The first accident

We used to hear in fairy tales about women flying on brooms, yet in real life, by not learning to drive vehicles, we remained dependent for years and years. According to history, whether for travel or when marching to war, women were actually the first to utilize vehicles.

They say, quite rightly, that to embark on a new endeavor, opportunity and necessity must converge upon a person simultaneously. Thus, we too finally became ready to ride a motorcycle ourselves.

I used to work in the role of senior program officer and district coordinator in the organization ‘Room to Read’ from September 2010 to February 2015. In the Bardia district, I had received the opportunity to lead works like the Girls’ Education Program, library, and school building construction program. My female friends and I had to keep going to various places in the course of program monitoring. While walking like this, there was no alternative to matching time to get a lift on the bikes of male friends. The central office itself had said to go ahead by coordinating with bike-owning colleagues in the field. However, sometimes when the field of male friends and ours did not match, an obstacle occurred. Either the program had to be postponed or the arrangement of another vehicle had to be made.

After it became uncomfortable for us female employees in field monitoring, we placed a demand for bikes. Three bikes arrived in the district. One geared Yamaha scooter was already in the district prior to this, and I only rode it occasionally.

After learning to ride new bikes with male friends, we female employees also obtained licenses. As staff were added along with the year 2012, other bikes were added. Including the scooter, we had allocated six bikes for the Girls’ Education Program. There was also one tall Yamaha bike.

I mostly used to ride a not-so-heavy Splendor. Among other female friends, some chose a bike and some chose a scooter. Be it a bike or a scooty, I liked to drive with speed; I used to ride heavily. Especially after getting a smooth paved road, I would definitely fly. We girls used to choose paved roads to ride easily and smoothly. Even if, why should the way be long? We did not have to save petrol by riding shortcut off-roads; we needed a comfortable journey. When riding a bike smoothly on the highway, the expressions of girls were entirely different. In everyone’s face, the self-confidence reflected that how are we women any less than men.

When trying to stop suddenly at the speed of 80, near an electricity pole, we both crashed down.

Because of feeling unsafe on the jungle road, mostly the speed of the bike used to be above 80. One day, Tripti Chaudhary and I had set out on a journey from Bansgadhi to Bhurigaun on the East-West Highway. On that day too, my speed was similarly fast. Under our program, tuition/coaching was taught to female students appearing in the then School Leaving Certificate (SLC). Among those very ones, a quilt and mattress had to be delivered to one female student for staying at the tuition center of Bhurigaun. Buying the quilt and mattress in Bansgadhi, we tied them tightly on the bike.

Until the time of entering Bhurigaon, the speed of the bike was fast. The eyes were searching for the name of Shubhashree Hotel. The moment I saw the hotel, without reducing the speed, I suddenly applied the brakes. When trying to stop suddenly at the speed of 80, near an electricity pole, we both crashed down. The bike was on one side, and the quilt and mattress are on the other side. The hotel operator’s brother came running and shouted, ‘Hey, sister! What kind of bike riding is yours? By a little bit, you were saved from colliding into the pole. If collided, you probably wouldn’t even have gotten to say ouch!’

Only after hearing that brother’s words, my wits were frightened out of me. I vividly remembered the faces of family and relatives, everyone. Thankfully life was saved, so the mind was comforted. Because nothing happened to Tripti, I became assured. My shoe’s right side dragged, creating a hole where the toes are. When the jean pants dragged on the road, a hole was formed in two places.

The second accident

Keeping Bipana Kharel on the back of the bike, I had sped toward the Baganaha field. Even on that dusty but big road being expanded with the assistance of the government of India, there would be a speed of at least 50 for sure. Even on a wide road, not driving a bike feels as unpleasant as going to a river and not drinking water until thirst is quenched. That being so, the moment one climbs a bike, it is not that one does not remember one’s mistake before an accident. Again, it feels like such a mistake will not be done henceforth. But the forms of mistakes are numerous; it is simply impossible to guess.

Bipana started crying out, “Ouch, ouch, am I dying? Am I dying?” Seeing her, my wits completely left me, and I thought, “Oh my gosh! Did I end up killing her?”

Even though it was a road nicely pressed after graveling, due to rainwater, there were potholes in places. In many places, the pothole was covered by dust; it was not known. Without thinking, the bike would fall into a pothole and crash. While thinking the road must be good, only when crashing down heavily was it known that it was a pothole. A culvert was in the process of being built there. The bike was at the speed of 50 itself. When the balance of the bike deteriorated on a light downhill, we overturned into the culvert’s pothole covered by dust.

Bipana started crying out, “Ouch, ouch, am I dying? Am I dying?” Seeing her, my wits completely left me, and I thought, “Oh my gosh! Did I end up killing her?” A cold sweat broke out. I became entirely bewildered, unable to utter a single word of comfort. Within a short time, some motorcyclists gathered and lifted us up. They inquired whether any injuries were sustained. We were completely covered in dust; only the blinking of our eyes could be seen. Because the motorcycle had pinned Bipana, her arm and body had become deeply painful. She kept crying out in pain for some time. I, however, just kept trembling thoroughly.

Everyone asked, “Can you still ride the motorcycle?”

I replied, “Yes, I can.”

Bipana fearfully sat on the back again, and I rode the motorcycle at a very slow speed. In the evening, we finally reached Gulariya.

The third accident

Similarly, on another field trip, along with an office friend Dhana Oad, we had to reach Nepal Rastriya Secondary School, which was about eight kilometers away from Gulariya. At that time, I was riding that very same geared Yamaha scooter. Because it had rained a few days prior, the road was completely muddy. The heavy tractor traffic had carved the road into two deep ruts that looked like water canals, leaving a high ridge running down the middle. We were chatting away as we approached the school. In the midst of our conversation, the scooter’s wheel suddenly slipped heavily into the mud, and we crashed upside down completely. Dhana cried out in pain and shock. I just lay flat on the ground, catching my breath. Knowing that a little more attention could have prevented it, I felt incredibly guilty for making my friend crash. After a short while, we lifted the scooter and headed toward the school.

The fourth accident

The moment new staff took charge of their post, I would immediately instigate them to ride a bike. The poor friends also would try to ride while wobbling. I myself, by carrying new friends, helped to move here and there. Around the year 2013, Usha Joshi was added as new staff in the Girls’ Education Program. On the first day she arrived, after the office holiday, I tried to deliver her to the hotel. When she, who was quite heavy, tried to climb, the bike itself tilted.

Before running even 25 to 30 meters from the office, a turning came, and I, the driving person, while shaking unstably, made Usha crash heavily. I also felt remorse that an accident occurred on the very day she started in office. Thankfully nothing happened to her. She even, until much later, remained afraid to climb a bike. Except for the Girls’ Education Program, when going to the field for other programs, I used to keep male colleagues on the bike too. They mostly did not drive bikes. Chandra Prabha Koirala used to look after the library program. It had become as if I took on the responsibility to carry her. When going to the field, I myself had to carry Chandra Prabha, meaning, in her choice, it was always me who fell. Even while knowing that I made everyone crash, I became the bike rider of Chandra Prabha’s choice.

One day, to celebrate ‘Good Friday,’ we two sisters stealthily reached a snack shop near Krishnasar to eat a chicken dish. The splendor of going to eat in a group did not happen, though. At about a 150-meter distance from that very restaurant was Nepal Rastriya Secondary School. At the intersection of that school, there were small stone lumps. Because the bike remained in speed, when losing control, I made Chandra Prabha crash, and an injury even occurred on her finger. The arms could not be moved for a few days. Treatment was done at a clinic; for a few days she even had to eat painkillers.

The fifth accident

Bipana and Jamuna were sitting behind me on my motorcycle. Because no other vehicles were available and the afternoon sun was scorching, we had sped off with a “triple load.” In the intense heat of Rajapur, the faster we rode, the cooler the breeze felt. Chatting away, riding with the wind, and evading the traffic, we eventually made our way up to the market. To reach Jamuna’s house via an inner route, we headed toward the bank of the Karnali River and rode right along the riverside. We cruised through the entire village of Chhediya on the motorcycle.

In the course of returning to Jamuna’s house, as I took a turn at one spot without downshifting gears at all, we crashed heavily into a roadside ditch. The drain was covered in lush grass, and since it had been dug only a few months ago, the soil was still soft. As evening fell, there was not anyone around to see us. The two sisters somehow managed to get up, but I ended up completely inverted, planted head-first in the dirt.

Thinking I was finished, the two sisters initially froze and didn’t dare touch me. They started looking around frantically for help, but when no one was found, they approached me. To check if I was still breathing, they leaned in close, putting their heads right next to mine to listen. Thankfully, my heart was still beating. When they cried out, “Sister! Sister!” I could only muster a faint “hmm.”

My consciousness was completely blurred; I had no idea where I was or what had just happened. I wanted to tell them to lift me up, but my head was embedded so deeply in the mud that attempting to speak would have filled my mouth with soil. Remaining silent, I simply began to squirm. This panicked them even more. In my struggle to break free, I thrashed around for quite a while, trying desperately to lift my head, but I couldn’t manage it. Finally, the two sisters pulled me out. They helped dust the soil off my face and eyes, and only then was I finally able to speak.

The evening declined; night began to fall. One brother was coming through that very road. Pulling the bike out from the drain and driving it himself, he delivered us up to Jamuna’s house. I, however, laughed with joy at everyone remaining safe and sound and the bike also not being damaged. The two sisters, keeping silence at my laughter, were saying that even when such an incident occurs, you laugh. After a short while, we reached Jamuna’s house, and we ate food. Bipana stayed in her room. I headed toward the hotel.

The sixth accident

I had managed to crash the motorcycle with Tripti, Dhana, Usha, Chandra Prabha, Bipana, and Jamuna all riding pillion at various times. Among them, I made Bipana crash the most.

One time, Bipana and I set out toward the village to select candidates for the scholarship program under the Girls’ Education Program in the Rajapur field. In the scalp-burning heat, when I asked for a drink of water, a sister from the local Tharu community offered me Nigar, and I drank it right up. Reenergized, I started driving the motorcycle rapidly. Suddenly, the bike slipped, and I immediately sent Bipana crashing to the ground.

“Sister, how on earth do you drive?!” she exclaimed.

She was well aware that I had quenched my thirst with Nigar. Because of that, she had previously told me to please drive slowly and carefully. But such is the nature of alcohol; it never gets any credit. After all, even without drinking, a person is bound to make numerous mistakes.

The seventh accident

This happened while we were returning late in the evening after running a program at Nepal Rastriya Secondary School. At that hour of the evening, distant views were completely obscured. The speed of our motorcycle was quite normal, and we were navigating solely by focusing on the headlight’s immediate beam. Suddenly, a buffalo cart, locally known as a “Ladiya,” approached from the opposite direction. A traditional cart like that features neither a light nor a horn, so how were we to get any inkling of Yama’s vehicle bearing down on us?

The motorcycle went ahead and collided heavily with the Ladiya. Fortunately, nothing happened to the driver or the goods on the cart. However, a deep irrigation canal was flowing right beside the road. If by some unfortunate chance we had plunged into it, the lives of all of us, including the two buffaloes, could have been lost entirely. Even now, whenever I recall that incident, my body shivers. Thankfully, all of us survived.

The eighth accident

As of 27 September 2014, all the field programs were under my leadership. Because a fierce flood that year had damaged the project, the organization faced a huge loss. During the phase of project re-implementation, I had to work continuously without a break. Due to the relentless rush of work and erratic meal times, I was completely exhausted. While traveling alone for a specific task, I suddenly lost consciousness while driving the motorcycle. The bike crashed, and the sole of my right foot got caught and twisted inside the wheel, leaving me incapacitated with agonizing pain. In the fierce afternoon heat, there was hardly any movement of people on the road. Thankfully, Kamal Shrestha, a brother from the hotel where I usually eat, rescued me. He rushed me to the Bardia District Hospital. I had him call our admin staff, Prajesh Thakurathi, whose house was nearby. He, in turn, informed everyone concerned.

The very next day, my treatment commenced at B&B Hospital, followed by two months of strict bed rest.

In the evening, I was discharged from the hospital, but the pain in my leg did not subside. I sought approval from the central office’s operations director and supervisor, Raj Bhai Shakya, to travel to Kathmandu for further treatment. The next day, I booked a ticket for the 5 o’clock evening flight with Yeti Airlines.

Because the flood had devastated the project, we were right in the middle of re-implementing most of our library programs. There was an intense squeeze of work. On the day of my departure to Kathmandu, while sorting through piles of documents and signing numerous check pages, I fell a bit behind schedule for the airport. Once again, I couldn’t find the time to eat. Skipping lunch entirely, I boarded a reserved vehicle. However, upon reaching Mainapokhari along the way, a police post intercepted and detained the Scorpio I was traveling in. An unforeseen trouble had befallen us: that vehicle had violated traffic rules the previous day. The driver, Ali Khan, panicked. After some frantic coordination with the vehicle owner, the police finally released the vehicle, but by the time I reached the airport, the plane had already taken off. Along with the plane, my ticket money had also vanished into thin air.

The final flight of the day belonged to Buddha Air, and its seats were completely packed. After much pleading and upon seeing my medical condition, a compassionate passenger kindly gave up his own seat for me. Paying the flight expense all over again, I finally managed to fly out that evening.

The very next day, my treatment commenced at B&B Hospital, followed by two months of strict bed rest. I handled my office work from home during that period. For one full year, I walked completely dependent on crutches.

With so many accidents occurring, my motorcycle had to face no less suffering. After being confined to a hospital bed for so long, I practically stopped giving the bike any more trouble.

The hardships endured during those days of motorcycle driving are not merely incidents to me; each single moment has settled deeply into my mind as an unforgettable memory. In the autumn of my life, these very accidents have become the bridge to remembering my colleagues. Wherever they may be and in whatever state, recalling these mishaps must surely bring a smile to their lips at least once. Even when companionship fades, after all, the only things that truly keep a person company are these memories.