The slot that never opens

The alarm on my clock is set at 7:30 a.m. sharp for the past year, and I honour it every time. It’s a struggle though, as my thoughts rarely let me sleep before midnight. Every morning I remind myself of the goal: persist and succeed. I even sleep on the floor now, just to make it easier to leave what used to be my warm bed during my golden hours of sleep.

I take a quick cold shower, gulp a 10 gram shot of black coffee, and make sure my mind is sharp enough to read the codes properly. By 7:55 a.m., I’m at my desk staring at the desktop screen.

You might think I’m developing a revolutionary mobile app, writing code, or mining cryptocurrency. Stay with me—I promise the purpose of this pursuit won’t disappoint you.

You can guess how important it is: I’ve pasted a quote by Winston Churchill on my desk—“Success is not final, failure is not fatal; it’s the courage to continue that counts.” I’ve failed every day for months, yet each morning I wake up with the same excitement and fresh hope that this might be the day I succeed.

I fill in all the details and re-enter the captcha five or six times with trembling hands until I get it right—only to see the same message in bold red letters: “Slots are not available for the next 60 days.” The message no longer surprises me. I’ve grown used to it, even developed a strange connection with it. It flashes in my mind at random times in the same red letters, both scaring and preparing me for the next morning.

I’ve invested so much time in this pursuit that I can’t abandon it, even though I used to lecture my friends about the sunk cost fallacy when they were trapped in similar situations.

By now, if you live on the same planet as I do, you’ve surely guessed the slot I’m after—the driving-test slot for my driver’s licence. I swear I can drive as well as any licensed driver. I’ve been driving for seven years and even learned at a driving school in Delhi.

The other day, I had an emergency—a last-minute call to attend an acquaintance’s last rites. I had to take out the car to reach on time. I didn’t encounter any traffic police, but I did sweat a few times and my feet trembled at least seven—every time I saw someone in a blue shirt or sweater, or even a blue drum once.

Had I needed to travel far, I might’ve had a heart attack from the sheer frequency of the colour blue—the colour of our traffic police uniforms. For a moment that day, my chest tightened so hard I thought it was actually happening. What a shame it would have been.

Now you see what’s at stake. Perhaps you understand my pursuit of booking that driving-test slot. Once, a traffic cop waved at me and I nearly fainted. He only wanted to say hi—it was a friend. But for a second, I wished I could disappear.

It’s 2 a.m. now. Given my morning routine, you might expect me to sleep. But I doubt I will; this pursuit has taken over my mind. It’s clouded every other ambition. My books gather dust, dumbbells wait by the mirror, my hair-care routine is wrecked. I’ve even stopped thinking about which car to buy.

All I think about is that slot—as if it’s the key to a jackpot or a ticket to heaven.

No, I won’t sleep tonight. I’ll write my ordeal to the concerned minister and the RTOs—they’ll surely understand my pain. But the other side of my brain says, What a fool you are. Do you really think they have time to read this trash? It won’t even reach their desk.

Then I remember a man in Indonesia who couldn’t sleep one night when a meteorite crashed through his roof. It turned out to be a rare mineral rock, and he became a millionaire. If that can happen, why can’t my note reach their desk?

My small brain whispers this problem can be solved. Maybe the officers are busy with bigger issues, or simply unaware of people like me being on such a pursuit. Once they read my plea, that red-letter message—“Slots are not available for the next 60 days”—will vanish.

To be honest, this pursuit has become my comfort zone. Some part of me doesn’t want it to end; I’ll have to start another pursuit with a new routine. Maybe the one where the bank debited ₹1,000 a month ago but never refunded it. I called customer care twice; they promised it soon. A month has passed. I don’t want to open a second front.

I guess I’ll take a nap. Let the pursuit never end-after all, what would I chase if it did?

Jahangeer Ahmad Lone has studied at AMU and JNU. He is from Trehgam, Kupwara, North Kashmir.