cigarette.

Found myself a spot nearby.

And observed.

The council nods.

The ancient ritual.

They looked at me.

I looked at them.

They smoked.

I smoked.

They looked again.

I looked again.

The council waits.

Surely,

the invitation would come.

Any moment now.

A nod.

A gesture.

A simple:

“Come sit.”

Nothing.

The council grows concerned.

Children.

This presented a problem.

My entire social strategy depended on being adopted.

Remember:

Step One.

Exist near humans.

Step Two.

Hope humans claim you.

The system had worked before.

This time,

the adoption paperwork was apparently stuck in processing.

The joint continued moving around their circle.

Nobody summoned me.

Nobody called out.

Nobody extended the sacred invitation.

And then,

something happened.

Something unprecedented.

Something scholars of the archive may debate for centuries.

The council rises.

I approached them.

The council erupts.

VOLUNTARILY?

Correct.

The Unbegun initiated a social interaction.

Without being summoned.

Without an intermediary.

Without a dog.

Children.

Character development had finally breached containment.

Now.

A normal person approaching strangers would perhaps say:

“Hey.”

Or:

“Hello.”

Perhaps introduce themselves.

Maybe ask where everyone was from.

Build rapport.

Establish trust.

The council looks at me.

I walked directly toward them,

pointed vaguely toward the joint,

and said:

“Weed?”

The council collapses.

Children.

Elegance.

Precision.

Efficiency.

Why waste language?

They looked at me.

Then at each other.

Then one of them nodded.

Another gestured toward an empty space.

Sit.

The council erupts.

SUCCESS.

And just like that,

I successfully infiltrated a bunch of junkies.

The council applauds.

Diplomatic breakthrough achieved.

Now.

A complication emerged almost immediately.

They knew very little English.

I knew very little Hindi.

The council sighs.

Of course.

Apparently every friendship in northern India required me to rediscover pre language communication.

And so,

we talked.

Somehow.

Where from?

Kerala.

Where them?

Several answers occurred.

I understood perhaps thirty percent.

The council nods.

Excellent retention.

Names were exchanged.

Possibly.

Children.

None survived the archive.

Gestures did most of the work.

Pointing.

Laughing.

Single words.

Facial expressions.

The universal grammar of people already sharing a smoke.

And strangely,

it worked.

Because humans are wonderfully adaptable creatures.

Give us enough motivation,

and suddenly language becomes optional.

The council smiles.

Then,

the joint was lit.

The council becomes concerned.

Now.

There is something important you must understand.

I possess essentially no tolerance.

None.

Children.

I do not smoke weed regularly.

It is almost exclusively a wandering ritual.

Home Nuo?

Nicotine.

Coffee.

Existential despair.

Travel Nuo?

Apparently agriculture becomes available.

The council nods.

An unfortunate seasonal migration pattern.

So when the joint eventually reached me,

I took it.

Smoked.

Passed it onward.

Simple.

Familiar.

Harmless.

The council waits.

Then reality left.

The council erupts.

Children.

I did not become high.

I ascended.

I launched.

Somewhere beneath Odin’s Abode,

NASA detected an unidentified object leaving the atmosphere.

That object was me.

One moment,

I was sitting among strangers.

The next,

I had lost all meaningful connection to location,

identity,

and perhaps several laws of mathematics.

Who were these people?

Unclear.

Where was I?

Debatable.

Who was I?

An ambitious question.

The council writes:

Status: Buffering.

Children.

I became a zombie.

Not metaphorically.

My body remained seated,

but whatever administrative department operated it had gone home for the evening.

Someone would speak.

I would stare.

A sentence would enter my ears.

Travel halfway through my brain.

Then disappear into some unexplored cavern.

The council nods.

Communication failure.

At some point,

a single thought successfully completed its journey.

Bed.

The council applauds.

Excellent.

A rare useful thought.

I needed my bed.

Immediately.

Now.

I excused myself.

The council leans forward.

With extraordinary elegance.

Children.

I have absolutely no idea what I actually said.

In my head,

I delivered something dignified.

Perhaps:

“Gentlemen, thank you for your hospitality. I must retire for the evening.”

In reality,

there is a significant possibility I simply stood up,

made a noise,

pointed vaguely toward the building,

and left.

The council applauds.

Diplomacy concluded.

Somehow,

I reached my room.

The Ghost Roommate remained,

naturally,

a ghost.

Nobody there.

Perfect.

I collapsed onto the bed.

And that’s when things became strange.

The council pauses.

More strange?

Much more strange.

Children.

Pot should not possess visuals.

At least,

not in my extremely limited understanding of agricultural science.

Yet there I was.

Seeing things.

Not dragons.

Not celestial beings.

Not prophetic visions.

Nothing useful.

Just reality behaving incorrectly.

Patterns moving.

Shadows changing.

The room breathing in ways rooms generally should not.

Eyes closed?

Visuals.

Eyes open?

Different visuals.

The council grows concerned.

Was it laced?

Perhaps.

Was it simply absurdly strong?

Perhaps.

Was my nonexistent tolerance combining with exhaustion,

two days of train travel,

poor nutrition,

and the general neurological instability of being Nuo?

Also perhaps.

Children.

The archive possesses no laboratory.

The case remains unresolved.

All I knew was this.

Whatever those men had been smoking,

it had launched me directly through several floors of consciousness.

And somewhere beneath the confusion,

one remarkably stupid thought appeared.

The council braces.

I need to find them tomorrow.

The council collapses.

Children.

Not tonight.

Absolutely not tonight.

Tonight,

I had learned enough.

Tonight,

the Unbegun finally displayed restraint.

The council gasps.

Write down the date.

I wanted more.

Eventually.

But first,

sleep.

Because tomorrow,

at eight in the morning,

I had an appointment.

The council slowly remembers.

109 meters.

The council erupts.

Oh.

Oh no.

Correct.

Children.

Tomorrow Nuo,

that idiot to whom I had so confidently assigned the problem,

was approaching rapidly.

But Present Nuo had more immediate concerns.

Such as why the bed appeared to be falling.

The council pauses.

Falling?

Falling.

Not tipping.

Not moving.

Falling.

My body remained perfectly still,

yet every nerve insisted I was plummeting through the mattress,

through the floor,

through the hostel,

perhaps directly toward the center of the Earth.

The council considers this.

Practice?

Children.

Do not.

And there I remained.

Flat on my back.

Eyes somewhere between open and closed.

Reality melting gently around the edges.

Feeling like I was falling through a bed,

while tomorrow waited patiently to let me experience the real thing.

Thus concludes Chapter Four.

The Bungee Office.

The Financial Collapse.

The First Successful Social Approach Of The Unbegun.

And the Night Agriculture Acquired Visual Effects.

For once,

I had approached the strangers.

For once,

I had found the smoke instead of waiting for the smoke to find me.

Perhaps that was growth.

Perhaps it was terrible judgment.

The distinction remains increasingly difficult to establish.

But children,

none of that mattered now.

Because the clock was moving.

Morning was coming.

And somewhere in Rishikesh stood a platform,

109 meters above the earth,

with my name metaphorically written upon it.

Tonight,

I merely felt like I was falling.

Tomorrow,

gravity would stop pretending.

And thus begins Chapter Five.

Now, children.

Tomorrow arrived.

The council grows concerned.

Remember Tomorrow Nuo?

The idiot to whom I had so confidently assigned the problem of jumping from 109 meters?

Children.

I had become Tomorrow Nuo.

There was no longer anyone else to blame.

Now.

For perhaps the first time in my life,

I arrived somewhere at exactly the requested time.

8 AM.

Sharp.

The council gasps.

Punctuality?

From the Unbegun?

Children.

Fear is a powerful motivator.

There I stood outside the bungee office.

And around me gathered others.

Fellow adventurers.

Fellow thrill seekers.

Fellow explorers.

The council shakes their heads.

No.

Let us call them what they were.

Fellow idiots who had voluntarily paid money to jump from a perfectly functional platform.

The council applauds.

My people.

Now.

We boarded a bus.

The journey began.

And naturally,

everyone started talking.

Introductions.

Conversations.

Stories.

The usual social rituals.

People asked where others were from.

Why they were travelling.

Whether they were nervous.

Whether they had jumped before.

And I?

The council already knows.

Phone.

Camera.

Record.

The archivist had awakened.

Mountain?

Recorded.

Tree?

Recorded.

Cow?

Recorded.

Dog?

Absolutely recorded.

Interesting road?

Recorded.

Uninteresting road that might later become interesting due to nostalgia?

Also recorded.

The council nods.

Thorough.

Children.

I have never understood the concept of:

“Just enjoy the moment.”

I am enjoying the moment.

I am also collecting evidence that the moment existed.

Two things can happen simultaneously.

The council approves.

And eventually,

after enough mountains,

roads,

animals,

and footage no reasonable person would ever edit,

we arrived.

The council looks upward.

There it was.

The platform.

109 meters.

Children.

Numbers are strange things.

On a brochure,

109 meters is simply:

109 meters.

Clean.

Clinical.

Harmless.

Then you stand beneath 109 meters.

And suddenly mathematics becomes threatening.

The council nods.

We ascended.

Higher.

And higher.

And higher.

Until eventually,

there was nowhere left to ascend.

The platform.

The council grows quiet.

Now.

Everyone gathered.

Harnesses waited.

Equipment waited.

Gravity waited.

Then came the question.

“Who’s going first?”

The council looks around.

Silence.

Nobody moved.

Children.

These were intelligent people.

Every single person suddenly remembered that jumping from great heights was an activity evolution had spent millions of years teaching us not to do.

The council applauds.

Natural selection briefly regained control.

Then,

for reasons still unknown to historians,

I raised my hand.

“Yeah, I’ll go.”

The council erupts.

WHY?

Excellent question.

No answer survives.

Perhaps I wanted to get it over with.

Perhaps adrenaline had already begun replacing reason.

Perhaps social anxiety convinced me that standing around waiting would be worse than plummeting toward the earth.

Children.

The mind is mysterious.

And mine is particularly poorly managed.

Now.

They strapped me in.

Harness.

Cables.

Safety checks.

Backup safety checks.

Additional things I understood only as:

Hopefully This Stops Me From Dying.

The council nods.

A respectable category.

One person pulled something.

Another tightened something.

Someone checked something twice.

I nodded confidently,

as though I possessed even the faintest idea what was happening.

Then,

it was time.

The council falls silent.

I walked toward the edge.

One step.

Another.

Another.

Until nothing remained in front of me.

Just air.

The instructor gave me one piece of advice.

“Don’t look down.”

The council pauses.

Children.

Sir.

You are about to throw me from a platform 109 meters above the earth.

I would like to inspect the situation.

And so,

naturally,

I looked down.

The council groans.

Immediately,

I understood the advice.

Holy hell.

That was high.

Not:

“Oh, this is a bit high.”

High.

The kind of high where the ground stops looking like a surface and begins looking like a concept.

My stomach filed for independence.

My knees reconsidered their careers.

And fear finally arrived.

The council leans forward.

Children.

There is a tiny window between seeing something terrifying

and your brain fully understanding what it has seen.

A brief moment.

A fraction of a second.

I used it.

Before my survival instincts could seize control,

I yelled:

“PUSH ME.”

The council erupts.

The instructor did not hesitate.

Traitor.

He pushed.

And I fell.

The council falls silent.

Not gracefully.

Not majestically.

Not like an eagle.

Not like some cinematic adventurer surrendering himself to the sky.

Children.

I dropped like a sack of potatoes thrown from a building.

The council collapses.

Arms somewhere.

Legs somewhere else.

Dignity remaining on the platform.

And then.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

The council applauds.

A profound philosophical statement.

Now.

For several seconds,

there was nothing.

No sadness.

No house.

No weight.

No thoughts.

No past.

No future.

No council.

Just falling.

Children.

Pure falling.

The kind of moment where the mind becomes too busy surviving to manufacture misery.

And gods.

It was glorious.

The rush.

The speed.

The wind.

That impossible sensation of every instinct screaming while another part of you laughs directly in its face.

The council smiles.

Then the rope caught.

I bounced.

Once.

Again.

The world flipped.

Sky.

Earth.

Sky.

Earth.

And eventually,

gravity and engineering reached a diplomatic agreement.

I survived.

The council erupts.

A successful experiment.

Now.

They returned me to civilization.

I stood up.

Or attempted to.

Children.

My legs had become decorative.

I wobbled toward the office like a newborn giraffe recovering from emotional trauma.

The council applauds.

A graceful return.

I collected the video.

Naturally.

Proof.

Archive secured.

Because if one throws oneself from 109 meters and fails to obtain footage,

did one truly make a terrible decision?

The council considers this.

No.

Exactly.

Now.

The sensible next step would have been to return to Odin’s Abode.

Rest.

Eat.

Recover.

Perhaps contemplate mortality.

Instead,

I exited the office,

looked at the roads,

and selected one.

The council sighs.

Where did it lead?

No idea.

Why that road?

No reason.

Children.

Sometimes wandering requires elaborate planning.

And sometimes you choose whichever direction feels mildly interesting.

So I walked.

And walked.

No destination.

No guide.

No dog this time.

Just roads.

Buildings.

People.

Rishikesh slowly unfolding around me.

And somehow,

eventually,

I reached the river.

The council grows quiet.

The Ganga.

Now.

There were people gathered near the water.

Collecting it.

Containers being filled.

Hands dipping beneath the surface.

A quiet little ritual happening all around me.

I approached.

Observed.

Attempted to understand.

The council waits.

Children.

I understood approximately nothing.

But everyone appeared to know exactly what they were doing.

So naturally,

I decided to participate.

The council nods.

Cultural learning through imitation.

I bought several small containers.

Filled them with Ganga water.

Sealed them.

And placed them into my pockets.

The council pauses.

Several?

Children.

The crow had discovered sacred water.

Of course there were several.

The archive expands.

Now.

There was another ritual.

The lamps.

The offerings.

The river.

People performing the Ganga Aarti with a familiarity I did not possess.

And I stood there,

trying very hard to participate respectfully

while simultaneously having absolutely no idea what the correct sequence was.

The council smiles.

I watched.

Copied.

Adjusted.

Probably did half of it wrong.

But children,

for once,

being correct wasn’t the point.

I am not religious.

The council listens.

But I was there.

In a place that clearly meant something to the people around me.

And I wanted to enter that moment properly.

Not as a tourist laughing from the outside.

Not as an archivist hiding behind a camera.

Just as someone willing to participate.

So I held the little offering.

Did what I understood to be the appropriate motions.

Mumbled a small prayer.

Nothing elaborate.

Nothing doctrinal.

Just something quiet.

Something mine.

Then I placed the offering gently onto the river.

The council watches.

And the Ganga immediately swallowed it.

The council erupts.

Children.

I had imagined this beautiful cinematic moment.

A tiny light floating peacefully into the distance.

Symbolism.

Meaning.

Perhaps spiritual revelation.

Instead:

plop.

Gone.

The council collapses.

I stared at the water.

The water offered no explanation.

To this day,

I remain unsure what exactly I accomplished.

But it felt nice.

Peaceful.

And perhaps that was enough.

The council grows quiet.

Because peace does not always require understanding.

Sometimes you simply stand beside a river,

do something people have done long before you arrived,

say a tiny prayer you aren’t sure anyone is listening to,

and feel slightly less alone afterward.

Now.

Eventually,

I decided to leave.

Which created a fascinating logistical problem.

The council leans forward.

I had absolutely no idea where Odin’s Abode was.

The council applauds.

Of course.

No route remembered.

No useful landmark.

No language skills.

And thanks to the morning’s highly responsible financial activity,

limited money.

Children.

I had spent nearly everything I possessed on being thrown from a platform.

Priorities have consequences.

So I developed a plan.

The council already fears it.

Find people with vehicles.

Say hostel name.

Hope.

The council collapses.

A transportation strategy built entirely from optimism.

I approached one driver.

“Odin’s Abode?”

Confusion.

Another.

“Odin’s Abode?”

Nothing.

Another.

Nothing.

Children.

I wandered around saying the name of my hostel to strangers like a malfunctioning navigation device.

Then eventually,

someone understood.

Or claimed to.

At this point,

the distinction no longer mattered.

There was a vehicle.

A truck.

And apparently,

space behind it.

The council pauses.

Inside?

No.

Behind.

The council sighs.

Naturally.

I climbed aboard.

No ticket.

No QR code.

No explanation.

Just me,

the back of a truck,

and faith.

The council nods.

The ancient transportation system evolves.

And off we went.

Through the roads.

Up the city.

Toward somewhere I desperately hoped contained my bed.

Children.

Remarkably,

it did.

I recognized the area.

Then the hostel.

Odin’s Abode.

Home.

Or at least,

temporary home.

The council cheers.

I climbed down.

Thanked whoever had accidentally become my transport provider.

Walked inside.

Reached my room.

And collapsed onto the bed.

No ceremony.

No reflection.

No dramatic conclusion.

Just immediate unconsciousness.

The council nods.

A traditional Unbegun ending.

Thus concludes Chapter Five.

The Jump.

The Fall.

The River.

The Prayer.

And the Hitchhike Home.

That morning,

I had voluntarily stepped off a platform 109 meters above the ground.

Hours later,

I stood beside the Ganga,

placing a tiny offering into water I did not fully understand.

One moment adrenaline.

The next silence.

One moment falling.

The next floating.

The council grows quiet.

Perhaps that was Rishikesh introducing itself.

Not through one feeling.

But opposites.

Noise and peace.

Fear and surrender.

Falling and letting go.

Children.

I had come here because the weight had returned.

And for several seconds,

while falling through open air,

there had been no weight at all.

Only gravity.

Then even gravity let me go.

And thus begins Chapter Six.

Now, children.

The next morning arrived.

The council nods.

And with it,

hunger.

Not ordinary hunger.

Not:

“I could eat.”

Children.

Starvation.

Because in the infinite wisdom of the Unbegun,

I had somehow managed to arrive in Rishikesh,

throw myself from 109 meters,

wander beside the Ganga,

collect sacred water,

get lost,

hitchhike back to the hostel,

and survive multiple questionable agricultural encounters

while consuming approximately

chai.

The council falls silent.

That was it.

Chai.

The council erupts.

FOOD?

Apparently optional.

Children.

My digestive system had finally submitted a formal complaint.

And this time,

the paperwork was urgent.

So I climbed toward the rooftop cafe at Odin’s Abode.

The council leans forward.

A pleasant little place.

Quiet.

Quaint.

Open air.

A nice view.

Tables scattered around.

And most importantly

cigarettes allowed.

The council applauds.

Fine dining.

Now.

I opened the door.

And there they were.

The council recognizes them.

The men from before.

My newly infiltrated agricultural society.

And floating around them,

that familiar smell.

The council nods.

Of course.

I approached.

And something strange happened.

They greeted me warmly.

With familiarity.

More familiarity than I personally possessed.

The council pauses.

Children.

This is a strange side effect of getting catastrophically high with strangers.

Apparently bonds are formed.

Memories?

Less guaranteed.

They smiled.

Called out.

Made space.

And before I had successfully completed the process of sitting down,

someone handed me an already lit joint.

The council sighs.

Breakfast.

Children.

No.

But apparently yes.

I took a puff.

And reality disconnected.

Again.

The council watches.

Not completely this time.

Progress.

Some tolerance had been acquired.

The previous encounter had launched me beyond the solar system.

This time,

I remained somewhere within Earth’s general administrative region.

The council applauds.

Adaptation.

Now.

As I attempted to participate in whatever conversation was happening,

I saw her.

The council smiles.

The dog.

My dog.

Well.

Not my dog.

But children,

the dog who had guided me uphill.

The dog who had stopped for my dying lungs.

The dog who had smelled agriculture,

delivered me directly toward Odin’s Abode,

and unknowingly altered the entire wandering.

There she was.

Tail moving.

Perfectly at home.

The council waits.

And then I learned something.

She belonged to the hostel owner.

The council becomes very still.

Children.

A theory emerged.

Had this man trained his dog to locate wandering idiots?

The council gasps.

Consider the evidence.

Tourist arrives.

Tourist follows dog.

Dog walks directly toward hostel.

Tourist books room.

The council erupts.

MARKETING.

Children.

If true,

this man was operating several levels beyond conventional hospitality management.

No websites.

No advertisements.

No sales pitch.

Just deploy dog.

Absolute respect.

A madlad.

Now.

I sat beside her.

Petted her.

Rubbed her belly.

Spoke to her with considerably greater fluency than I had spoken to most humans since arriving in northern India.

The council nods.

Finally.

A language I understand.

After several minutes of meaningful canine diplomacy,

I attempted conversation with the men.

The council applauds.

Growth.

And among them sat someone new.

A local.

Quiet confidence.

The sort of man everyone else seemed to know.

And apparently,

the source.

The council leans forward.

The dealer.

Naturally,

my highly sophisticated naming system activated.

He wore sunglasses.

The council waits.

Sunglasses.

The council erupts.

An inspired title.

Children.

He could have introduced himself as anything.

Amit.

Rahul.

Arjun.

Emperor of the Northern Agricultural Territories.

It would not have mattered.

He wore sunglasses indoors,

outdoors,

day,

night.

He was Sunglasses.

The archive had spoken.

Now.

Sunglasses offered assistance.

The council becomes concerned.

I had very little money remaining.

Remember,

I had already invested most of my finances into gravity.

A sensible traveler would preserve what remained.

Food.

Transport.

Accommodation.

Emergency expenses.

The council looks at me.

Children.

I paid Sunglasses nearly all of it.

The council collapses.

Financial literacy continues its undefeated streak.

Now.

Sunglasses presented two options.

Option One.

The same stuff everyone else had.

The same stuff which,

with my practically nonexistent tolerance,

had already disconnected me from basic operating systems.

The council nods.

Clearly sufficient.

Then came Option Two.

Stronger.

The council groans.

Children.

There are moments in life where the correct decision is so obvious,

so simple,

so generously illuminated by experience,

that choosing incorrectly requires genuine dedication.

I looked at Sunglasses.

And said,

“The strongest.”

The council erupts.

Of course you did.

Children.

Consistency is a virtue.

Not always a useful one.

But a virtue nonetheless.

Now.

The joint reached me.

One puff.

The council waits.

One.

And the world vanished.

Not metaphorically.

Children.

My internal map ceased functioning.

My understanding of time resigned.

My sense of location submitted notice.

Everything that happened next entered the archive damaged.

The council writes:

File corrupted.

I remember Odin’s.

Then

nothing.

Then

Ganga.

The council pauses.

Again?

Again.

Children.

Somehow,

hours had passed.

I was standing near the river.

How did I get there?

Did I walk?

Possible.

Did I climb onto another scooter operated by someone young enough to require parental consent?

Also possible.

Did I simply materialize beside the Ganga through advanced cryptid teleportation?

At this point,

equally possible.

The council nods.

Evidence insufficient.

Now.

There was another mystery.

I looked down.

The council leans forward.

My clothes had changed.

The council erupts.

Children.

Apparently,

somewhere inside the missing hours,

I had gone shopping.

And Travel Nuo had made decisions.

Hippie clothes.

Loose.

Colorful.

Comfortable.

The sort of clothing that announced,

from approximately forty meters away:

This man has opinions about agriculture.

The council applauds.

Camouflage abandoned.

Children.

During the previous wandering,

I accidentally bought a jacket that said:

I HAVE WEED.

This time,

I had apparently decided words were unnecessary.

The outfit itself conveyed the message.

Evolution.

Now.

The day had progressed.

My memory remained negotiable.

And eventually,

I decided to return to Odin’s Abode.

The council nods.

Wise.

How?

The council waits.

Children.

I had no idea.

No map retained.

No useful understanding of direction.

No linguistic abilities.

No functioning budget.

But by this point,

Rishikesh had already taught me something.

Trust the process.

The council becomes suspicious.

And more importantly

follow the dogs.

The council erupts.

THE NAVIGATION SYSTEM RETURNS.

And so I walked.

Whenever I saw a dog,

I approached.

Pat.

Treat.

Continue.

Another dog.

Pat.

Treat.

Continue.

Children.

I had somehow acquired little snacks,

because apparently even in my altered state,

canine diplomacy remained operational.

The archivist might forget where he is.

The dog protocol survives.

The council applauds.

Priorities intact.

Now.

One dog followed.

The council smiles.

Then another.

Then another.

Children.

At first,

I thought nothing of it.

Dogs like me.

This is established lore.

I continued walking.

Pet dog.

Give treat.

Gain follower.

Repeat.

The council begins counting.

One.

Two.

Three.

More.

And eventually,

I noticed something strange.

People were moving away from me.

The council pauses.

Rude.

Exactly.

Children.

I was offended.

Here I was,

peacefully wandering through Rishikesh,

and pedestrians were giving me an increasingly generous amount of personal space.

Some crossed the road.

Others stepped aside.

One group moved entirely out of my path.

The council looks behind me.

I did the same.

And understood.

The council erupts.

Behind me marched dogs.

Not one.

Not two.

A unit.

A squad.

A rapidly expanding canine military formation.

The council applauds.

The Unbegun had acquired an escort.

Children.

Apparently every treat had been interpreted as enlistment paperwork.

And they had accepted.

I kept walking.

They kept following.

The council nods.

Protective detail established.

Then,

as if the universe decided the scene lacked sufficient absurdity,

there was a cow.

The council pauses.

A cow?

A cow.

One I had apparently also fed.

The council loses composure.

Children.

I had assembled a battalion.

Canines.

Plus bovine support.

The streets parted before us.

People moved aside.

Dogs marched.

Cow marched.

And at the center,

wearing newly acquired hippie clothes,

deeply high,

with no clue where he was going,

walked the Unbegun.

The council rises.

A WARLORD.

No.

A lost tourist.

But visually,

the distinction may have been difficult.

Now.

Something remarkable happened.

I kept walking.

Trusting absolutely nothing except instinct,

dogs,

and the vague belief that all roads eventually lead somewhere useful.

And then

I recognized something.

A corner.

A shop.

A road.

The council leans forward.

Odin’s Abode.

The council erupts.

Navigation successful.

Children.

I had returned.

No phone directions.

No tuk tuk.

No truck.

No Child.

Just walking.

And an army.

Now.

At the entrance,

I stopped.

The council waits.

Because a proper commander does not simply abandon his troops.

I turned toward them.

And said goodbye.

Individually.

The council grows soft.

One dog.

Pat.

Goodbye.

Another.

Pat.

Goodbye.

Another.

Pat.

Thank you.

And finally,

the cow.

The council nods solemnly.

Bovine auxiliary dismissed.

Children.

They had accompanied me through roads I couldn’t remember,

in a city I barely understood,

while my brain operated at perhaps twelve percent capacity.

Maybe they were following the food.

Almost certainly they were following the food.

But allow me the mythology.

The council approves.

For one afternoon,

I had an escort.

And that is considerably funnier.

Now.

I entered Odin’s Abode.

Walked toward my room.

Opened the door.

The Ghost Roommate remained committed to his title.

The council applauds.

Professional consistency.

I reached the bed.

Collapsed.

And stared at the ceiling.

Children.

The last few days had included:

a dog guiding me to a hostel,

a teenager nearly launching me from a scooter,

109 meters of voluntary falling,

the Ganga,

Sunglasses,

missing hours,

spontaneous hippie fashion,

and enough animals to invade a small principality.

The council nods.

A productive beginning.

And as consciousness slowly began preparing to leave,

I thought about tomorrow.

Because surely,

after all this nonsense,

the appropriate next step was something calmer.

Something spiritual.

Something reflective.

Something Rishikesh.

The council leans forward.

An ashram.

Yes.

Tomorrow,

I would visit an ashram.

See what it was like.

Perhaps meditate.

Perhaps sit quietly.

Perhaps discover inner peace.

The council stares at me.

Children.

I did not yet know what tomorrow held.

But I was optimistic.

A recurring mistake.

Thus concludes Chapter Six.

Sunglasses.

The Strongest Agriculture Available.

The Missing Hours.

The Hippie Transformation.

And the Day The Unbegun Accidentally Raised An Army.

I had begun the day looking for breakfast.

I ended it leading dogs and a cow through Rishikesh.

The council nods.

A natural progression.

But beneath the absurdity,

something else had begun happening.

I was approaching people.

Following roads.

Trusting strangers.

Trusting dogs.

Trusting myself.

Not intelligently.

Let us not rewrite history.

But more easily.

The second wandering was beginning to feel different.

Kasol had taught me I could become someone else when nobody knew me.

Rishikesh was beginning to ask a stranger question.

What happens when I stop waiting for the world to invite me?

The council grows quiet.

Tomorrow,

I would seek an ashram.

A place supposedly built for stillness.

And children,

considering everything we know about the Unbegun,

placing him anywhere near inner peace was always going to be an interesting experiment.

And thus begins Chapter Seven.

Now, children.

The next morning arrived.

The council nods.

And unlike most mornings of the wandering,

I actually possessed a plan.

An ashram.

The council applauds.

Spiritual development.

Inner peace.

Meditation.

Perhaps enlightenment.

Perhaps the Unbegun would finally sit somewhere quietly and discover the secrets of existence.

The council looks skeptical.

Children.

I even showered.

The council gasps.

A holy place awaited.

Standards must be maintained.

Then,

naturally,

I smoked a joint.

The council immediately retracts its applause.

Balance.

Now.

A normal traveler wishing to visit an ashram would perform several sensible actions.

Look up reputable ashrams.

Read reviews.

Check visiting hours.

Perhaps determine whether outsiders were allowed inside.

Maybe even use something revolutionary called:

Google Maps.

The council waits.

Children.

I have one rule during wanderings.

No maps.

The council groans.

Maps are useful.

Maps are efficient.

Maps tell you where you’re going.

And that,

precisely,

is the problem.

The council pauses.

You see,

I spend enough of ordinary life knowing where I’m supposed to be.

What road I’m supposed to take.

What comes next.

Where everything leads.

Wandering is different.

During wanderings,

I want the road to surprise me.

So no maps.

No blue line telling me which turn matters.

No little digital voice correcting my mistakes.

If I get lost,

I get lost.

The council nods.

A philosophy with terrible logistical consequences.

And so,

I stepped outside Odin’s Abode,

selected a road,

and walked.

Now.

I needed directions.

The council leans forward.

Did I ask:

“Excuse me, could you please tell me where the ashrams are?”

Children.

No.

I approached strangers and simply said:

“Ashram?”

The council collapses.

That was the entire sentence.

“Ashram?”

And remarkably,

people understood.

Someone pointed left.

I went left.

Another person pointed forward.

I went forward.

Someone vaguely waved toward an entire section of the city.

The council pauses.

Useful.

Very.

And so I continued.

Ashram?

Point.

Walk.

Ashram?

Point.

Walk.

Children.

Language had once again been reduced to its purest form.

One noun.

One finger.

Civilization continued functioning.

Eventually,

something changed.

The roads became quieter.

The buildings changed.

Signs appeared.

Gates.

Courtyards.

Orange robes.

Prayer halls.

And suddenly,

everywhere I looked

ashram.

The council applauds.

Quest complete.

Now.

A new problem emerged.

Which one?

The council waits.

Children.

I had conducted absolutely no research.

So naturally,

I selected the prettiest one.

The council nods.

A rigorous spiritual criterion.

It looked peaceful.

Beautiful.

Properly ashram like.

I entered.

Spoke to someone inside.

And began enquiring about staying there.

The man explained the rules.

The council listens.

A room would be required.

Fine.

No phones.

The council watches me carefully.

Children.

This wounded me.

The archivist without his phone?

No photographs?

No recordings?

No evidence that the experience occurred?

A difficult sacrifice.

But perhaps

doable.

The council smiles.

Growth.

Then came the next rule.

No cigarettes during the stay.

The council goes silent.

I walked out.

The council erupts.

Immediately.

Children.

There are limits to spiritual development.

No phone?

Fine.

Disconnect from technology.

Live in the moment.

Experience stillness.

Beautiful.

No cigarettes?

Sir.

Let us not become unreasonable.

The council buries its face.

Apparently enlightenment would have to wait until nicotine dependency became less administratively inconvenient.

I thanked them,

left,

and decided I would simply admire the ashram from outside.

Perhaps take a few photographs.

Absorb the atmosphere.

Maintain a respectful distance between myself and personal growth.

The council approves.

A compromise.

Now.

I began wandering back.

Or,

more accurately,

vaguely in the direction I believed Odin’s Abode existed.

The council nods.

Navigation.

And that’s when I noticed it.

A narrow alley.

Easy to miss.

Almost hidden between buildings.

And inside,

a sign.

The Secret Cafe.

The council leans forward.

Children.

If you name something:

The Secret Cafe,

you cannot reasonably expect the Unbegun to continue walking.

That is not a cafe name.

That is a quest marker.

So I entered.

The alley narrowed.

The noise of the road faded.

And then the place opened before me.

The council looks around.

Foreigners.

Indians.

Travelers.

Hippies.

People sitting on cushions.

Talking softly.

Existing without urgency.

The entire place felt like someone had taken the concept of:

“Where did that strange traveler disappear to?”

and built a business around it.

The council approves.

Then I saw her.

In the middle of everything sat a bald woman.

Older than me.

Calm.

Completely at ease.

Apparently Tibetan.

She looked toward me.

The council listens.

“Enter, traveler.”

The council pauses.

Children.

Nobody has ever improved a first impression by calling me traveler.

I was immediately invested.

Still,

I hesitated.

Everyone seemed to be doing something.

Perhaps I had interrupted.

Perhaps this was private.

Perhaps I had accidentally wandered into a spiritual gathering with absolutely no invitation.

A recurring talent.

She gestured toward an empty place.

“Sit.”

So I sat.

The council nods.

Obedient cryptid.

Then she announced:

“We will meditate.”

The council grows very still.

Ah.

Children.

The ashram had rejected me for nicotine,

and approximately twenty minutes later,

meditation had hunted me down inside an alley.

The universe is persistent.

Everyone closed their eyes.

So did I.

Someone began the sound.

Om.

And I joined.

The vibration settled through the room.

Voices blending.

Noise disappearing.

For once,

nobody asked anything from me.

Nobody required conversation.

Nobody needed a story.

Nobody expected a performance.

Just breathe.

Sit.

Exist.

The council falls quiet.

Five minutes.

Maybe more.

Maybe less.

Time behaves strangely when nobody is chasing it.

Eventually,

we opened our eyes.

And children.

Before me sat three objects.

The council leans forward.

A joint.

A bowl of pot.

And a bong.

The council pauses.

Meditation had taken an unexpected administrative turn.

I looked at the woman.

Then at the offerings before me.

Then back at the woman.

“Uh

is this for me?”

The council waits.

She smiled.

“Help yourself.”

The council collapses.

Children.

Apparently I had discovered the ashram compatible with my lifestyle.

Now.

I did, in fact,

help myself.

And then something stranger happened.

We talked.

Not small talk.

Not traveler talk.

Not:

Where are you from?

Where are you going?

How long are you staying?

No.

She looked at me and asked:

“What are your worries?”

The council grows quiet.

Children.

That is a dangerous question to ask someone whose emotional infrastructure is held together primarily by jokes and caffeine.

At first,

I gave a small answer.

Something safe.

Something manageable.

Then another.

And another.

And somewhere along the way,

the dam opened.

The council listens.

I told her everything.

The weight.

Home.

Why I had left.

The things I carried.

The things I couldn’t seem to put down.

The thoughts that returned when rooms became too quiet.

The exhaustion of being inside my own head.

The strange feeling of needing to leave somewhere

without knowing exactly what you’re trying to escape.

Everything.

Children.

I barely knew this woman.

Perhaps that was why it was easy.

There was no history.

No consequence.

No tomorrow attached to honesty.

Just a stranger in a hidden cafe asking:

What hurts?

And me,

for once,

answering.

The council remains silent.

She listened.

Properly.

No interruptions.

No attempts to fix me.

No horrified expressions.

Just listening.

Then she responded with several things that sounded extremely spiritual.

The council prepares to archive them.

Children.

I remember almost none of it.

The council collapses.

Something about carrying.

Something about rivers.

Something about releasing what is not yours.

Probably something profoundly meaningful.

Unfortunately,

the archivist had consumed agricultural assistance.

Records are incomplete.

But I remember how it felt.

Gentle.

Not like advice.

More like someone placing a hand against a door I had been holding shut

and quietly helping me stop pushing.

The council grows quiet.

Then she hugged me.

Not the polite stranger hug.

A proper one.

Tight.

Warm.

The kind where, for a few seconds,

you stop remembering that you’re supposed to keep yourself together.

I hugged her back.

And that was that.

No revelation.

No sudden cure.

No enlightenment.

The weight remained.

But perhaps,

for a moment,

I wasn’t carrying it alone.

The council nods.

Then she handed me something.

A cube.

The council examines it.

Each side could spin.

Little moving sections.

A strange mechanical object.

Children.

Basically,

a fancy fidget spinner that had discovered geometry.

The council applauds.

A sacred relic.

I thought it was cool.

Therefore,

the crow accepted.

Into the archive it went.

Now.

Eventually,

it was time to leave.

I stood.

Thanked her.

Prepared to return to whatever nonsense Rishikesh had planned next.

Then she stopped me.

The council leans forward.

She handed me one more thing.

A small packet.

Closed.

Unmarked.

I looked at her.

She said:

“Open it on your last day here.”

The council becomes interested.

Children.

Mystery.

Prophecy.

Quest item acquired.

Naturally,

I had questions.

What is it?

Why the last day?

What happens if I open it now?

Is it food?

Is it spiritual?

Is it somehow more agriculture?

The council waits.

I asked surprisingly few of these.

Instead,

I put it safely away.

“Okay.”

Because sometimes,

when a mysterious Tibetan woman in a secret cafe gives you a sealed packet and tells you to wait,

you simply respect the narrative.

The council applauds.

Excellent instinct.

And so I left.

Back through the narrow alley.

Back toward the road.

Back into Rishikesh.

The city felt slightly different.

Or perhaps I did.

The council listens.

Kasol had been movement.

Constant movement.

Trains.

Buses.

Walking.

Raves.

Waterfalls.

Snow.

Strangers appearing and disappearing.

Everything rushing into the next thing.

Kasol had shaken me until the weight loosened.

But Rishikesh?

Rishikesh kept doing something else.

It kept making me stop.

Five minutes beside the Ganga.

A prayer I didn’t fully understand.

A dog waiting while I caught my breath.

Meditation in a hidden cafe.

A stranger asking what I was worried about

and actually waiting for the answer.

The council grows quiet.

Stillness.

That was the difference.

Kasol had said:

Move.

Rishikesh seemed to whisper:

Stay here a moment.

The weight will still be there when you stand.

But perhaps you don’t need to wrestle it every second you’re alive.

Children.

I did not understand that yet.

Not fully.

At the time,

I simply knew the encounter had been odd.

Beautiful.

Peaceful.

And somehow exactly where I was supposed to end up,

despite having no idea it existed.

The council smiles.

No maps.

Remember?

Had I searched for the best ashram,

I might have found one.

Had I followed directions perfectly,

I might have spent the afternoon meditating somewhere grand and famous.

Instead,

I refused to surrender my cigarettes,

got lost,

walked down an alley,

and found a bald Tibetan woman with a bong and emotional availability.

The council erupts.

Children.

There are many paths to enlightenment.

Mine appears to have poor signage.

And so,

cube in my pocket,

mysterious packet safely hidden away,

I began walking.

Vaguely toward Odin’s Abode.

I hoped.

Thus concludes Chapter Seven.

The Ashram.

The Audacity Of The No Smoking Policy.

The Secret Cafe.

And The Woman Who Asked The Wrong Cryptid The Right Question.

I had gone searching for a spiritual place.

I found one.

Then immediately left because they wouldn’t let me smoke.

The council nods.

Classic.

And somehow,

on the road away from spirituality,

I stumbled directly into something that felt remarkably close to it.

No ceremony.

No doctrine.

No requirement that I become someone else first.

Just stillness.

A stranger.

A conversation.

A hug.

And a tiny unopened packet waiting for the final day.

Perhaps the road had stopped trying to distract me from the weight.

Perhaps this time,

it wanted me to sit beside it.

And listen.

But children,

that mystery belonged to another day.

For now,

the Unbegun had one immediate objective.

Find Odin’s Abode.

Preferably before accidentally joining another religion.

And thus begins Chapter Eight.

Now, children.

When last we left the Unbegun,

he had escaped an ashram because they refused to permit cigarettes,

accidentally discovered a secret cafe,

meditated with strangers,

received agricultural therapy from a mysterious Tibetan woman,

and left carrying a fidget cube and an unopened prophecy.

The council nods.

A productive morning.

And so I walked.

No map.

No destination.

Just vaguely in the direction of Odin’s Abode.

Or at least,

what I had decided was the direction of Odin’s Abode.

The council remains skeptical.

Then,

I entered a market.

The council immediately becomes concerned.

Children.

Markets are dangerous places for creatures like me.

Not physically.

Financially.

Because I possess what scholars refer to as:

Crow Brain.

The council nods.

Shiny object?

Want.

Strange object?

Want.

Object with no practical purpose whatsoever but possessing excellent vibes?

Absolutely want.

And this market

gods.

It had everything.

Trinkets.

Jewelry.

Little statues.

Oddly shaped objects whose function remained entirely theoretical.

Clothes that looked like someone had given fabric access to psychedelics.

Food.

Beads.

Scarves.

Bracelets.

Incense.

Things hanging from ceilings.

Things piled onto tables.

Things hidden inside boxes.

The council watches my wallet nervously.

But children.

Something unexpected had happened.

The Unbegun had created a rule.

The council gasps.

A rule?

Correct.

Do not buy everything you like.

The council falls silent.

Who are you?

Patience.

The rule continued.

I could look at everything.

Touch everything.

Admire everything.

Want everything.

But I would buy only one thing.

The thing I liked most.

The council applauds.

Financial maturity.

Let us not become dramatic.

I still had almost no money because I had previously spent it on being thrown from a platform and purchasing industrial grade agriculture.

But yes.

Growth.

And so,

I wandered through the market.

Saw something cool.

Did not buy it.

The council gasps.

Another cool thing.

Did not buy it.

Children.

This may genuinely have been more difficult than bungee jumping.

The council nods.

Then I saw the shop.

Bone Handicrafts.

The council pauses.

Bone?

Exactly.

I stopped.

Looked at the sign.

Looked inside.

Then back at the sign.

Bone.

Children.

You cannot place that word in front of the Unbegun and expect him to behave normally.

I entered immediately.

The council applauds.

And holy moly.

The place was magnificent.

Keychains.

Bracelets.

Necklaces.

Decorations.

Handles.

Knives.

Beads.

All sorts of strange little objects,

made,

presumably,

from bone.

The council raises an eyebrow.

Presumably?

Children.

I am not a forensic scientist.

For all I know,

half the shop was polished stone,

resin,

plastic,

howlite,

or some ambitious goat’s former infrastructure.

The archive cannot confirm.

But the shop said bone.

Therefore,

bone.

The council accepts this scientific standard.

Now.

I browsed.

Slowly.

Remember the rule.

One thing.

Only one.

And eventually,

I found it.

A bracelet.

White beads in the shape of skulls.

The council leans forward.

Children.

It looked cool as hell.

That was the entire evaluation process.

No deeper symbolism.

No spiritual calling.

No revelation from the universe.

Skulls.

Bracelet.

Cool.

Purchased.

The council applauds.

Relic acquired.

Now.

I examined it outside.

Turned it around in my hand.

Looked closely.

And began to suspect something.

The council waits.

This might not actually be bone.

Perhaps howlite.

Perhaps some other material carved to resemble it.

The council nods.

A reasonable conclusion.

Children.

I will be telling people it is bone.

The council collapses.

Reality is occasionally less important than presentation.

And besides,

“Look at my howlite bracelet”

possesses significantly less narrative power than:

“This bracelet is made of bone.”

The council reluctantly agrees.

Now.

As I continued walking,

another thought appeared.

The council becomes concerned.

The necklaces.

Children.

Remember the relic from Kasol?

The little bone tag bearing its name.

And now,

the Rishikesh tag.

Bone as well.

Or bone ish.

The council understands.

And this bracelet?

Bone.

Therefore,

obviously,

they belonged together.

The council applauds.

The Bone Archive.

Exactly.

Instead of wearing the necklaces separately,

I would attach the tags to the bracelet.

One wandering.

One tag.

One bracelet carrying the roads with it.

The council grows interested.

At the time,

this was simply because:

Bone plus bone.

Children.

Do not assign me too much depth too quickly.

But I liked the idea.

Kasol.

Rishikesh.

And someday,

perhaps,

more.

Little pieces from each wandering,

gathered around one wrist.

A portable archive.

The crow was delighted.

Now.

There was only one problem.

I had to attach them.

The council stares.

Children.

I possess many skills.

Tying tiny pieces of string around tiny objects is apparently not among them.

I found a chai stall.

Sat down.

Ordered tea.

Placed the bracelet before me.

Removed the tags.

And began surgery.

The council watches.

Attempt One.

Failure.

Attempt Two.

Failure.

Attempt Three.

Somehow worse than Attempt One.

Children.

The string slipped.

The knot came undone.

The tag rotated.

The bracelet escaped.

At one point,

I believe I had successfully tied the necklace to my own finger.

The council applauds.

Engineering.

I persisted.

Because stubbornness is one of the few resources I possess in unlimited supply.

Another attempt.

Failure.

Another.

Failure.

And eventually,

the woman running the stall noticed.

The council smiles.

An older woman.

Grandmother age.

The sort of woman who had probably witnessed thousands of idiots pass through her chai stall,

but perhaps none quite so committed to losing a fight against string.

She watched me struggle.

For some time.

Then she gestured.

Give it here.

The council erupts.

SALVATION.

I surrendered the bracelet.

Immediately.

Children.

There are moments when pride must be abandoned.

This was one.

She took the tags.

The bracelet.

The string.

And began working.

No struggle.

No confusion.

No existential crisis.

Just fingers that knew what they were doing.

A knot here.

A loop there.

Tighten.

Adjust.

Done.

The council falls silent.

Magic.

Children.

What I had failed to accomplish through approximately seventeen engineering attempts,

this woman completed with the casual efficiency of someone tying a grocery bag.

She handed it back.

The bracelet now carried the tags.

Kasol.

Rishikesh.

Together.

The council smiles.

I stared at it.

Perfect.

Exactly what I wanted.

I thanked her.

Bought another chai.

The council nods.

Then we talked.

Or attempted to.

You see,

once again,

language presented itself as a theoretical inconvenience.

She knew little English.

I knew little Hindi.

And yet,

somehow,

conversation occurred.

The council waits.

About what?

Children.

Excellent question.

I remember pieces.

Where I came from.

Where she was from.

My travels.

Her stall.

People passing through.

Probably family.

Probably food.

Possibly several completely separate conversations that both of us believed were about the same subject.

The council laughs.

It did not matter.

I drank chai.

She spoke.

I responded with the portions of Hindi stored somewhere beneath decades of neglect.

She laughed.

I laughed.

When neither of us understood,

we simply smiled and tried again.

Then I ordered another chai.

And another.

The council starts counting.

Children.

I had entered the stall to tie a bracelet.

I remained for two hours.

The council grows quiet.

Two hours.

With someone whose language I barely spoke.

No grand story.

No wild event.

No mysterious pill.

No death ride.

No adventure.

Just tea.

A plastic chair.

An old woman.

And conversation held together almost entirely by effort.

And perhaps that was why I stayed.

Because Rishikesh kept doing this.

Kasol had thrown people at me like fireworks.

Loud.

Sudden.

Brilliant.

Gone.

Rishikesh seemed to offer people differently.

Quietly.

Sit here.

Drink this.

Talk for a while.

No need to know where it leads.

The council listens.

Eventually,

I looked at the time.

Two hours had disappeared.

Not through intoxication.

Not through sleep.

Not because of dangerous agriculture.

Just conversation.

Children.

There is something strangely comforting about discovering that two people do not need a shared language to enjoy each other’s company.

A little patience.

Some gestures.

Enough laughter.

And several cups of chai apparently do most of the translation.

The council nods.

Eventually,

I stood.

Paid what I owed.

Then added a little extra.

Not much.

Just enough to say:

Thank you for the bracelet.

Thank you for the tea.

Thank you for the two hours.

She protested slightly.

Naturally.

I insisted.

Naturally.

The council approves.

Then I waved.

She waved back.

And I left.

No contact details.

No names archived.

No promise to return.

Just another stranger who briefly entered the wandering,

fixed something I could not,

sat with me for a while,

and remained behind when the road continued.

The council grows quiet.

Children.

I think I’m beginning to understand why those people remain in memory.

Not because they stayed.

Because they didn’t have to.

Now.

I continued walking.

Still mapless.

Still only vaguely aware of where Odin’s Abode might be.

And yet,

eventually,

the roads began looking familiar.

A turn.

A slope.

A shop I had seen before.

Then another.

And there it was.

The council applauds.

Odin’s Abode.

Again.

Children.

At this point,

I began developing a theory.

Perhaps I wasn’t getting lucky.

Perhaps Rishikesh was simply designed this way.

Every road seemed to bend,

twist,

climb,

descend,

and somehow deposit me back in the same general area.

Like the city had placed Odin’s Abode at the center of some strange navigational vortex.

The council nods.

Or perhaps you were slowly learning the roads.

Children.

We will not entertain sensible explanations.

The city was magical.

Moving on.

Now.

I approached the hostel.

Bracelet on my wrist.

Two tags now hanging from it.

The beginnings of something.

Kasol.

Rishikesh.

Two wanderings.

Two pieces.

The council smiles.

And nearby,

I noticed something else.

A food cart.

The council freezes.

Children.

Food.

Actual food.

Remember food?

That ancient substance normal humans consume regularly in order to remain alive?

The Unbegun had once again remembered its existence.

I approached.

The council leans forward.

And thus concludes Chapter Eight.

The Market.

The Bone Shop.

The Bracelet.

And the Grandmother Who Defeated String.

I had entered the market promising myself I would buy only one thing.

Somehow,

I kept the promise.

The council applauds.

Historic.

And somewhere between skull beads,

bone tags,

bad knots,

and too much chai,

another little tradition had taken shape.

Kasol on one side.

Rishikesh on the other.

Not souvenirs sitting forgotten inside drawers.

Not things purchased because tourists are apparently legally required to purchase magnets.

Pieces of the road.

Carried together.

The first wandering had given me the idea of collecting relics.

The second had given them somewhere to live.

And perhaps,

years from now,

if the bracelet survived,

more tags would hang from it.

More roads.

More cities.

More versions of the Unbegun.

The council grows quiet.

But that belonged to later wanderings.

For now,

I had considerably more urgent concerns.

Because standing before me was a food cart.

And children,

I had finally remembered that tea,

weed,

and spiritual experiences do not constitute a balanced diet.

And thus begins Chapter Nine.

Now, children.

There I stood.

Before the food cart.

Hungry.

Actually hungry.

A rare and beautiful development.

The council nods.

The people behind the stall looked friendly.

The menu looked diverse.

Vegetarian things.

Fried things.

Things on sticks.

Things whose names I could not pronounce but whose photographs suggested excellent decisions.

And so I approached.

The council watches.

Then the people behind the counter saw me.

Their faces lit up.

And they shouted:

“KERALA!”

The council pauses.

Children.

I stopped walking.

They continued.

“You’re back!”

The council turns toward me.

Uh.

What?

The council immediately becomes interested.

Apparently,

I had been here before.

The council erupts.

Children.

Not merely visited.

Not merely purchased something.

I was known.

Recognized.

Remembered.

They greeted me like a returning monarch.

One of them laughed.

Another pointed at me.

“The big spender!”

The council falls silent.

Sir.

What?

Children.

This was deeply concerning.

Because I possessed absolutely no memory of these people.

None.

Not their faces.

Not the cart.

Not the food.

Not being a big spender.

And given my current financial condition,

the phrase itself seemed historically inaccurate.

The council begins reviewing previous records.

Then realization arrived.

Agriculture.

The council nods.

Of course.

Somewhere inside those missing hours from yesterday,

apparently,

I had eaten here.

And forgotten.

The council writes:

Additional corrupted file recovered.

Now.

Before I could ask questions,

one of them said:

“Same order?”

The council waits.

Children.

I did not know what the previous order was.

A cautious person might have asked.

I nodded.

“Sure.”

The council applauds.

Commitment to the mystery.

A few minutes later,

they placed food before me.

Vegetable kebabs.

The council pauses.

Children.

Those are two words I had previously believed belonged to separate civilizations.

Vegetable.

Kebab.

Yet there it was.

And holy hell.

Glorious.

The council approves.

Apparently vegetables become considerably more cooperative when introduced to sufficient seasoning and fire.

I ate.

And as I ate,

the interrogation began.

Not theirs.

Mine.

“Wait.”

“I was here yesterday?”

They laughed.

Yes.

“How much did I eat?”

The council leans forward.

Six plates.

The council erupts.

SIX?

Children.

Suddenly,

several mysteries resolved themselves.

Why hadn’t I been hungry?

Because apparently High Nuo had consumed enough food to provision a small expedition.

The archivist had forgotten.

The stomach had not.

The council nods.

Then another question emerged.

A more important question.

“How did I pay?”

Because children,

I knew exactly how much money was in my possession.

And I could not afford six plates of anything unless the plates themselves were complimentary.

The men smiled.

The council becomes concerned.

“Pot.”

The council pauses.

Pot?

Apparently,

yes.

Children.

I had somehow entered into a barter economy.

Food was exchanged.

Agriculture was shared.

Diplomatic relations flourished.

The council applauds.

Ancient commerce restored.

And suddenly,

everything made sense.

Or at least as much sense as anything in Rishikesh had begun making.

I had eaten.

I had smoked with them.

I had apparently behaved generously enough to earn the title:

Big Spender.

And then,

my brain had deleted the entire afternoon.

The council nods.

Efficient archival management.

Now.

The surreal part wasn’t that I’d forgotten.

By this point,

missing pieces of time had become an unfortunate recurring feature.

No.

The strange part was how they treated me.

Children.

Royalty.

One man looked around.

There was no chair.

Then somehow

chair.

The council gasps.

Manifested from another plane.

Perhaps from the same dimension my Ghost Roommate inhabit.

But suddenly,

there it was.

A chair.

For Kerala.

The big spender.

I was seated.

My order was prioritized.

Everyone greeted me.

People laughed.

Someone remembered something I had apparently said yesterday.

I did not.

The council smiles.

Children.

There is something profoundly strange about walking into a place where strangers possess memories of you that you do not.

For them,

I was returning.

For me,

I was meeting them for the first time.

Two versions of the same encounter existing simultaneously.

The council grows quiet.

Perhaps that should have frightened me.

Instead,

I found it hilarious.

Because somehow,

even when my conscious mind was unavailable,

the Unbegun had apparently been making friends.

The council nods.

Background socialization enabled.

Now.

Food disappeared.

Conversation continued.

And naturally,

the next stage of hospitality arrived.

A joint.

The council sighs.

Of course.

Rolled.

Lit.

Passed.

I joined.

And once again,

agriculture reinforced international diplomacy.

The council applauds.

Then eventually,

I stood.

Said goodbye to my newfound old friends.

Promised probably nothing because promises are dangerous things while high.

And wandered back toward Odin’s Abode.

Now.

Later,

I sat in the rooftop cafe.

The familiar headquarters.

Cigarette smoke.

Travelers.

Dogs occasionally passing through.

And that’s when I met him.

The council leans forward.

A new gentleman.

Pleasant fellow.

Friendly.

We started talking.

Where are you from?

What are you doing here?

How long are you staying?

The ritual.

Children.

Conversation was easy.

He seemed nice.

Normal.

Possibly too normal.

The council becomes suspicious retroactively.

Eventually,

I asked:

“What do you do?”

He answered.

“Police.”

The council freezes.

Children.

Every internal alarm activated simultaneously.

POLICE?

The council erupts.

Now.

At this point,

I had enough agricultural material in my possession to make this answer deeply inconvenient.

But perhaps,

I thought,

he was traffic police.

Or administration.

Or something harmless.

Then he continued.

“Narcotics.”

The council goes silent.

Children.

I would like you to imagine the exact moment every drop of blood in my body attempted to leave through my feet.

Narcotics.

The council begins running in circles.

I smiled.

Casually.

Naturally.

Like a man with absolutely nothing suspicious happening anywhere in his life.

“Oh.”

The council applauds.

Masterful composure.

Inside?

Panic.

Absolute panic.

Then he said something worse.

The council braces.

Apparently,

he was staying in my room.

The council erupts.

MY ROOM?

Children.

The Ghost Roommate had finally been replaced.

By law enforcement.

The universe possesses an extremely specific sense of humor.

Now.

Immediately,

my mind began constructing scenarios.

Was this deliberate?

Had Sunglasses betrayed me?

Was the secret cafe actually an elaborate sting operation?

Was the hostel owner’s dog trained not to find customers

but suspects?

The council pauses.

Children.

Paranoia had taken the wheel.

Every interaction from the previous three days was suddenly evidence.

The dog.

Sunglasses.

The food cart.

The hippie clothes.

The fact that I now visually resembled a walking advertisement for cannabis legalization.

The council groans.

Perhaps subtlety had not been maintained.

Now.

The gentleman remained perfectly pleasant.

This somehow made it worse.

He smiled.

Talked normally.

Asked ordinary questions.

Children.

Exactly what an undercover narcotics officer would do.

The council nods gravely.

Or,

you know,

a normal human being.

We are not considering reasonable interpretations yet.

Now.

Night arrived.

Eventually,

everyone began returning to their rooms.

Including him.

My room.

The council looks toward the door.

Children.

Was I going to sleep beside a narcotics officer?

While carrying contraband?

Was I going to close my eyes and simply trust the justice system not to activate overnight?

Absolutely not.

The council erupts.

SURVIVAL INSTINCTS!

At last.

And so,

I slept on the common room sofa.

The council pauses.

That was your solution?

Children.

I did not say the instincts were good.

Only that they existed.

I curled up on the sofa.

Bag nearby.

One eye metaphorically open.

Listening for footsteps.

Imagining raids.

Arrests.

Interrogations.

Newspaper headlines.

KERALA MAN ARRESTED AFTER FOLLOWING DOG.

The council collapses.

A humiliating legacy.

Eventually,

exhaustion defeated paranoia.

I slept.

Then morning arrived.

The council leans forward.

And somehow,

somehow,

I awakened on a bench outside.

The council pauses.

Outside?

Outside.

How?

Unknown.

When did I move?

Unknown.

Did I sleepwalk?

Was I relocated?

Did the sofa reject me?

The archive contains no record.

Children.

Rishikesh had once again moved my physical body while my consciousness was unavailable.

At this point,

I had stopped being surprised.

Then I noticed someone beside me.

The council grows concerned.

The narcotics officer.

The council erupts.

HE FOUND YOU.

Children.

This was it.

The elaborate trap had reached its final stage.

I prepared mentally.

He sat beside me.

Calm.

Relaxed.

And smoking

a joint.

The council falls silent.

I stared.

Looked at the joint.

Looked at him.

Back at the joint.

Then asked:

“You smoke pot?”

The council applauds.

An investigative journalist.

He said nothing.

Simply handed me the joint.

The council becomes very still.

Children.

This introduced several new possibilities.

Possibility One.

He was not a narcotics officer.

Possibility Two.

He was a narcotics officer who smoked weed.

Possibility Three.

This was an incredibly elaborate test,

and I was about to fail it.

The council nods.

Naturally,

I took a puff.

The council collapses.

SURVIVAL INSTINCTS RETRACTED.

Immediately.

Children.

Even while convinced I was being trapped,

apparently refusing a joint remained beyond my capabilities.

I inhaled.

Passed it back.

Then sat there,

watching him suspiciously.

He smoked.

Calmly.

No handcuffs.

No dramatic reveal.

No hidden officers emerging from bushes.

Nothing.

The council waits.

Which made me more suspicious.

A perfect trap.

The council sighs.

There was only one sensible course of action.

Leave.

And so I did.

Immediately.

The council applauds.

I returned inside.

Took a shower.

Let cold water beat several layers of paranoia out of my skull.

Slowly,

sobriety returned.

And with sobriety came reason.

The council gasps.

Reason?

Briefly.

Perhaps he genuinely was a cop.

Perhaps he worked in some capacity I misunderstood.

Perhaps “narcotics” had been misheard.

Perhaps he was joking.

Perhaps the entire conversation had become distorted by the fact that I had spent several days smoking substances strong enough to remove entire meals from memory.

The council nods.

All plausible.

I decided I would ask him later.

Clarify.

Laugh about it.

Maybe learn his actual name.

Children.

I never saw him again.

The council erupts.

OF COURSE.

Gone.

Completely.

No follow up.

No explanation.

No closure.

One moment,

a narcotics officer was smoking a joint beside me.

The next,

he had vanished from the story.

The council writes:

Ghost Roommate Variant II: Law Enforcement Edition.

Now.

To this day,

I possess questions.

Was he actually a cop?

Did I misunderstand him?

Was the joint real?

Was he real?

Had my brain invented an entire narcotics officer because Sunglasses’ strongest product had finally achieved sentience?

The council considers this.

Evidence inconclusive.

Children.

Perhaps that’s the greatest mystery of Rishikesh.

Not spirituality.

Not the Ganga.

Not the hidden cafe.

That man.

Because I have no proof.

No photograph.

No name.

No contact.

Only a memory of a stranger calmly telling me he worked narcotics,

sleeping in my room,

and then passing me a joint the next morning.

The council grows quiet.

And somehow,

rather than being disturbed by this,

I remember thinking:

Gods.

I love Rishikesh.

The council erupts.

Naturally.

Thus concludes Chapter Nine.

The Big Spender.

The Six Plates I Forgot Eating.

The Agricultural Barter System.

And the Narcotics Officer Who May Or May Not Have Existed.

Children.

By this point,

Rishikesh had become a place where my own memories could ambush me.

Strangers knew stories about me I had forgotten.

People appeared,

became characters,

and vanished before I could confirm they were ever there.

Time disappeared.

Roads looped home.

Dogs gave directions.

And somehow,

through all of it,

I felt strangely comfortable.

Kasol had made the world feel larger than my sadness.

Rishikesh was doing something stranger.

It was making reality feel less rigid.

Less serious.

Less deserving of the death grip with which I usually held it.

The council listens.

Perhaps not everything needed to make sense.

Perhaps some things were allowed to simply happen.

A meal forgotten.

A friend remembered by strangers.

A cop smoking a joint.

A bench appearing beneath you sometime during the night.

Children.

Was I crazy?

Was the agriculture simply that strong?

Was Rishikesh genuinely this strange?

The archive refuses to choose.

But one thing remained certain.

Gods.

I loved this city.

And thus begins Chapter Ten.

Now, children.

When last we left the Unbegun,

he had discovered that the narcotics officer sleeping in his room may or may not have been real.

The council nods.

An entirely normal problem.

Eventually,

the paranoia faded.

Sobriety returned.

The world stopped looking like an elaborate sting operation.

And so,

naturally,

I smoked my last joint.

The council collapses.

Children.

Recovery is a complicated process.

Now.

With agriculture depleted,

I wandered out once more.

No destination.

No map.

Just roads.

But this time,

I chose one I hadn’t taken before.

The council leans forward.

I had seen it.

Passed it.

Considered it.

But never followed it.

And children,

untaken roads possess a particular kind of arrogance.

They sit there.

Existing.

Quietly suggesting:

You have no idea what is down here.

The council nods.

Unacceptable.

And so,

I walked.

At first,

Rishikesh remained Rishikesh.

Buildings.

Shops.

People.

Traffic.

Dogs.

The usual beautiful confusion.

Then slowly,

the city began disappearing.

The council watches.

Buildings became fewer.

Trees became more.

The roads grew quieter.

People became scarce.

Traffic faded.

And suddenly,

I wasn’t really walking through the city anymore.

I was walking away from it.

The council becomes concerned.

Children.

This should perhaps have inspired caution.

Instead,

I continued.

Because no maps means no maps.

Once you’ve committed to the philosophy,

you must occasionally accept the possibility of becoming a missing persons report.

The council sighs.

Eventually,

I found something.

A gate.

A ticket booth.

A sign.

The Beatles Ashram.

The council perks up.

Children.

Apparently,

it was under renovation.

Parts of it looked abandoned.

Parts looked ancient.

Parts looked like the forest had spent years slowly trying to reclaim custody.

Perfect.

I approached the ticket booth.

There was a man.

I paid.

He allowed me inside.

The council applauds.

The smoothest transaction of the entire wandering.

No QR based kidnapping.

No tuk tuk relay.

No child operating a scooter.

Just money.

Ticket.

Entrance.

Suspiciously normal.

Now.

I followed the path.

And gods,

it was beautiful.

Old buildings scattered among the trees.

Walls covered in age.

Nature pushing through cracks.

The sort of place that looked less constructed

and more remembered.

The council grows quiet.

I recorded.

Naturally.

Building?

Recorded.

Tree?

Recorded.

Interesting wall?

Recorded.

Possibly uninteresting wall?

Also recorded.

The archivist does not discriminate.

Then I saw something strange.

The council leans forward.

Igloos.

Well.

Not actual igloos.

Concrete structures shaped like them.

Little domes.

Stone cells.

Children.

They looked like someone had designed meditation chambers after briefly hearing a description of Eskimo architecture.

And inside some of them,

people sat.

Cross legged.

Still.

Eyes closed.

Meditating,

I assumed.

The council nods.

They possessed the pose.

Good enough.

Now.

I continued down the path.

Past the domes.

Past the buildings.

Deeper into the trees.

And eventually,

I reached a small cluster of them.

The council becomes interested.

Men.

Three of them.

Grey beards.

Hair tied into buns.

Clothes somewhere between robes and things acquired after abandoning society entirely.

The council studies them.

Swamis?

Perhaps.

Sadhus?

Possibly.

Homeless forest wizards?

Visually,

also possible.

Children.

The archive records appearance.

Not qualifications.

They sat beneath the trees,

smoking from a chillum.

I walked past.

Looked at them.

They looked at me.

The council waits.

Then one of them gestured.

Come here.

The council becomes very still.

Now.

Let us examine the situation.

I was alone.

Far from the city.

Inside a partially abandoned ashram.

Three mysterious men beneath the trees were beckoning me toward them.

The council nods.

Surely,

surely,

survival instincts would finally activate.

Children.

No.

I walked over.

The council collapses.

Of course.

I sat beside them.

Three mysterious swamis.

One wandering cryptid.

Silence.

The council leans forward.

And then I spoke.

“Sup.”

The council goes completely silent.

Children.

I said:

Sup.

To a grey bearded swami beneath a tree in the Beatles Ashram.

The council erupts.

CENTURIES OF SPIRITUAL TRADITION.

AND YOU SAID SUP.

I panicked.

Socially.

That was what emerged.

The council writes this into the archive with visible disappointment.

Now.

They didn’t say much.

Perhaps they didn’t understand me.

Perhaps they understood perfectly and decided silence was the kinder response.

Either way,

conversation was apparently unnecessary.

One of them lifted the chillum.

Inhaled.

Then released the smoke.

And children.

A smoke ring.

The council gasps.

Perfect.

Clean.

Floating through the air like sorcery.

I stared.

Because smoke rings remain one of those skills I fundamentally refuse to believe are achieved through physics.

Magic.

Clearly.

The chillum moved around the circle.

Then it reached me.

The council becomes concerned.

I accepted it.

Naturally.

Took a puff.

Then attempted absolutely no smoke ring.

Because I know my limitations.

The council applauds.

Growth.

And so there we sat.

Three swamis.

One cryptid.

Passing a chillum beneath the trees.

No introductions.

No names.

No questions.

No:

Where are you from?

No:

Where are you going?

Nothing.

Just smoke.

Silence.

Trees.

And four men who,

if photographed from a distance,

probably looked equally homeless.

The council nods.

Perfect camouflage.

Now.

Children.

I do not know what was in that chillum.

I know what tobacco feels like.

It wasn’t that.

I know what pot feels like.

It wasn’t that either.

The council grows quiet.

Because then something happened.

Not visuals.

I had experienced visuals.

Patterns.

Movement.

Reality becoming decorative.

This was different.

This was a vision.

The council listens.

And it lasted,

perhaps,

seconds.

Maybe less.

But inside it,

there was time.

A little world.

A tiny day.

I was walking.

And beside me was Dyno.

My golden retriever.

The council smiles.

My boy.

Present.

Alive.

Walking beside me.

Nothing strange about it.

Nothing magical.

Just us.

Then,

in the distance,

something moved.

The council watches.

A dog.

Golden.

Running toward us.

And before my mind could question it,

I knew.

Bongo.

The council falls silent.

My first golden retriever.

Gone for almost a decade.

Children.

Some absences stop screaming eventually.

They become quieter.

You learn where they live inside you.

You stop touching the place every day.

But they do not disappear.

Bongo never disappeared.

And there he was.

Running toward me.

The same way he used to.

Alive.

Happy.

Coming home across a place that did not exist.

I dropped down.

The council listens.

Dyno beside me.

Bongo reaching me.

And for one impossible moment,

they were together.

The two boys who belonged to two different parts of my life.

Two lives that reality had refused to let overlap.

Children.

One of my quietest wishes had always been simple.

I wanted them to meet.

That was it.

Not some grand miracle.

Not immortality.

Not undoing death.

Just once.

Let Dyno meet Bongo.

Let me sit between them.

Let me put my arms around both.

And somehow,

for a few seconds,

I did.

The council grows very still.

I hugged them.

Both of them.

Felt them against me.

Held them close.

And somewhere inside that tiny impossible world,

I was happy.

Not excited.

Not high.

Not distracted.

Happy.

The uncomplicated kind.

Then I opened my eyes.

The trees returned.

The ashram returned.

The three men returned.

The chillum.

The earth beneath me.

Everything.

The council watches.

And I was crying.

Not beginning to cry.

Already crying.

Tears running down my face.

Children.

For once,

there was no joke waiting behind it.

No clever sentence.

No council interruption.

I just sat there.

And wept.

Because for several seconds,

something I had wanted for years had become real enough for my heart to believe it.

The council remains silent.

Was it a hallucination?

Obviously.

A dream manufactured by whatever I had inhaled?

Probably.

A strange chemical accident happening inside an exhausted brain?

Perhaps.

Children.

I don’t care.

Not really.

Because whatever mechanism produced it,

I got those seconds.

I got Bongo.

I got Dyno.

I got them together.

I got to hold both of them.

The universe had refused me that memory.

So my mind made one.

And I will take it.

The council nods.

Gratefully.

Forever.

Now.

Eventually,

I wiped my face.

Reached into my pocket.

Pulled out some cash.

And offered it to the men.

The council watches.

They refused.

No words.

Just gestures.

No.

I tried again.

No.

Children.

Apparently whatever had happened beneath those trees was not a transaction.

So I searched my pockets.

And found something else.

A packet of biscuits.

The council pauses.

Ah.

The sacred currency.

Exactly.

I offered it.

This,

apparently,

was acceptable.

The council smiles.

I placed the biscuits with them.

Pressed my hands together.

And using one of the limited Hindi phrases I could deploy with confidence,

said:

“Dhanyavaad.”

Thank you.

Not merely for the smoke.

Not merely for letting some strange tourist sit in their circle.

For the moment.

For the memory that never existed.

For giving my mind whatever doorway it needed to walk through.

They nodded.

I stood.

And left.

The council watches me walk away.

Back through the trees.

Past the strange meditation domes.

Past the old buildings.

Toward the gate.

Toward the road.

Toward Rishikesh.

And children,

something had changed.

Not dramatically.

The sky did not open.

The universe did not explain itself.

I had not achieved enlightenment.

The council nods.

Thank gods.

But the ache.

That old weight in my chest.

The reason I had boarded the train.

The thing that had followed me from home.

It felt

less.

Not gone.

The council listens.

I don’t think things like that simply disappear because you travel far enough.

Pain is annoyingly portable.

But less.

A little quieter.

A little smaller.

Like someone had loosened a knot I had forgotten could be loosened.

And perhaps that was enough.

The council grows quiet.

Kasol had taught me how to run.

Run toward mountains.

Run toward strangers.

Run toward noise.

Run until the sadness couldn’t keep pace.

But Rishikesh?

Rishikesh kept asking me to stop.

Beside a river.

Inside a hidden cafe.

At a chai stall.

Beneath some trees with three men whose names I would never know.

Stop.

Sit.

Feel it.

Let the thing arrive.

Let it hurt.

And then,

when it is ready,

let it pass through.

The council nods.

Stillness.

Again.

Thus concludes Chapter Ten.

The Beatles Ashram.

The Three Swamis.

The Chillum.

And The Memory That Never Happened.

Children.

I went down an unfamiliar road because I refused to use maps.

I entered an ashram because it happened to be there.

I sat beside three strangers because they waved me over.

And somewhere inside that ridiculous chain of decisions,

I got to hug a dog who had been gone for almost ten years.

The council falls silent.

There are memories life gives you.

And there are memories life refuses you.

Perhaps occasionally,

if you wander far enough,

the mind becomes generous.

It lends you one.

Just for a moment.

I left those trees knowing Bongo and Dyno had never really met.

I knew that.

I still know that.

But somewhere inside me now exists a place where they did.

Where one ran toward the other.

Where I sat between them.

Where both of my boys were together.

And children,

real or not,

I will keep that place.

Some relics hang from bracelets.

Some fit inside pockets.

And some can only be carried in the chest.

Perhaps that was why,

as I walked back toward the city,

mine felt a little lighter.

And thus begins Chapter Eleven.

Now, children.

When last we left the Unbegun,

he had sat beneath trees with three mysterious swamis,

smoked something he could not identify,

and been given a memory reality itself had refused him.

The council remains quiet.

Bongo.

Dyno.

Together.

For a few impossible seconds.

Then it ended.

No lingering haze.

No strange aftereffects.

No twelve hour voyage through alternate dimensions.

Just

vision.

Tears.

Done.

The council nods.

Almost surgical.

I stepped out of the Beatles Ashram,

onto the road,

and did what the Unbegun always does when presented with two possible directions.

I chose forward.

The council applauds.

Navigation.

And so I walked.

No map.

No destination.

Just the path ahead.

The trees continued for a while.

The city remained somewhere behind me.

Then the road shifted.

The forest opened.

And there she was.

Again.

The Ganga.

The council smiles.

Children.

By this point,

the river had become a recurring character.

I kept finding her.

Or perhaps,

she kept finding me.