The rickshaw that carries a mother’s love and sacrifice
As a female rickshaw driver in Rajshahi, Sumi has faced immense hardships, including the loss of her husband, the struggle to support her children, and battling health issues, yet she remains determined to provide for her family
It was a day like any other. I was looking for a rickshaw in the Court Station area of Rajshahi. As I walked towards the usual spot where rickshaws wait for passengers, my eyes caught a rare sight, at least in Rajshahi.
Amidst the male rickshaw drivers waiting for passengers, there was a woman, her electric auto-rickshaw parked alongside theirs. Her clothes were worn-out — faded jeans and a tattered t-shirt that had seen better days. Intrigued, I decided to ride on her rickshaw.
"Sumi Mary Cruz," she replied when I asked her name. And with that, Sumi set off, rolling her rickshaw across the busy streets.
I had never seen a female rickshaw driver in Rajshahi before, so my curiosity grew. I told Sumi I wanted to hear her story, momentarily forgetting my own destination. She hesitated at first but then agreed. When I asked where she lived, she said she stays in a small rented room in Pathanpara, by herself. I asked if I could visit, and though reluctant initially, she eventually agreed.
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Leaving behind the well-lit, vibrant streets, Sumi turned into a narrow, desolate alley. Just a few feet away from the main road, the contrast was evident — as if we had stepped into a forgotten wasteland. Scattered bricks, broken wood and remnants of discarded machinery lay all around. A rusty metal door stands feebly amid the debris. Sumi pushed it open and led me inside.
"My elder son lives in Rajabari with his wife. He has always been weak, unable to work much. Even now, he barely manages. I send him money whenever I can. My younger son grew up in an orphanage in Khulna… I pay Tk400 daily [to rent a rickshaw], and after everything, I'm left with about Tk250-300 at the end of the day. And I save it to send to my sons. I have nothing left for myself anymore."
Her 'home' comprises just a small area with a thin mat on the floor, a pile of clothes stacked in a corner, and a pillow and quilt. There is no kitchen, as Sumi never cooks; she eats outside. The roof is merely a few sticks of bamboo with tattered cloth stuffed between them. When it rains, water drips through. There is no fan or light either — she has never taken an electricity connection to save money.
"I pay Tk1,500 per month for this place. If I take electricity, I'll have to pay Tk500 more. Where will I get that extra money?" she asked.
Sitting there, I asked her to tell me her story. When I inquired about her age, she said she never understood numbers well. But she had heard she was born during the Liberation War, which would put her age at around 54.
After losing her father at a young age, Sumi grew up in a Christian mission. Later, fate led her to Sylhet, where she married a tea worker. But tragedy struck again as her husband passed away 24 years ago, leaving her alone with two sons, Hridoy and Joy. After his death, she left Sylhet and returned to her ancestral village in Baraigram, Natore.
When I asked about her children, her voice grew heavy. "The elder one lives in Rajabari with his wife. He has always been weak, unable to work much. Even now, he barely manages. I send him money whenever I can. My younger son grew up in an orphanage in Khulna."
In search of work, Sumi eventually moved to Rajshahi city and took up a job as a cleaner at a hospital. She was responsible for cleaning an entire three-storey building — scrubbing floors, disposing of waste, and cleaning up everything from blood to vomit. The work was exhausting, and the pay was meagre. But she endured it all — for survival, and for her sons.
The shift from cleaning to driving a rickshaw was quite an interesting turn of events. One day, while chatting with a garage owner, she was sitting in the driver's seat of an auto-rickshaw. "I asked the owner if I could try driving it. He encouraged me, so I turned the throttle, and it started to move. I felt a surge of confidence and continued driving it. When I reached the main road, a schoolteacher called me over, asking if I could take her and her child home. I agreed even without thinking anything. When we reached her house, she paid me Tk50. And that's when it hit me — why not drive a rickshaw for a living? That was the beginning."
That was back in 2019, just before the Covid-19 pandemic. The lockdown made it nearly impossible to get passengers, and Sumi struggled even to cover the daily rental for the rickshaw.
One day, as she stood by the roadside in tears, seeing her condition, some local journalists covered her story. Later, the local government authorities provided her with an auto-rickshaw and some financial aid. But despite their promise of further assistance, she never returned to ask for more. "I may be poor, but I have my dignity. I am deeply grateful for what they did, but after that, I never asked for their help again. I chose to work hard instead."
I asked if she still drives the rickshaw they had given her. Her face darkened. During the pandemic, there were strict regulations, and no garage owner was willing to let her park her vehicle. She had no safe place to keep it. At the time, she lived under a makeshift polythene shelter. Where could she possibly store a rickshaw? Exposure to the rain and harsh weather damaged the vehicle beyond repair. Left with no other option, she sold it.
"Now I rent one again. I pay Tk400 daily, and after everything, I'm left with about Tk250-300 per day. And I save it to send to my sons. I have nothing left for myself anymore."
Sumi's left hand is almost paralysed due to malnutrition and age. Yet, she still drives with one functional hand. She recently underwent a surgery for a tumour in her abdomen, a procedure arranged at a reduced cost through the mission. However, she still has two more tumours — one in her throat and another at the back of her head. The doctors have warned her that if they are not removed soon, they could become cancerous.
"But what can I do? I barely survive as it is. Where will I find money for surgery?"
I asked if she faced any problems as a female rickshaw driver. She nodded. The male drivers resented her.
"They've told me straight to my face that a woman shouldn't be doing this job. They fear that if more women start driving, it will affect their earnings. They think women should not take away men's work. But I never paid attention to them."
But Sumi has also seen the other side. Passengers never hesitate to get into her rickshaw. "Especially women. Female students often call me over when they see me. Many have told me they feel safer riding with me. They wish there were more female rickshaw drivers so they could travel without fear, day or night."
At this stage of her life, Sumi has no dreams for herself. She only dreams for her children.
Her elder son, unable to do heavy labour, desperately needs a permanent job, even if the job is as a janitor. "If only someone could help my elder son get a stable job, I would worry less. But who would listen to me? Who cares about people like us?"
Her younger son, Joy, is her biggest concern. He has nowhere to stay when he visits her. "He grew up in an orphanage with proper facilities. Here, I have nothing. No cupboard for his clothes, no space for him to sleep, no proper toilet. He tells me, 'Ma, I can't even use your bathroom.' If I could just arrange a proper place for him, that would be enough. I don't care what happens to me after that."
The call for Maghrib prayers went off as we were speaking. Though Sumi is a Christian, she is quite aware of Islamic rituals. She was the one reminding me it was time to break my fast, and we shared a meal together. All the time we were having this conversation, she had no hint of grief or bitterness on her face even after sharing the stories of her life — just an unbreakable spirit.
As I got up to leave, she said something that will stick with me for a long time. "You know what? Talking to you made me feel lighter. I never had the chance to tell my story to anyone. No one has the time to listen. But aren't we humans supposed to depend on each other? If we can't even share our words, then why do we even have language?"
I had no answer. I simply smiled and bid her farewell. As I walked away, I realised that fate had led me to Sumi for a reason—to witness the incredible strength of a woman who, despite facing all the hardships, continues to fight. Life has a strange way of teaching us lessons, and through Sumi, I had just learned another.
