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"What you're about to hear from me is a contradiction. I already know it doesn't make sense—but the fact remains. You won't understand it, not yet. All I can ask is this: whatever I say next, hear it as if it's completely normal. Even if I tell you they were eating water… just accept it. Treat it as ordinary. As natural as drinking food. Okay?"
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20 years back....
There was a place where people gathered to travel from one village to another— a mini bus-box truck station.
The vehicle itself was a modified half-truck, the kind that started life as an ordinary pickup before someone transformed the cargo bed into a closed metal cabin. From a distance, it looked like a small, box-shaped transport van—squat and squared-off—with a flat roof and steel sides scarred by years of rough roads. Its paint, usually a tired white, dull grey, or faded blue, was chipped in places, revealing thin freckles of rust underneath.
The rear was a rectangular steel box built from welded panels and reinforced corners. Narrow window slits lined the sides, letting in thin strips of light but offering almost nothing to see from outside. The back door was a heavy metal gate that opened downward or swung to the side, its hinges groaning with a dry, metallic complaint each time it moved.
Inside felt like stepping into a dim, cramped chamber on wheels. Two long benches ran along the walls—simple wooden planks or metal bars wrapped in thin padding. Twelve passengers could sit inside: six on the left, six on the right, facing each other across a narrow aisle where their knees nearly touched. The floor was bare metal—scratched, dented, and constantly vibrating with the engine's low growl.
The air carried a blend of diesel fumes, warm metal, dust, and the ghosts of whatever cargo had been hauled earlier. Every bump made the steel walls shudder, the ceiling rattle, and the benches creak like the hull of an old ship fighting the tide.
From the front cabin came muffled engine noise mixed with faint traces of music, voices, or the clatter of tools—whatever managed to slip through the thin metal barrier. A thin breeze pushed through small gaps around the windows, carrying dust and the scent of the outside world.
Rough as it was, the truck had a kind of rugged charm. It felt stubborn, practical, built to survive terrain that would break softer machines. A sturdy metal room rolling through the world.
At the entrance, a narrow step jutted out—just enough for three people to stand on, clinging to anything they could grab, half hanging in the air, riding with their lives practically in their hands. Sometimes others would climb onto the roof of the box itself, sitting or crouching on top. Up there, it could carry another five to ten people.
All together, this half-truck could somehow hold up to twenty-five passengers—packed inside, hanging from the back, or perched on the roof. A crowded, rattling, impossible little world on wheels....
There were many types of transportation, each one tied to a different purpose. We already talked about the mini bus–box truck station—the place the locals simply called the parking. It was where every vehicle that went beyond the village stopped and waited. If you wanted to travel to another village, you looked for the box truck; if your destination was farther, you waited for the mini bus.
Inside the village, though, movement was a different story. Inside transportation was always on the move, scattered across dusty paths and crooked streets. There were three kinds:
First: the donkey cart.
A small wooden cart dragged behind a tired donkey, its two big wheels wobbling over the uneven road. The flat wooden bed—held together by rough-cut planks and stubborn nails—carried whatever needed to be hauled: crates, sacks, vegetables, a couple of people, or nothing at all. It creaked and clattered with every step, a simple machine of splintered wood and iron, personal more than rented, as if each cart belonged to its owner's daily rhythm.
Second: the tricycle truck.
A three-wheeled contraption with a motorcycle's front and a metal cargo box at the back. It moved with a harsh rattle, built for endurance rather than comfort, weaving its steel frame through narrow alleys and broken roads. Loud, steady, practical.
Third: the ordinary motorcycle.
The quickest option, but not the most common.
The donkey cart remained the village favorite. Sometimes the driver tied an extra rope to the edge of the cart, letting a cow or a buffalo pull alongside the donkey, all three animals trudging together under the sun.
And, of course, most villagers preferred to walk anyway. They drifted along the roads at their own pace, choosing their feet over wheels, which is why movement inside the village always seemed busy, crowded, and beautifully chaotic....
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There was a kid named David. He would take his allowance from his parents just to go to the parking—the place where all the vehicles waited before heading out. He loved choosing whatever was about to leave, getting in, waiting for it to fill, then riding to another village. And if he had enough money to go and come back, he would take the minibus just to see what the world looked like outside his own village.
He was so fascinated that this became his hobby. His eyes opened to things the villagers never noticed, though that's not important to tell you now.
One day, he spent the whole afternoon doing what he always did—going back and forth until he ran out of money. When he finally returned home, it was already late. He found his mother cleaning and tidying the house at an hour she never cleaned.
He asked her why she was doing that.
She said, "Maybe you'll have guests in the morning."
He laughed. "What guests, Mom?"
But she was right.
Guests did arrive in the morning.
They came with quiet voices, lowered eyes, and sad faces.
They came carrying condolences—
for his mother.