Long queues, empty pockets: Ride-sharing bikers bear the brunt of war-time fuel shortages

On a humid afternoon in the Matsya Bhaban area, the queue curls around the Ramna petrol pump like a restless serpent. Motorbikes stand in a tight line, engines off, riders slumped in resignation. Some scroll through their phones; others stare blankly ahead. Every few minutes, the line inches forward, just enough to keep hope alive, not enough to ease the frustration.

Most of them have heard or seen online that this petrol pump is giving fuel in regular intervals. So, they flocked to this place. So much has the crowd grown that this morning, the prime minister's motorcade could not move through the road. 

Fighting and bickering have become common. This morning, angry bikers beat one of the pump workers. The same happened the day before. The pump owner is monitoring everything, standing on the ground with a walkie-talkie. The air felt tense. 

I strolled to Kakrail Road, where a seemingly endless line of motorbikes stretched as far as the eye could see. 

"I have small children at home, and this is my only income. I've never felt this uncertain before," Mohammad Alamgir.

And one of the waiting bikers was Rashed. For him, the wait has already stretched to an hour and a half. I walked to him and asked him, "Are you a Pathao rider?" He nodded in affirmation. 

In a city where formal employment struggles to keep pace with a swelling workforce, app-based ride-sharing has quietly emerged as a major source of livelihood. Platforms like Pathao and Uber have transformed Dhaka's transport economy over the past decade, turning thousands of private motorbikes into income-generating assets. Industry estimates suggest the sector is now worth around Tk2,200 crore annually in Dhaka alone, with ride-sharing accounting for roughly 23% of the private hire transport market. 

But now, the sector finds itself acutely exposed when fuel, the lifeblood of the system, begins to run dry. And Rashed is one of the victims. 

"I used to make around Tk1,500 a day. Now I barely earn Tk200 to 250," he says, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I left my previous job thinking ride-sharing would give me flexibility and better income. That was six months ago. Now I feel stuck." 

"That is quite unfortunate," I remarked. A ghost of an ironic smile could be seen on his lips. 

Originally from Sirajganj and now living in Mohammadpur, Rashed says the crisis has turned his routine upside down. Time that once went into ferrying passengers is now swallowed by queues.

"I have loans to repay, rent to pay and food to buy. The pressure is unbearable," Md Asaduzzaman.

"If I spend half my day just waiting for fuel, how can I earn?" he asks. "Even when I do get fuel, I hesitate to take long trips. What if I run out again?" 

Abul Hossain has been ride-sharing for two years. Before that, he ran a small business. 

"I came all the way from Mugda because they don't release fuel there before 4pm," he says. "I've already been waiting for an hour here. Who knows how much longer it will take?"

He showed how one of his fellow gullible riders had been scammed into buying diesel from black marketers. They told him that bike can be run on diesel. And now the scammed biker is sitting on the footpath, visibly distraught. He not only lost money by buying diesel; he also lost precious time that could be used standing in the queue. 

Abul Hossain once earned with dignity,now he barely survives.

In Shahbagh, I found another biker who complained about the fuel black market. Azizul Haque, once employed in a modest office job, now spends more time waiting than working.

"It takes me three to four hours every day just to get fuel," he says. "That's half my working day gone before I even start."

He pauses, then adds with a hint of frustration,"Fuel is available in the open market, but it's often adulterated. I can't risk damaging my bike. This is my only source of income. If it were good fuel, I would never complain about buying it from the black market even if it cost Tk200-250 per litre." 

"I used to earn between Tk1,200 and Tk1,500 daily. Now it's down to Tk500 to 700," Abul Hossain:

In Motijheel, the financial district where time is money, the irony is hard to miss. Riders stand idle in queues while the city's economic engine hums around them.

Miraj Hossain does not mince his words.

"Our suffering knows no bounds right now," he says. "If I have to spend five hours standing in a queue, when am I supposed to actually drive?"

He gestures towards the line of bikes stretching behind him.

"Because of the fuel crisis, I think twice before accepting long-distance passengers. Overall, our situation is dire."

Nearby, Shahin Islam leans against his bike, his expression etched with worry.

"My income has dropped sharply, but my expenses haven't," he says. "I have a wife and children to take care of. They don't understand why I'm earning less—they just know that things are getting harder."

He lets out a quiet sigh.

"I'm stuck. I can't leave this job because I don't have anything else. But I can't survive like this either."

At Banglamotor, MD Asaduzzaman has travelled all the way from Uttara and has already spent two hours waiting because this pump has fuel. His voice tightens as he continues.

"I have loans to repay, rent to pay and food to buy. Everything depends on this income. The pressure is unbearable."

Md Asaduzzaman struggles to balance loan repayments, rent and daily food costs amid falling income.

Further north along Airport Road in Uttara, Mohammad Alamgir stands beside his bike, his face blank with exhaustion.

"I have small children at home," he says quietly. "Most of my friends have other jobs or businesses. I don't. This is all I have."

He explains that he now earns barely Tk500 a day after spending three to four hours in queues.

"I drive less because I don't have enough fuel. I wait more because I need it. I don't know what will happen now," he says.

There is a long pause before he adds, almost to himself, "I've never felt this uncertain before."

The riders' business model depends on mobility, speed, and constant availability. The queues have stripped all three away.

Hours lost in line translate directly into lost income. Fewer trips mean fewer earnings. The result is a vicious cycle of lower earnings, rising anxiety, and shrinking options. For many, there is no fallback. Unlike salaried workers, these riders have no fixed income, no benefits, and no safety net. A bad day at the pump is a bad day at home. And lately, every day has been bad.

Back in Ramna, the queue finally moves forward. Engines sputter to life, one by one, as riders edge closer to the pump. Rashed checks his phone, calculating how many trips he might manage before nightfall.

"Even if I get fuel now, it's already late," he says. "I've lost most of the day."

He looks ahead, then back at the line behind him.

"But what choice do we have?"

Shadique Mahbub Islam is a journalist.