Ram Babu

A striking young man walked into my office. Tall, dark, wide-shoulders, narrow hips – he looked the perfect pilot.

“I am Rambo,” he said softly. He blushed shyly.
I looked at the cover of his logbook and read the name he had written. “Ram Bah Boo,” I said in my American accent.

“Yes, Rammaboo,” he pronounced. “I say ‘Rambo’ because most westerners can’t hear my name. He smiled, showing his perfect white teeth. I was enchanted.

Ram Babu made history when he became the first person to solo an aircraft in Nepal. By the time I arrived, he was ready to start the cross-country phase of his flying. We flew to the airport in Bhairawa, then back to Bharatpur with great success.

One day at the end of teaching, I was ready to go home. My driver was helping to fuel the airplane, so I would have to wait a few minutes. Ram Babu noticed the motorcycle at the back of the hangar that our boss lets us use.

“Take the bike,” he urged.

I thought back to the last time I had ridden a bike, and realized it was about 30 years ago.

“It’s OK,” he said, “You should take the bike.”

How hard can it be, I thought.

“Do you know how to ride,” I asked. He nodded.

I talked him into taking the bike to the student housing area, which was about half-way home, and I would ride on the back. At the student housing, I practiced on the bike in the courtyard.

“Which is the clutch?” I asked.
“This is the clutch and this is the brake,” he said.

I did a couple of donuts, then declared myself ready to go. I headed off for the main road and was on my way. I tried shifting gears, but was unsuccessful. I drove home in first gear.

That’s not as terrible as it might sound. Traffic here is slow, and no one thinks it odd if you are not speeding.

I made it home without incident, feeling good about my minor accomplishment. I need more practice, I realized, and promised myself to try this again.

Ten minutes later, Ram Babu appeared at my door.

“I was worried, ma’am,” he said. “I saw you go off in the wrong direction.” I had taken the long way home, but it was the only route I knew. He had borrowed another motorcycle and had followed my trail, fearing he would find me in a ditch or crashed on the road.

“No, I’m fine,” I said casually. “You taught me well. Now you can sign my logbook – dual instruction on a motorcycle.”