By Midhat Samra
Ranchi: As the bright pink auto-rickshaw pulled up to the roadside, pedestrians often paused to take photographs, captivated by its striking color. But Suman Devi, standing nearby, watched the scene with a familiar weariness. People come here to click pictures because the bright shade fascinates them, she noted, yet very few ever bother to understand the grueling daily struggles of the women who drive them.
Twelve years after the Jharkhand government launched the pink auto scheme in the wake of the harrowing Nirbhaya case, the initiative stands as a stark reminder of the gap between policy announcement and ground-level execution. Conceived in 2013 to address rampant women’s safety concerns across urban centers and to empower marginalized women through sustainable employment, the initiative promised modern safety interventions. The specially designated vehicles were equipped with panic buttons and Global Positioning System (GPS) trackers to ensure secure transit.
Initially, the government rolled out two hundred vehicles. However, when only a handful of women initially signed up for the program due to various social and logistical hurdles, authorities pivoted by appointing men as drivers to fill the quota. Today, the capital city of Ranchi counts roughly forty pink autos operating across its bustling streets. Yet, after more than a decade, the core challenges faced by these women drivers remain virtually unchanged, casting a long shadow over a scheme originally heralded as a breakthrough for gender empowerment.
For the women behind the wheel, the daily grind begins long before they pick up their first passenger. They operate entirely without basic civic facilities or institutional support. Their designated auto stand is nothing more than an open, unpaved patch of land lining a busy thoroughfare, littered with debris and entirely devoid of shade. There is no protective shelter to shield them from the elements, no lighting for the early morning or late evening shifts, and not even a simple bench to sit on during long hours of waiting.
Compounding these indignities is the constant threat of displacement. Whenever a high-ranking government official or VIP motorcade passes through the area, the women are summarily pushed out and ordered to relocate their vehicles. Meanwhile, male auto-rickshaw drivers enjoy properly designated, secure lanes and established infrastructure.
“We sit here in the sun and rain,” said Reena, capturing the bleak daily reality of life at the stand.
While the drivers battle the elements and institutional apathy, women commuters continue to view the pink auto fleet as an essential lifeline in an increasingly hostile urban environment. Kiran Tirkey, a young college student navigating the city daily, said she deliberately prefers traveling with women drivers, particularly after dark.
“I feel at ease when there are only women around me,” Tirkey explained. “I do not like being in a closed space with unknown men. The fear of being touched inappropriately or the auto taking a wrong route is real. My parents feel relieved when I travel with a woman driver.”
That sense of apprehension is deeply grounded in city statistics. According to local police data, twenty-two rape cases were officially reported in March 2025 alone, illustrating the persistent safety crisis confronting women in Ranchi.
Echoing these sentiments, Shabana Perveen, another frequent commuter, noted that she consistently chooses to share an auto with women because it offers a level of comfort and psychological safety that she simply cannot find elsewhere.
Yet, this crucial service provided to the community comes at a steep personal cost to the drivers. Alongside structural neglect, the women report facing routine harassment and aggressive competition from male drivers on the road.
“Our income has gone down. It has become difficult to run a household,” said thirty-five-year-old Shobha Kindo. “Men often take away our customers. At work, we deal with them, and at home, we deal with unemployed, drunk husbands. Some women also choose male autos because they feel jealous that we earn.”
Intimidation and professional turf wars are a regular feature of their working lives, but seasoned drivers have learned to stand their ground. Suman Devi, reflecting on her decade-long tenure on the road, expressed defiance in the face of persistent marginalization.
“I am not afraid of the men. I have been dealing with them for ten years,” Devi said. “They try to make us feel small, but they are really afraid that we will take their jobs. As a widow, I raised my children alone. I know how to face bullies.”
Perhaps the most glaring and debilitating deprivation faced by the drivers is the complete absence of operational sanitation facilities. The lack of a proper washroom has remained a critical issue for more than a decade.
“It has been twelve years, and the government has not built a single toilet for us,” Reena said.
Driven by desperation, the women often have no alternative other than seeking out nearby bushes for privacy. Although a public washroom structure was constructed near their operating area, it remains permanently locked, having reportedly been opened only on the single day it was inaugurated.
Labor representatives have repeatedly attempted to draw official attention to these abysmal conditions. Dinesh Soni, president of the Jharkhand Pradesh CNG Auto Chalak Association, stated that the union has written multiple appeals to municipal and state authorities demanding basic infrastructure.
“We have raised the demand for a clean toilet, but have never received any response. The government does not listen. We are paying toll tax, but for what?” Soni asked. Despite escalating grievances, letters addressed to top state officials, including the chief minister’s office, have gone unanswered.
Organizational isolation further compounds their vulnerabilities. Women drivers in Ranchi note that unlike their counterparts in states like Tamil Nadu, where women auto drivers are organized under strong cooperative unions that actively bargain for their rights, they operate entirely on their own.
“We do not work under any union. We bought our own autos and drive independently,” said Gudia, who has spent over a decade behind the wheel. “Had we been in a union, we would have put up our demands. We have complained to reporters, to the police, and to officials, but nothing changes.”
Gudia added that no local non-governmental organizations have stepped forward to champion their cause, leaving most of the women largely unaware of formal legal rights or institutional grievance redressal mechanisms.
For many of these drivers, the decision to enter the transport sector was born out of profound personal hardship. Several women at the stand transitioned into auto driving to escape abusive domestic relationships, pull themselves out of low-paying informal jobs, or simply secure bare survival for their families.
Gudia recalled that her husband initially resisted the idea of her working as an auto driver, but ultimately relented after she insisted on achieving financial self-sufficiency. Today, she takes immense pride in funding her daughter’s education at an English-medium boarding school.
“I miss her every minute, but I want a better life for her. I walked so that my daughter could run,” Gudia said.
Other women share similar narratives of resilience, carrying the weight of familial responsibilities while navigating a transport ecosystem that offers minimal institutional backing.
Despite the daily obstacles, harassment, and infrastructural neglect, the drivers maintain a quiet hope for reform. When asked what changes they would prioritize if granted a direct platform with policymakers, their demands focused on basic dignity rather than special privileges. They asked for permanent, well-equipped auto stands, clean and accessible public washrooms, protection from harassment by male counterparts, and formal recognition or modest financial support from the government.
“We do not want favours,” Reena concluded. “We just want basic facilities, a proper space to park, and an open public washroom.”