There’s something about that drive from point A to point B that feels like an entire human lifetime.
They enter suddenly, with some haste in their eyes, say the address as if that’s the only thing that matters, and then – as the car glides through the night – they begin to be silent. Or to speak. And in that short distance, between departure and arrival, a whole destiny stops.
I often think that we are all passengers in someone’s invisible taxi. We got in without asking, got directions without explanation, and drove as far as we were told. Someone left too soon. Someone drives for a long time, tired and silent. And no one knows exactly when the engine will stop.
I got to know death through other people’s faces. In the sight of a man leaving the hospital, with a piece of paper in his hand and a silence that weighs more than words. In the trembling of an old woman returning from the cemetery, she asks me to drive her around the city one more time, just so she doesn’t immediately enter an empty house. In the young man who talks about his father in the past tense for the first time, and his voice does not yet know the grammar.
In a taxi, the passing of time is seen more clearly than anywhere else. People come in and out. The city lights up, then falls silent. The night turns into morning, and the morning turns into a new shift. Everything passes. And joy, and sadness, and fear, and pride. Only a memory remains – if there is someone to carry it.
And the meaning?
Maybe not in the length of the road, but in the way of driving. In listening to someone when his voice is difficult. Not to hasten someone else’s grief, or to charge for someone else’s pain more than you have to. To be quiet when needed, and present when needed.
Perhaps the point is not to arrive somewhere big and finally, but to be virtuous in the small distances that are given to us.
Because once the lights go out and the last ride is over, I don’t think anyone will ask how many kilometers we’ve covered. They will ask, perhaps, who we understood without words. Whose path we made easier, even if only for a short time.
And that, for one life, may be quite enough.
Nezasticeni svedok 2.
Postoji nešto u toj vožnji od tačke A do tačke B što liči na ceo jedan ljudski vek.
Uđu naglo, sa nekom žurbom u očima, kažu adresu kao da je to jedino važno, a onda – dok automobil klizi kroz noć – počnu da ćute. Ili da govore. I u toj kratkoj razdaljini, između polaska i dolaska, stane čitava jedna sudbina.
Često pomislim kako smo svi mi putnici u nečijem nevidljivom taksiju. Ušli smo bez pitanja, dobili pravac bez objašnjenja, i vozimo se dokle nam je određeno. Neko izađe prerano. Neko se vozi dugo, umoran i tih. A niko ne zna tačno kada će se zaustaviti motor.
Smrt sam upoznao kroz tuđa lica. U pogledu čoveka koji ide iz bolnice, sa papirićem u ruci i tišinom koja teži više od reči. U drhtaju starice koja se vraća sa groblja, pa traži da je provozam još jednim krugom oko grada, samo da ne uđe odmah u praznu kuću. U mladiću koji prvi put govori o ocu u prošlom vremenu, a još mu glas ne ume tu gramatiku.
U taksiju se prolaznost vidi jasnije nego igde. Ljudi ulaze i izlaze. Grad svetli, pa utihne. Noć pređe u jutro, a jutro u novu smenu. Sve prolazi. I radost, i tuga, i strah, i ponos. Ostane samo sećanje – ako ga ima ko nositi.
A smisao?
Možda nije u dužini puta, nego u načinu vožnje. U tome da nekoga saslušaš kad mu je glas težak. Da ne ubrzavaš tuđu tugu, niti da naplaćuješ nečiji bol više nego što moraš. Da budeš tih kad treba, i prisutan kad je potrebno.
Možda smisao nije u tome da stignemo negde veliko i konačno, nego da budemo čestiti u malim razdaljinama koje su nam date.
Jer, kad se svetla jednom ugase i kad se poslednja vožnja završi, ne verujem da će iko pitati koliko smo kilometara prešli. Pitaće, možda, koga smo bez reči razumeli. Kome smo, makar na kratko, olakšali put.
A to je, za jedan život, možda sasvim dovoljno.