I stare outside the public bus window, grocery shops running past me, and pedestrians walking, everyone with a different destination to reach. But most often, my eyes go on the two-wheelers. The bike riders swiftly change the gear as the traffic jam approaches. And the electric scooters barely make any noise compared to the fuel ones. The bus conductor comes to collect our fare as I reach for my student ID card from the bag. I get off at the bus stop but must walk at least five minutes before reaching my destination. “It’s a good thing to walk,” I convince myself each time, yet it always bothers me.

After a busy day, I catch a bus back and settle down with my earphones in. Music has always been my escape from the world. At the next stop, a man in his 50s climbs the bus and sits on the empty seat beside me. I try not to care, but I feel squished. He even covers a bit of my seat but doesn’t feel bothered. He doesn’t care. But my mind, which was humming the lyrics to my favourite song just a moment ago, now feels discomfort. My mouth opens to speak, but the voice gets stuck in my throat.

“It’s just a matter of time. Arguing will just lead to making a mountain out of a molehill,” I convince myself and sit tight. I can feel his flabby large arms against mine and the putrid smell of his sweat covering the air around me. But I let it go. His legs take up a lot of space. But I let it go. I don’t need a mirror to know my face is frowning. After a while, he reaches for his pocket. I endure the uneasiness but also feel relieved after seeing money clamped in his hand. He stands up and gets off. And suddenly, my brain realises I am listening to a song. I snap back to reality.

I reach home. “Aama, I’m back,” I call out to my grandma who is preparing lunch in the kitchen. Then I head towards my cosy room and, as always, end up staring at the green clear bag on my brown study table. It has all the essential documents: my citizenship, passport, national ID, PAN card, and driver’s license. I reminisce about being happy and bawling my eyes out, calling my mother on the phone after passing the bike trial on my first try. Very few females were up for category-A licenses, which made me sad. But I passed the test and it was one of the happiest moments of my life.

The trial centre is far from home, so I had to take a Pathao in the morning. Funny how I felt as uncomfortable on the bike as in the bus, sitting beside a complete stranger, paying more amount of money to buy myself more time. Returning home took longer. I regretted getting on that specific bus the moment it started moving. Why did it have to stop in every next stop for more than 5 minutes? The worst part was seeing the conductor light up a cigarette outside and acting all nonchalant and the driver cranking up songs in the speaker in full volume as we waited, and waited. The old woman sitting beside me was even more frustrated and started blabbering to me about how she was so ready to get off the bus that instant. The driver heard her, as she had clearly intended to, and restarted the engine.

Finally, I got off at Narayan Gopal Chowk to buy some sweets. Four laddos for home and four to drop off at the driving centre, where I learned the bike. Those ten days of daily practice and the emotional encouragement they provided me had paid off. They were so happy, and I felt proud.

Initially, when filling out the online form in haste, I misread the categories and accidentally registered for the bike trial instead of the scooter trial. I didn’t notice until the officer casually mentioned it while taking my photo at the Transport Management Office. I was delighted, surprisingly. Fast forward a few days, and I was back there again, this time to pay the license fee.

We have a bike in our home. It’s old and heavy. My parents are hesitant to let me ride it, even I am too. It requires several attempts to start and takes longer to warm up in cold conditions. One chilly morning, I decided to ride it around the whereabouts of my home. As I rode uphill on a gentle slope, the engine suddenly stalled. Unable to handle the bike’s weight, I let it fall to its side. I got off, my face burning red. Luckily, a stranger in his 30s helped me pick it up. “What are you even doing with this heavy bike? Young girls are better off riding a scooter,” he said, struggling to restart the bike. I was blank and hurt. Maybe he was right.

“Can you even ride it back home?” he asked. “I can,” I replied and slowly took off. Bad luck struck. The bike stalled again, this time downhill. Seriously? I kicked it for 10 minutes, but it wouldn’t start. So, I parked it at the side and called my dad. He came after some time and I told him how it fell, my voice stuttering. He said not to worry, and we tried our best to make it start. But it just wouldn’t start. After many failed attempts, we pushed the motorcycle till we got home. It turns out that it needed some serious servicing. Have I driven it since then? No.

I’ve always longed to be an independent rider. The freedom of travelling to any place on your own feels too good. I recall leaving my guitar lesson after two days of attending, as it took nearly an hour to reach the bus stop.

It has been a long time since I buried my desires to learn to swim at a swimming centre far from my home, to travel to new places away from the city, to pick up my sister from school just for fun, to take a quick ride on a random Saturday to get fruits from the best vendor a bit further away, to pursue an internship in an office I really wanted. However, I encounter difficulties with public transport and navigating the city while adhering to traffic regulations and having a good time.

I understand buying a new two-wheeler is a big financial investment for a middle-class family like ours, so I prefer not to bring it up. But this is just another motivation for me to work hard and endure it all. I love travelling, but it sucks not having the freedom to go wherever I want, whenever I want to, without experiencing some kind of unwanted uneasiness. Looking out the window of a public vehicle, I despise everyone riding freely. Maybe soon, I’ll wear the helmet and shift gears.