Now don’t be fooled by the name. This “Tesla” isn’t your sleek American EV. No sir. This is a glorified tin can with wheels, duct tape, fairy lights, and a steering handle made of bent pipe. The roof looks like it was borrowed from a village tea stall and the seat feels like punishment furniture from a medieval dungeon. But don’t worry—once the engine starts, it all fades into a thrilling whirl of noise and speed.

You see, when these rickshaws start up, they don’t make a regular motor sound. They scream. They growl. They sound like a goat being electrocuted on a rollercoaster: “Grrrreeeechhh-Tang-Tang-Graaahhh!” People on the sidewalk jump aside. Nearby cars slow down in fear. Even the crows fly away in confusion.

And don’t even think about asking the driver to slow down. Tell him “Brother, could you go a bit slower?” and he’ll look at you like you just insulted his religion. “Why? Battery is new, road is clear, and Allah is with us!” he’ll reply, as the rickshaw zips past traffic, narrowly missing a vegetable seller, two dogs, and a minor earthquake.

Inside the rickshaw, passengers sit gripping whatever they can—bars, window frames, sometimes even each other. One ride feels like a blend of bungee jumping and a religious pilgrimage. Many passengers have claimed they saw their childhood, exes, and their ancestors flash before their eyes during a sharp turn.

These drivers? Legends in their own minds. One once told me proudly, “I used to work in aviation before this.” “Really?” I asked. “What did you do?” He smiled, “I used to fly paper planes. Now I fly people.”

And let’s talk about traffic laws—or rather, the lack of them. These rickshaws follow a unique set of cosmic rules: whoever honks loudest goes first. Overtaking from the left, right, top, or through people’s dreams? All valid. Traffic signals are seen as mere suggestions. Police officers give way to them out of pure self-preservation. You’ll hear the cop mumble, “I’ve got a family, I’m not stopping that thing.”

Accidents are so common, the rickshaws themselves come pre-dented. They treat collisions like high-fives. If two “Teslas” crash, the drivers come out blaming each other’s brakes or luck, sometimes quoting religious philosophy mid-fight.

And then there are the messages painted on the back of these vehicles: “Mom’s Prayer = Speed,” “No Brake No Problem,” and “Born to Fly (But Battery Low).”

Despite all this, these rickshaws have earned their place in the ecosystem of Dhaka. They’re cheap, fast, and provide the kind of thrill that even Six Flags can’t match. In fact, local doctors are now recommending one ride per week to improve blood circulation, increase prayer habits, and humble the ego.

So to those who believe Teslas only exist in America, come to Dhaka. Here, our Teslas may not be smart—but they’re supercharged with chaos, culture, and enough character to make Elon Musk cry.

When it comes to Dhaka’s roads, complaints are abundant, but Mirpur’s 60 Feet Road stand in a league of its own. This is not just a road—it’s an experience, a therapy session, and sometimes, even a revolution. Especially if you are seven to eight months pregnant, traveling on this road by rickshaw might make your trip to the hospital unnecessary altogether.

Mirpur’s 60 Feet Road is a unique combination of adventure, endurance, and unpredictability. Each pothole on this road doesn’t just shake your vehicle—it shakes your body, mind, and patience.

If a pregnant woman dares to take a rickshaw ride on this road, she may find herself skipping the hospital altogether. The first pothole is enough to trigger “natural” responses in the body. By the second pothole, she might feel, “Is it time already?” And by the third, it’s almost certain—delivery might just happen right here, for free!

Take, for instance, the story of a couple on their way to the hospital. The wife was heavily pregnant, and the husband took her on a rickshaw. The rickshaw hit the first pothole, and she shouted, “I think the baby is coming!” The husband, in a mix of humor and panic, responded, “Why go to the hospital? Looks like we’ll be parents right here on 60 Feet!”

Every single pothole on this road has a story to tell. Riding down the 60 Feet Road is not just a commute; it’s a journey filled with surprises. The first pothole makes you feel like life is testing your resilience. The second pushes you to your limits. By the third, you start questioning everything, including your decision to take this route.

It’s not just pregnant women who experience the thrill. A middle-aged man commuting to work by a van had all his documents fly off in different directions when the vehicle hit the first pothole. With a wry smile, he said, “This isn’t just a pothole; it’s a tornado!” To which a young passenger beside him quipped, “No, sir, this is our Mirpur way of life!”
This road isn’t just a path; it’s a metaphor for life. For everyone—from expectant mothers to school children—it offers a lesson in survival.

One schoolboy traveling on a bus screamed with excitement when the bus hit a giant pothole, saying, “It feels like a free-fall ride at an amusement park!” His friend replied, “If we get lost in the dust of this road during a school trip, it’ll probably make headlines!”

The residents of Mirpur have become so accustomed to the 60 Feet Road that they’ve developed a sense of humor about it. Locals often joke, “Before stepping on this road, memorize the number of your nearest hospital. And if you’re pregnant, just sit tight—it might all be over soon.”

Some even call it a “place of entertainment.” A resident remarked, “With so few amusement parks in Dhaka, Mirpur’s 60 Feet Road remind us that laughter doesn’t cost a dime.”

Scientists are beginning to see the 60 Feet Road as a potential research field. According to them, traveling on this road provides such a unique form of physical exercise that it could be labeled as “natural physiotherapy.” The road’s potholes stimulate every muscle in the body, leaving riders with a mix of pain and enlightenment.

What if the government declared Mirpur’s 60 Feet Road as a “Natural Delivery Zone”? It could revolutionize the healthcare system. Pregnant women could skip expensive hospital visits, and a few roadside clinics could cater to any emergencies. The potholes would do their job, and the clinics would handle the rest.

Mirpur’s 60 Feet Road is more than just a road; it’s a symbol of resilience, humor, and adaptability. The people of Mirpur embrace its challenges with smiles and stories.

If you ever travel down the 60 Feet Road, remember—it’s not just a route; it’s an adventure. For pregnant women, it’s a natural delivery ward. For everyone else, it’s a life lesson wrapped in bumps, dust, and laughter. Each pothole is more than a hole in the ground; it’s a story, a feeling, and a testament to the indomitable spirit of Mirpur’s residents.