In the quaint village of Ravangla, beneath the watchful gaze of the Himalayas, lived Agya Nyima (name changed), whose roots lay in Walung, a remote hamlet in Nepal so secluded that roads were strangers to its landscape. In Walung, life marched to the rhythm of traditional looms weaving carpets, the steady tread of yaks and Dzo, and the humble toil of farming hands. Elders, with faces as weathered as the mountain trails, sustained their days on modest stipends, reflecting a community where time seemed to idle.
Agya Nyima, with aspirations larger than the valleys of his youth, had migrated to Ravangla, driven by tales of a world beyond the rugged peaks. Here, he found his calling behind the wheel of a taxi, an honorable profession for a man from such humble beginnings. Though his fingers never danced on the pages of a book, they gripped the steering wheel with the confidence of a seasoned scholar. Driving through the twists and turns of Ravangla, he never ventured beyond the familiar whispers of his adopted home, until the day he resolved to challenge the city’s roar.
One day Nyima embarked on an adventurous journey – his very first drive from the serenity of Ravangla to the bustling city of Siliguri in West Bengal. The transition was startling.Venturing to Siliguri was not merely a drive; it was a rite of passage, a test of mettle for the drivers of Ravangla. The day Nyima set forth on this journey marked a turning point, a venture into the unknown, much like his ancestors who navigated the untamed wilderness of the highlands.
The city greeted him with a wall of sound and motion, an orchestra of urban existence so alien to his senses. The throngs of people, the cacophony of car horns, and the never-ending stream of activities both excited and unnerved him. He had never navigated through such a chaotic symphony before.
In an amusing turn of events, as Nyima was absorbing the overwhelming sights and sounds, a police officer signalled him to halt. Innocent and unversed in city ways, Nyima mistook this as a friendly gesture, responding with a cheerful wave. Imagine his surprise when the officer, less amused, rapped a bamboo stick against the back of his taxi!
Fuming, Nyima jumped out, ready for confrontation. The officer calmly explained the issue was simply that Nyima wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. Indignant, Nyima insisted he was, convinced of his innocence. The argument heated up, drawing a curious crowd and necessitating the presence of a higher-ranking officer.
As the supervisor approached, Nyima, red with anger, vehemently defended himself, declaring his unwavering commitment to safety. “I always wear my belt! And what I wear is none of your business!” he argued. To emphasize his point and in a moment of sheer frustration, Nyima unbuckled his pant belt, yanked it off, and brandished it in the air. “Here’s my belt! You can keep it!” he exclaimed.
The absurdity of the situation struck everyone. The crowd, along with the officers, erupted in laughter. One of the officers, between chuckles, guided Nyima back to his car, gently explaining the difference between a pant belt and a car’s seatbelt. This simple lesson in road safety, wrapped in a humorous misunderstanding, became a tale that Nyima would laughingly share for years to come.