Perils Of Urban Traffic

 Ajita Rijal

It was a typical bustling late afternoon in Kathmandu, and I was riding my scooter from office to home through the chaotic traffic. The constant noise of horns, the shouts of vendors, and the endless stream of vehicles made for a busy and familiar scene. Little did I know, my day was about to take a dramatic turn.

As I approached a busy intersection on the Ring Road, a motorcycle overtook me from the wrong side. The bike carried a pillion rider, holding a wide flat-screen TV, precariously perched on the back seat. As the motorbike overtook me, the TV swung and hit me, knocking me off my scooter. As I fell on the asphalt, I found my heart beating faster. I barely noticed the bruise on my right leg as I tried to understand what had happened.

My scooter lay on its side, petrol leaking on the ground. However, the pedestrians surrounded me, indifferent to my plight. They hurried past me, the drivers honked impatiently, and no passers-by stopped to offer help. It was a reminder of the apathetic nature of urban life.

As I tried to muster the strength to stand, I saw the Pathao driver — the same one whose pillion rider had struck me — rush to my side. His face was a mix of worry and guilt as he bent down to help me up. “Are you okay?” he asked.

I nodded, wincing as I tried to put weight on my bruised leg. Before we could exchange more words, a traffic police officer arrived at the scene. His stern expression suggested he had seen countless accidents like this one. He immediately asked for our documents; his tone was curt and detached. The Pathao driver and I provided a bluebook and license. The officer scrutinised them and then turned to me. “You need to get that leg checked,” he said, pointing to a nearby Metro Hospital. “Go now.”

The frustration was running within me. The real culprit, in my eyes, was the pillion rider and his ill-judged decision to transport such a large item in such an unsafe manner. Yet, there was no system in place to address this. There is no accountability and no clear delineation of fault.

I limped to the hospital, the Pathao driver following behind, still murmuring apologies. The traffic police officer remained at the scene, directing the ever-flowing river of vehicles. As I waited for my turn in the emergency room, I couldn’t help but reflect on the randomness of urban accidents. In a city where rules often seem optional and chaos reigns supreme, there’s no straightforward way to determine fault or seek recompense. 

The system, or lack thereof, left victims like me enduring not just physical pain but also a navigating labyrinth of bureaucratic hassles. Despite the minor nature of my injuries, the incident left a lasting impression—a distinct reminder of the fragility of order amid urban chaos. As I hobbled out of the hospital later that day, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the streets of Kathmandu had revealed yet another of their countless, unpredictable stories.