Kathmandu, July 14: The inDrive riders, for both taxi and motorbike, were surprisingly busy last evening. Some ride-seekers might have fallen under the sway of the terror that they were already dead and that, though they were able to access the app, their requests were simply not going through for the very reason that they were dead. After all, one had to wait, in some cases 30 minutes to an hour, before they could find the ride to their destinations and this time frame is enough to make one’s mind run abuzz with the nausea of terrifying thoughts.
But life was not the only element at stake, the price of the rides too had soared to dizzying heights. Of course, the perpetrator of all this was rain.
It was still drizzling when the Taxi I had found after a long wait showed up at the entrance of Republica’s office. “Through Tripureswar, that way will be better,” I said as I settled on the back seat. “Rain might have clogged the other routes.”
“Rain might have clogged the other routes,” the taxi driver repeated as if talking to himself. “Through Tripureswar, you say, sir. In Mata Bhadrakali’s name let’s check that way.”
We were silent till the traffic at Thapathali condemned the taxi to a halt. The hypnotic swish that reached my ears as the tyre rolled against the wet concrete dissolved into a Nepali Lokdohari that was drifting out of the music player. It was a song about young people’s longing to fulfill the dreams of their mothers. “Great song. I like it,” I said, collecting myself from the window and sitting in the middle.
“Great song. You like it, you say,” the taxi driver responded in an amiable manner. His voice had grown more friendly this time, as if by complimenting on his choice of the song I had banished all hostilities that had initially fluttered its wings between us. “It’s really nice. It’s from the movie - I don’t remember the name - but the movie that is set to release in Bhadra. From the same director who made Sarangi.”
For some time he admired the new directors, then suddenly, without any warning, began to criticize Nepali people as a whole. According to him, we Nepalese are loafers, that sluggishness and sloth are in our blood, that we don’t like to work while, at the same time, we are shameless enough to dream to get rich. That we talk of rich people but not of their hard work. That while we Nepalese blame the politicians, the fault, in fact, lies in us all. We all are lousy shits. That we, on the outside, express all sorts of sympathy but in reality at the right opportunity we are ready to leap with dagger on the throats of our own fellow brothers and sisters, for even a minimal material gain. That we Nepalese sell our own relatives into prostitution, don’t we? Whatever one claims, the biggest liars, swindlers and cheaters are to be found among us Nepali, he said decisively.
“There was a time when I lost every hope with life. It was then an inspiration dawned on me,” the taxi driver continued after a pause. “I had no idea what I should do with my life. Then a thought rescued me: I could help my family through driving. I approached a driver I knew who asked me for 15 thousand. I trusted him and paid the amount on the first day. To my distress, the man didn’t show up after that. He went completely out of contact.”
He paused and swore at the bike rider who overtook the taxi haphazardly, forcing him to stamp the brake at a compromising scale. Once the taxi had glided past the Labim Mall and the traffic abandoned its former agitation and dissolved into the serenity of the quiet night, he crossed his legs into lotus posture, then partially tilted his bullish body towards me and, controlling the steering wheel with just one hand, he went on, “After that, see sir, I approached another driver who I had known for a long time. He used to live in our neighbourhood. In fact, I knew him well. He first wanted to charge me 15 thousand. However, after learning how I was swindled he showed sympathy and we agreed on 10 thousand. At first, you know, he struck me as a genuine person. But he too turned out to be a nasty thief. The next day, he came up with a story that his mother was ill and if I could lend him 50 thousand. Having learnt from my previous experience I told him that I myself was broke. The next day he too was gone. Gone, completely. As if the earth had swallowed him up.”
“That’s crazy,” I said softly, not knowing how to respond, but loud enough so that he could hear and acknowledge that I was actually listening to him. “People are nasty.”
“People are nasty, you say. Yes they are. Anyways, finally I joined a driving centre and started training on a regular basis. But it turned out these loafers knew not a thing about driving. My desire to learn driving was so strong that I kept thinking about it every time. One night - it was raining heavily that night - I dreamt of driving the whole night. Driving through mountains, through wild forests, through rivers and snow…”
He informed me that the taxi he was driving in his dream, though already senile and croaked like an ancient lady’s death groan, drifted smoothly through the narrow mountainous terrains, then he pulled the already vanquished vehicle along through the maze of meandering hills of Dolakha and through the dangerous forests of the Terai. That in a blink a wild beast would flash across the highway and he had to press the brake with reptilian swiftness. Through this dream, he said, he not only became a veteran driver but also a master car mechanic. He had never changed the tires of a wheel before or had repaired the engine, but after that dream he could do those things with his eyes closed.
“When I close my eyes I can do anything,” the taxi driver added firmly. “I’ve never been to school, you see, sir. I can’t read or write. Once I went to the bank to open an account. I asked one of the staff to help me, but the loafer didn’t listen and pretended as if he were busy. So I closed my eyes and filled the form. That’s how my first bank account was opened.”
“So you learned to drive in your dream?” I asked, still wondering if he understood the implications of his claim.
“I learnt to drive in my dream, you say. I did, sir. Those dogs at the driving center didn’t teach a scratch. I learnt it all in my dream. I still remember that rainy, that stormy night, you see sir.”
After I reached home, I kept thinking about the taxi driver and his enigmatic experiences. Of course, had I heard about him from someone else, I would have at once dismissed the possibility that there was even a crumb of truth to his claims. Scientifically speaking, how could one learn to drive, or learn anything at all, in a dream? Besides, his claim that he filled up the forms at the bank with his eyes closed despite the fact that he can’t read or write strikes me as equally improbable? No doubt, everything he said can’t be true. However, by simply brushing aside all his claims one would somewhat deprive himself from certain elements of truth.
The unshakeable firmness with which the taxi driver recounted these experiences demonstrates that at least he believes his claims to be true. Which is why one should lean towards the possibility that the dream must have untangled certain knotted elements of his driving skill lodged in his subconscious and after that dream, from the next day on, his progress in driving consequently followed a smooth propgress. As one knows dreams, according to modern masters of psychoanalysis, including the legendary Freud, are the windows into our subconscious and help clear the repressed emotions helpful in ensuring one’s happiness.