The Joys and Sorrows of Commuting in Kathmandu

In the hustle and bustle of Kathmandu's frenetic streets, one finds an unwritten rule: to roam freely, you must wield a trusty motorbike or scooter. The price of this liberty, however, is steep—a relentless exposure to the sun, rain, dust, and yes, the lung-choking toxic air. When the sun blazes in this Nepali metropolis, the roads are shrouded by a haze of dust and pollutants. And when the rain descends, the streets metamorphose into a chaotic quagmire, their potholes, and crevices concealed beneath the puddle of muddy sludge. Traffic jams? It is an equal opportunity torment. It grants its torment upon all, indiscriminately detaining the hapless travelers for hours on end.

If you dare to mount a bicycle, be it spurred by eco-consciousness, financial prudence, or sheer contrarian spirit, you are thrust into the role of a modern-day Don Quixote minus his steed and a golden helmet. Venturing into these roads on a bicycle demands not just courage but an acrobatic prowess. You need dexterity to dodge the relentless two-wheelers, three-wheelers, and the omnipresent four-wheelers that go hurtling even at the intersections. Yielding? Expect not.

Like anywhere else, owning a car—or having the luxury of an SUV—is a matter of privilege in Kathmandu. Only ultra-rich can afford a four-wheeler no matter what shape and size it comes in. It serves as an ostentatious symbol of the owners' elevated social status. For them, the road is their dominion, a kingdom paved with entitlement. They can go honking at the pedestrians at their whim.

But for those outside these categories, the mass of ordinary folks, the humble bhuimaanchhe of Nepali parlance, dependent on public transportation, commuting is a rollercoaster of emotions. You love it, you loathe it, but you can't escape it. In the rush hours, you become one with the crowd, hopping on and off with the ebb and flow of urban life.

As your day draws to a close, you make a mad dash to the station, darting through traffic that has, if at all, little regard for pedestrian rights. The stripes of zebra crossings have faded into obscurity, and traffic lights, if they exist at all, stand dysfunctional. In these moments, you surrender your fate to the wisdom and temperance of those gripping the steering wheels.

In the unwritten hierarchy of road users, you know your place well. If you had been granted equal rights as a pedestrian, you would have strolled upon wider pavements, traversed underpasses, and ascended to overhead bridges for safer passage. The reality, however, is that the road is meant to serve the needs of motorized vehicles—a privilege to the privileged folks. If a speeding vehicle drenches you in road sludge, blame no one but your own carelessness.

Crossing busy roads, you sometimes retreat in haste to evade imminent collisions. Words like, "Hey, you ain't got no eyes!" or "Are you looking for death?" may be flung your way. Fortunately, such episodes are rare. When a wheezing motor decelerates to offer you safe passage, you remind yourself that humanity has not ceased throbbing in this seemingly indifferent world.

Arriving at the station, you find a multitude of fellow travelers impatiently awaiting their rids of buses, microbuses, or three-wheel tempos. You walk around to claim a spot on the pavement amidst the crowd and wait. Your ride may arrive in the next minute or the next hour. There is no knowing. The station is not a station in a proper sense: there is nothing to protect you from the elements or offer you respite after a long day. It is only a desolate open area strewn with litter and filled with cacophonies men and machines make. Here countless collective hours are squandered in impatience and resentment. When you put your owes into perspective, you come to realize that had you owned a private vehicle, you would not have had the opportunity to have a 360-degree view of the colorful urban life and be a part of collective sentiment.

The torrential monsoon downpour has made your journeys even more precarious. Holding fast to your umbrella is a balancing act in the crowd. Despite your maneuvers, you get partially drenched anyway. From the sky, the display of myriads of colorful umbrellas would make a picturesque view. Soon, uncomfortable dampness creeps into your shoes and you feel an itchy sensation on your feet. You remember walking barefoot on rain-soaked soft earth when you were a child. You remember the opaque view of eucalyptus trees swaying in the rain. Life was like that before the harsher realities of life began twisting your arms.

You know that once aboard the bus, your glasses will need to come off; they are far too precious to risk breaking in the cramped quarters. Besides, the dampness that builds inside will make them foggy. Yet, your inconvenience pales in comparison when you spot a blind traveler beside you. He has navigated the world with a cane in one hand, an umbrella in the other, and a cross-shoulder bag slung over his back. His resilience in a world that affords no convenience and comfort to the disabled humbles you.

When the bus finally arrives, you suddenly go into sprint mode. You cannot waste another hour waiting for the next bus to show up. The system compels you to momentarily shed your civility and decorum. You elbow your way through the crowd to the door. If you cannot get a seat, you know what ordeal awaits you: standing in the tight crowd in the narrow aisle, your back bent and your legs twisted. Your backpack has to find its place somewhere.

Inside the bus—it is a rickety thing from the erstwhile era—the corners of its seat recliners are tattered and the air is dank and oppressive. The windows are slid shut to avoid the blowing rain. You feel claustrophobic. You stand contorted and begin sweating. You feel the sensation of sweat streaking down your back. Your slippery hands clutch at poles. The crowd sways with every swerve of the bus, and you strive not to tumble onto a seated commuter. Holding the weight is a herculean task—a responsibility the moment has entrusted you with.

"Hey, uncle, how many times do I have to ask you to move back?" cries the bus conductor.

"No space, Bhai," you retort. "I'm barely managing to stand."

"No space?" he bellows. "We can still make room for ten more people."

"Stuffing like gundruk?" somebody in the crowd shouts.

"This is the luxury of metro and monorail our politicians promised in the last election," quips a college boy behind you and the crowd bursts into laughter.

At the next stop, two more souls join the ride. As passengers shift and shuffle for adjustment, it unleashes a flurry of discomfort.

"Ouch, my leg! It's fallen asleep," giggles a young woman in the crowd.

"Ke garne, sabailai ghar pugnai paryo," offers another woman in consolation.

Nepalese possess a unique tenacity, a knack for accepting discomfort with a resigned ke garne (what else can one do), no matter how discomfiting it may be, all seasoned with a dash of humor and wisdom.

As a pedestrian and a commuter, you have witnessed and endured even more trying circumstances: accidents, thefts, scuffles, skirmishes, and exchange of verbal slings. It is not uncommon for young individuals, who can tolerate the discomfort of standing, to occupy the seats reserved for the elderly and people with disabilities. Once seated, these occupants do not easily vacate their seats. On the whole, however, you would still say that Nepalese travelers prefer enduring dire discomforts with humor and humility than resorting to confrontation.

With your commuting experiences, you have also become painfully aware that women, in particular, face a humiliating reality when traveling in crowded public vehicles. They endure harassment of groping, leering, winking, and suggestive comments. As a man, you feel a sense of shame for the perverts. You fear even your inadvertent movement in the crowd might cause discomfort or be misconstrued.

"Why don't you take a taxi if you're so sensitive to touches on public transport?" a middle-aged man snaps to a young lady. "I can't control the jolts of the bus, can I?"

The man is subsequently vilified by the lady and her friends, and he maintains a subdued demeanor with his head lowered for the remainder of the journey. The man disembarks at the next stop. In their ensuing triumphant talks, the girls draw a conclusion that the man must be guilty. Why else would he have gone mute? In fact, it was his knee-jerk response that had fueled the fire in the first place.

As a traveler, you have amassed fragments of conversations you overhear. They form and reflect a mosaic of your society's collective sentiments. Through these journeys, you feel reconnected to your community on the move, the only shared space urban life offers between the private and professional spheres. Loneliness ebbs as you board a bus. You share a sense of affinity with your fellow travelers. Similar circumstances and life experiences connect you with others.

When the bus is not crammed to the brim, it resonates with lively conversations. You catch a native tongue or dialect and try to decipher its ethnic origin in Nepal. Different Nepali accents provoke curiosity about their regional origins. You are keenly aware of the shifting cultural landscape. Things you have taken for granted today become a part of history tomorrow.

Not too long ago, initiating conversations was a necessity during bus rides. Seemingly trivial exchanges would often culminate into passionate debates. People discovered a common ground—a shared ancestral village, a mutual acquaintance, a political viewpoint—forging fleeting connections.

Yet, the intrusion of electronic devices has altered this landscape. Passengers now retreat into their insular worlds, cocooned in the familiar comfort zones of social networks. The younger generation has little patience for "pointless" conversations. Gone are the days of inquiring about each other's pahadghars (ancestral homes) or thars (last names). A bus ride offers ample time to consume a number of songs, watch TikTok videos, or chat with friends somewhere else. You observe a gradual shift in your culture's tectonic plates.

In the drowsy hum of the evening, you drift off into a momentary trance (given that you have the luxury of a seat). The bus's rhythmic swaying on uneven roads and the backdrop of folk duets transport you to a distant world. You marvel at the magical power of a brief lucid slumber. Sometimes, you wish you could embark on an endless journey just like that.

Your country harbors many unexplored places, many vaunted spots on your wishlist. You have secretly yearned to retire in a remote hillside village and live a simple village life rooted in nature as your ancestors had done for generations. Occasionally, you catch yourself daydreaming of an alternative existence, far from Kathmandu's frenzied whirl.

Commuting on the bus daily, you've become well-acquainted with the season's hit songs, often traditional-style folk duets that mirror your society's cultural heartbeat. Some songs captivate you instantly, and you find yourself replaying them in your mind. Yet, others make you squeamish with their raw misogyny. How can a civilized society normalize and expect you to internalize such clichéd gender objectification? What right do the drivers have to impose their musical tastes on passengers? Strangely, one person's music is another's torment.

You often wonder how many books you could have devoured if you had cultivated the habit of reading during your travels. In a society where reading appears a solitary pursuit, you hesitate to stand out as an eccentric. "Manga in the metro" is an outlandish idea in your context. Yet, you cannot help but envision a well-furnished bus stop shelter with a book vending machine that offers a repertoire of used books. Though you have rarely seen fellow commuters engrossed in books, you cannot help but fantasize about journeys where collective hours are devoted to acquiring and disseminating knowledge. If only there were such a reading culture! If only so many collective empty hours could be filled with a creative pursuit.

It bewilders you that in a world celebrating advanced mass transit, the dream of a respectable journey, free from dehumanizing encounters, remains a remote and unattainable ideal in your context. The gleaming new bus park in Gongabu, a gift from Japan to your nation, once dazzled you, but it did not take long for it to convert into a run-down bus park with local color.

You've heard tales of influential lobbyists from the automobile industry thwarting public transport expansion projects, particularly railways, in the United States. The car culture has overtaken the bicycle city of Peking, transforming it into the car city of Beijing in mere decades. In every society, cars have become status symbols, their visibility, portability, and convenience unmatched by any other modern invention. You envy the Dutch for their cyclist-friendly culture and infrastructure and you envy the Singaporeans and Japanese for their integrated public transport systems. Just a pipedream for you.

In a world where profit trumps all, including environmental concerns, investing in the public good becomes a futile enterprise. Why would politicians and policymakers bother about the crumbling public transport system when they can amass staggering tax revenues from imported cars? They have the luxury of traveling in exorbitantly priced vehicles while commoners reminisce the days when spacious trolleybuses, a gift from China, once graced Kathmandu's open roads.

The night begins falling and Kathmandu unfurls its multi-colored bright glow. From your bus window, you witness traffic police battling to tame the congestion that holds you captive. Soaked in rain, they dart about, whistles blaring, orchestrating the vehicular symphony. You wish you could convey your gratitude to the diligent officer. You wish the entire system were equally dependable.

Gradually, your bus inches forward, and you tap your feet to the season's chart-topping duet, "Dhangadhiko Busma ". There are many facets of public transport that you will miss, should you ever choose to forsake it.