“Look, a lady driver!”: When grit meets the street

KATHMANDU, July 4: On Kathmandu’s crowded, chaotic roads, where taxis linger for passengers and buses choke with bodies, a different kind of commute whirs between lanes, cutting through gridlock with remarkable agility. These are Nepal’s two-wheelers— nimble, visible, and affordable.

And at the heart of this movement are the riders—many of them women—who navigate the city’s chaos not just for convenience, but out of necessity.

Among them are Saraswaty, 49, and Ruth, 38— two women for whom motorcycles are not just modes of transport but mobile battlefields for survival, dignity, and financial autonomy.

“I never imagined I’d be a ride-sharing driver,” says Saraswaty, glancing down the stretch of traffic with the ease of someone who’s tamed it. “But when my husband became chronically ill, I had no choice. He told me it’s not safe to do this job as a woman. But my daughter encouraged me— ‘Mom, there’s nothing wrong with it.’ And here I am.”

Her transition into Kathmandu’s gig economy was not smooth. With no background in tech-based transport or service, she relied on instinct, her daughter’s support, and a sense of duty to keep the household running. “There are days when I spend hours on the road and still return home with aching bones and just enough to buy medicines.”

Unlike taxis, two-wheelers aren’t bound by traffic or tight roads. They dart through Kathmandu’s ever-under-construction arteries. “We reach faster, that’s why customers prefer us,” Ruth says. “But that speed doesn’t always translate into income or safety.”

For Ruth, who had been in the ride-sharing world for four years and holds a license for over a decade, the entry into this profession was not a career choice but a pivot — from dreams of migrating abroad to riding Kathmandu’s roads. “I couldn’t clear the medical exam for overseas work. I had a license. My brother had worked in Tootle and Pathao. I started with delivery work. But soon after, InDrive launched, and I became their first female rider. I transitioned to working at different apps since then.”

Most female drivers enter the sector not out of preference, but necessity. From paying off loans to covering family medical bills, the stakes are high. And yet, they’re met with daily challenges, from unsafe working conditions to the absence of restrooms.

“I’ve had moments stuck in traffic with nowhere to relieve myself,” Saraswaty admits. “These are things men don’t think twice about. For us, it’s part of the job.”

The dangers have come in more direct and harrowing forms. Ruth recounts an incident when a male passenger groped her repeatedly during a ride. “I warned him, but he kept doing it. At the destination he apologized for his misbehavior, then he changed his drop point and offered to pay the additional fees. I agreed. But after the ride, he refused to pay and publicly accused me of being a woman of low character— said I was a dancer in a bar.”

Ruth trembled with rage and anxiety, eventually calling for help from her WhatsApp group of fellow female riders. “Even after the police intervened, the man threatened me, saying he’d kill me and that he had political connections. He got two nights in jail. I got trauma for life.” There was no formal support from the authorities at that time.

“We were often stopped by police—sometimes with cause, sometimes without. The police could be harsh, asking, ‘Have you any idea what you’ve done?’ But things have improved. Now, they address us politely, while asking for our documents, ‘Sir/Ma’am, where are you from?’ These small changes show our voices are being heard,” recalls Ruth.

“They explain rules using examples from movies and everyday life, not just technical terms. It’s easier to understand that way. We clear one step and then move to the next. Before, it was confusing — now it feels like learning is actually for us”, shares Saraswaty with a smile for the little changes over time.

Both women acknowledge that ride-sharing has given them a rare opportunity— economic independence and social visibility. But it comes at a cost. “People think we’re making a lot. But we work 15 hours a day,” says Ruth. “Four years ago, I’d make up to Rs 3,000 on a good day. Now I’m lucky if I make Rs 1,200.”

“Sometimes apps advertise bonuses, insurance, or support,” she adds, “But the reality is different.” Ruth recalls the story of a rider from Kalanki who died in an accident in the past. “There was no compensation, no life insurance.”

There’s also a growing concern about falling earnings due to the competitive undercutting between ride-sharing apps. Fuel, mobile data, and maintenance come from their own pockets. The need for standardized rates is essential.

“We feel as if we’re being squeezed. These companies lower ride prices to get more users, but our costs stay the same,” says Ruth. “We’re owners of our motorbikes, but the apps control everything else.”

Although some platforms have made efforts to improve rider safety, such as training programs and emergency buttons, enforcement remains inconsistent. For many women drivers, peer support networks have become their primary line of defense. Their WhatsApp group serves as a lifeline — a place to report harassment, coordinate in emergencies, or just vent after a difficult day.

“There is still no system to flag abusive customers across platforms,” says Ruth. “Even if someone is blacklisted on one app, they can just switch to another.”

Some recent developments — like real-time GPS tracking and SOS features — are positive, but according to drivers, real accountability is rare. “We don’t want digital bonuses. We want cash we can use. We want real-time accident response, insurance, and a standardized fare rate,” she adds.

Saraswaty juggles caregiving at home with her long days on the road. “My husband’s medicines are expensive. I can’t afford to stop working. But it gets lonely and exhausting.”

Despite their weariness, both women take pride in their work. “Some kids tell their mothers — ‘Look, a lady driver! I want to be like her,’” Ruth says with a smile. “But not everyone is kind. Once, a lady spoke sweetly to me during a ride. When I got home, I realized my money was gone. She’d blocked my number.”

Long before any ride-sharing apps existed, Ruth talks about the helpful acts by two-wheeler drivers. “During the quake, I gave rides to students and strangers. We didn’t have apps. We had our hearts,” Ruth remembers.

Ride-sharing in Nepal is changing how people move, especially in Kathmandu. Now, it’s officially recognized by the government as a key service. Initiatives have been taken by apps to offer toll-free numbers for calling a ride in absence of internet connectivity.

Safety and trust are becoming the new priorities. Amir Lama, Sajilo’s CEO, says, “It’s a mission for us to make ride sharing app secure on both ends- for customers and drivers.”

Sajilo, a Nepal-based ride-hailing app, currently has around 80 active female two-wheeler drivers — a growing but still limited number. Apps like Pathao and InDrive also employ female drivers, gradually opening up more space for women in the gig economy.

Today, ride-sharing in Nepal is still a male-dominated industry. Bachchan, a resident of Kathmandu, says, “It was the first time in 40 years that I saw a female rider.” That unfamiliarity is part of the problem. Women riders are still met with surprise — and sometimes suspicion.

“We don’t want just pity or praise,” says Ruth. “We drive with our passion for the job. We want policies. Implementation. Respect.”

Until then, these women will continue to ride against all odds — for their families, for themselves, and for a future where a female driver is not a novelty, but a norm.