Out of the fuel queue oven, into the disappearing margins furnace

On Wednesday morning, Rasel Hossain pulled up to a filling station in Mohammadpur and found something he had not seen in weeks: a short queue.

He was in and out in under an hour. After days of waiting five, six, sometimes 11 hours just to secure fuel, the relative speed felt almost surreal. He filled his tank, strapped on his helmet, and opened the Pathao app.

Then he did the math.

Octane is now Tk140 per litre — up from Tk120, the highest price in Bangladesh's history. A full tank that used to cost him around Tk300 now costs closer to Tk400. But his per-trip earnings on the app have not changed. The platform commission has not changed either. What has changed though is that every ride he completes today is worth less than it was before.

"Last week, the queue was killing me," the 46-year-old said. "This week, the price is killing me. I do not know which is worse."

It reflects the difficult trade-offs at the heart of Dhaka's fuel crisis in its latest phase. The lines at filling stations across the capital have eased this Wednesday, as fresh shipments arrive and the price hike itself has cooled the panic buying that drove weeks of chaos. For commuters and policymakers, this may read as relief. 

For the tens of thousands of motorcycle riders who make their living on ride-sharing apps like Pathao and Uber, it is merely a different kind of suffering. The shortage stole their time. The price hike is stealing their margin. They have traded one wound for another.

Record prices, record pain

The government held prices steady through March and into April, absorbing the rising import costs through subsidies to shield consumers. But by mid-April, the fiscal reality had won.

On 19 April 2026, the government announced the highest fuel prices in Bangladesh's history. Diesel jumped from Tk100 to Tk115 per litre. Octane — the fuel that powers virtually every ride-sharing motorcycle in Dhaka — surged from Tk120 to Tk140, a Tk 20 hike in a single night. Petrol rose to Tk135, kerosene to Tk130.

The previous record had been set during the Ukraine-Russia war in 2022, when octane had reached Tk135. 

The announcement also revealed how deep the supply crisis had become. Diesel stock stood at 101,784 tonnes — enough for roughly 10 days. Octane reserves were at 29,500 tonnes, sufficient for about 27 days. The Bangladesh Petroleum Corporation had been forced to spend an additional Tk1,200 crore to import 10 oil consignments in March alone, simply to keep the country running.

To understand what this crisis means for the people who drive Dhaka's app-based bikes, it helps to trace the arithmetic of a single day — and how much it has changed. 

Before the crisis, a typical rider on Pathao or Uber earned between Tk1,200 and Tk1,500 on a productive shift. Fuel costs were around Tk300 to Tk400, depending on tank capacity. Commission to the platform took another portion. What remained was a living — modest, precarious, but workable.

That arithmetic no longer holds.

Rasel Hossain, even before the April price hike, was spending five to six hours a day in queues just to secure fuel. His earnings had already collapsed from Tk1,200–1,300 to Tk 500–600 a day. With octane now at Tk140 per litre and supply still constrained, the fuel cost alone consumes a significant share of whatever remains.

Md Israfil, 34, used to complete 10 to 12 trips daily across Uber and Pathao. Last month, his income fell by almost half — down to Tk17,000 for the entire month, roughly $138. He is precise about why: He stood in a fuel line from 10am and got fuel at 4pm. Six hours gone, and along with it, half a day's earnings.

"The situation is somewhat like Covid-19," he recalled. "But no one is standing beside us. I work on both apps. They are still charging the same commission as before."

For passengers who cannot afford the inflated rates and could not get a reliable app-based ride, the alternatives were limited. CNG-run auto-rickshaws, which have not been affected by the fuel crisis, seem to be in higher demand than ever — both on and off apps.

What the platforms did 

While riders absorbed the crisis with their bank accounts, the platforms they work for responded with caution.

Talking to the Rest of the world, an American nonprofit publication, Pathao acknowledged that the fuel crisis has reduced service reliability and that profitability has declined. The company said it is relying on dynamic pricing and targeted incentives to help drivers recover lost income during peak hours. But the company did not directly raise fares.

Uber made no public announcement.

For riders, the silence from headquarters felt like abandonment. The commission structure — which can run as high as 25% per trip on some platforms — did not change. The platform fees did not change. Only the cost of doing business changed, entirely at the driver's expense.

"Standing in line for two to three hours means losing at least Tk300 in potential earnings," said Uber driver Hasan Rahid. "We do not raise fares intentionally, but we have to recover that loss."

Some riders have done exactly that — individually, informally, and in defiance of the apps. On the day after the price hike was announced, a motorcyclist named Aziz Bhuiyan was charging Tk150 for a route from Hatirpool to Gulistan. The app fare for the same journey was around Tk100. "Some riders are charging up to Tk70 more," he said. "Both the fuel crisis and the price hike compelled us. We have to survive."

Hasan Rahid also pointed to another frustration that has become routine since the crisis began. "Even after the government lifted the fuel limits, many pumps are not following it," he said. "If they cannot comply, why was the decision made in the first place?"

The passengers caught in the middle

On the other side of every delayed or expensive ride is a passenger who has their own calculation to make.

Abu Sayeed, who commutes from Adabor to Farmgate daily, said his usual Tk200 fare climbed to Tk230 the morning after the price hike. Kamran Siddique, who travels from Mirpur Mazar Road to Kazipara, said his fare rose from Tk120–130 to Tk150 — but getting that price took twenty minutes and negotiations with 10 to 12 different motorcyclists, none of whom would go below Tk200, before he finally found someone willing.

Fariha Nuzhat, a private sector employee and regular Uber user, found that the crisis had broken something more fundamental than pricing — it had broken reliability. Drivers were demanding higher fares than those shown in the app. Some were refusing trips outright. 

"Drivers often demand higher fares than those shown in the app and sometimes refuse trips altogether," she said. The app's displayed fare had effectively become fiction — a starting point for negotiation, not a guarantee.

For passengers who cannot afford the inflated rates and could not get a reliable app-based ride, the alternatives were limited. CNG-run auto-rickshaws, which have not been affected by the fuel crisis, seem to be in higher demand than ever — both on apps or otherwise.

Anik, a resident of Mohammadpur, previously relied on motorbikes for his daily office commute  due to their affordability and shorter travel time. However, with the recent increase in motorbike fares, he now opts for CNG rides instead, as they have become more cost-effective.

Aklima Akter, a commuter trying to board a bus from Nabisco crossing one afternoon, found herself surrounded by a crowd waiting for buses that were not coming. She eventually gave up and hired a battery-run rickshaw to reach Khilgaon.