The Scariest Thing I Did in India

An auto-rickshaw is basically a lawn-mower engine encased in a cut-rate gazebo. It’s a three-wheeler intended for short journeys, which is why my three friends and I had some trouble driving one from the top to the bottom of India, a country famous for its road fatalities. With only a month to make the journey, we soon abandoned our scenic route (the burning ghats, the Taj Mahal) and instead pointed south.

Joe Dunthorne

Wind whistled through our tuk-tuk’s open sides, so we wore all our clothes, thus also saving on luggage space. As we took turns driving, I discovered that, in high-stress situations, my right hand involuntarily gripped whatever it was holding. On a roller coaster, that would be the safety bar. On an auto-rickshaw, which has controls like a motorbike, it was the accelerator. If I was unnerved by cars driving on the wrong side of the road toward us, my right hand involuntarily revved. So when I most wanted to slow down, I sped up. That’s an important detail, as far as this story goes.

We’d been driving all day on a huge, unfinished motorway of unlighted, unmarked gravel. As daylight faded, we learned that a single light approaching us could sometimes represent two highly decorated trucks, side by side, sharing one headlight. We promised ourselves we would not drive at night, and we pulled off the motorway when we saw, on the far side of the road, the word HOTEL in large capitals.

This was the province of Bihar. The Lonely Planet guide, which usually tries to put a positive spin on things, said Bihar’s “frequent kidnappings, murders and acts of banditry” ensure that “few travelers spend much time here.” But we were hungry and tired. All we had to do was cross the traffic, potholes and mist, and then we could sleep. While waiting for a gap between trucks, I let the nose of our auto-rickshaw peek out into the motorway. As the vehicles rattled past, I started to get nervous. As I got nervous, I gripped the handlebars, and as I gripped them, I involuntarily revved and we moved out a little more.

A huge red 16-wheeler hurtled toward us in the near lane, blowing its air horn and flashing its lights. We were too far out. We knew this. But my right hand was not under my control. My right hand wanted me killed. I put my foot on the brake to stop us from going any farther. It was a battle between foot and hand, between my conscious and unconscious minds.

In my head, I saw the rickshaw bunny-hop out, saw the truck hit us at full speed, the sparks as our frame collapsed, our bodies sucked under rows of wheels, blood pooling in the potholes. I saw us all lying dead in the road. And yet I could still hear my friends screaming my name. It came to me slowly that our rickshaw had not moved. The truck had passed, still blasting its air horn. My friends were in the back seat, terrified but alive. My foot had defeated my hand.

In India, as we would come to learn, “hotel” is a catchall term that can include truck stops, car parks and sometimes nothing at all â€" just a sign that reads HOTEL. When we finally made it across the highway, we discovered that our hotel was a cafe.

Sitting down at a table, I immediately started to cry. It was a full-blown body-shaker, blubbering into the shoulder of a friend whom I had just almost killed. The cafe owner came over.

“Are you open all night” I asked.

“Yes, all night,” he said.

“Are you 24 hours”

“Yes, 24 hours.”

I thanked him profusely, then told my friends that I could never get back in the rickshaw, that I was going to fly home on the next plane. The cafe owner brought us sweet tea, puri, pakora. My friend, whose mother is a homeopath, got out a little felt-lined box. He opened it to reveal a dozen vials, each filled with tiny pills. He shook three white pellets into my palm and said, “These are for the fear of death.”

I took them, along with the tea and snacks. I don’t know which of those cures did the heavy lifting, but I started to feel better. There was a possibility that, after a little sleep, I just might be ready to face traveling again. Ten minutes later, the cafe owner came to tell us they were closing.

“But you said you’re open 24 hours,” I said.

“Yes, 24 hours,” he said, with a head wobble. “We close now.”

A few minutes later, we were back on the highway, heading south.

Joe Dunthorne is the author, most recently, of “Wild Abandon,” a novel.

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A version of this article appeared in print on February 24, 2013, on page MM66 of the Sunday Magazine with the headline: The Scariest Thing I Did in India.