We are not a photo -op. We are riders

Kolkata's women bikers are done being stared at, questioned, and photographed like a spectacle. They want one thing , and it's non-negotiable: their fair share of the road.

The road, they say, has no gender. But try telling that to the man who will happily take a lift on a woman's bike and then call it a disgrace before getting off. Or the army officer who spent an entire pillion ride lecturing the rider on her clutch control. Or the organiser at a biking event who looked around at the female participants and asked , audibly , why none of them looked like models.

Kolkata's women bikers have heard it all. The unsolicited tips. The "Is this your bike?" The stares that follow them through signals and side streets, as if a woman on a motorcycle is still something that requires explanation. These women , a biker mom who runs a travel agency and works night shifts, a sales manager in Joka, a teacher who conquered Ladakh, a guitar teacher who did a solo run to Santiniketan, a final-year engineering student in a saree, and an aeronautical engineer who handles 200 kg of machine with the same ease she handles the skies — are not here to explain themselves. They are here to ride.

And they want the city to move over.

'The Road Belongs to All of Us. Behind Every Helmet Is a Story, Not a Stereotype.'

Navneet Kaur is the kind of woman who makes juggling look effortless , biker, mother, travel agency owner, and night-shift corporate employee, all at once. She started riding out of curiosity. It became passion. And then, quietly, it became something more. "Somewhere along the journey," she says, "it turned into reclaiming my own space , not just on the road, but in life."

She knows the stares. The surprise. The requests for photographs as though women riders are an exhibit that appeared overnight. "We women are no less," she says, not with anger, but with the weariness of someone who has said this too many times. "It's normal for a woman to ride a two-wheeler or a bike. Why treat us like a novelty?" And yet the questions come , Can you handle it? Who taught you? , as if skill has a gender requirement. Navneet has stopped letting it define her ride. She has also stopped wearing the city's judgment. "Riding taught me confidence, resilience, and trust in myself," she says. "I see myself as stronger than I once believed."

What she wants from the city is simple and specific: clean restrooms on commuter routes, resting spots along the way, and an infrastructure that acknowledges that women ride daily , not just on weekends, not just for Instagram. "The road belongs to all of us," she says. "We women love petrol as a perfume more than make-up. It's passion that matters."

'Ride and Let Others Ride. Treat Us as Equals , It's the Same Bike.'

Srijita Roy Chowdhury, sales manager and one of Kolkata's most experienced women riders, doesn't mince words. When she started, the ratio of women to men on bikes was 1 to 10. It is now closer to 3 or 4 in 10. Progress, yes. Equality, not remotely.

She recalls stopping on Howrah Bridge to offer a stranded man a lift. He accepted. Then he realised he was riding pillion with a woman , and spent the entire ride correcting her technique. Before getting off, one stop from his destination, he told her it was a disgrace for him to have been her pillion. She had stopped to help him. He left her with a lecture.

This is the contradiction Srijita lives inside every day. And then there is worse. Last year, a group in a black car deliberately ran her off the road. She went to the police with a fractured leg and a torn ACL. The OC of the station told her, after investigation, that the only reason they had done it was because she was a female rider. She was bedridden for nine months , the sole earning member of her household. The court case went nowhere.

"I don't know how to get along with these things," she says, and for a moment, the roar goes quiet. But then: "Whenever I start my bike, that noise makes me forget every other thing anyone has ever said to me." She wants bikes designed with women's ergonomics in mind , not just pink scooters, but actual motorcycles built for female riders. She wants mindsets to change, starting at home. "Whatever starts at home, continues," she says. "If a man can ride a bike, why can't we?"

'Go For It, Girl. Aaj Gaadi Teri Behen Chalayegi.'

Dapinder Kaur Gill does not look back. The teacher who once practised in a grocery store parking lot until evening and then rode confidently into the streets has since taken her bike through the winding passes of Ladakh , the only woman among six male riders. She has been told Ladki hai, nahi ho payega. She has heard organisers at riding events wonder, loudly, why female bikers are not thinner. She has absorbed all of it, and she has kept going.

Ladakh was the turning point. "I was completely content with what I had," she says of those off-road trails in the middle of nowhere. "Riding those mountains made me think deeply about life and be grateful." Her husband's support, she is quick to add, made all of it possible , and she says it without diminishment, the way people acknowledge the things that set them free.

Her asks of the biking world are concrete: riding jackets designed for women's bodies, SOS infrastructure on highways, and immediate technical assistance at rest stops built with female riders in mind. Her ask of the women still on the fence: "Try. Fall. Learn. But do not hold back."

'The Throttle Gives Me Power. The Road Gives Me Peace. Why Is That So Hard to Understand?'

Sohini De , guitar teacher, part-time make-up artist, vlogger, and committed rider , rode her first solo trip from Kolkata to Santiniketan without assistance, and knew in that moment that she had arrived somewhere permanent. Bidisha Shit, 21, B.Tech final year, has been on two wheels since Class VII. She rides in sarees. Not the dramatic Marathi drape , just her saree, the way she wears it, on her bike, on her own terms. Between the two of them, they capture the full arc of what women riders in this city are building.

Sohini is not interested in being treated as a curiosity. She rides as seriously and as skillfully as any male rider she knows, follows traffic rules, and has watched other women do the same. Her frustration is pointed: "People think women are dumb when it comes to riding. A few doubt our skills and try to create situations to make us panic on the road." Her demand from bike manufacturers is specific , lower seat variants for Indian women, standard across models, not as an exception. And a reverse gear on heavy bikes. Practical. Overdue.

Sohini De and Srijita Roy Chowdhury

‘It’s your story - ride it your own way’
At 21, Bidisha Shit has spent nearly a decade on two wheels, moving from a scooty in school to motorcycles by Class XI, driven purely by passion. Often spotted riding in a saree in her everyday style, she draws attention on Kolkata’s roads , reactions that range from surprise to encouragement, with many praising her confidence and visibility. Through her videos, she has also inspired other women to return to riding, something she says keeps her motivated. While occasional riders try to race or test her on the road, she chooses caution over confrontation. Riding, she adds, has made her more confident and open, with one of her most memorable journeys being a 220-km ride from Kolkata to Asansol with her mother. Even as experiences have largely been positive, she points out that biking spaces and gear still remain male-centric. Her message is simple: “It’s your story , ride it your own way.”

'The Day People Stop Being Surprised By Women Riders Is the Day the Roads Will Feel Equal.'

Ankita Kar, aeronautical engineer, started riding out of necessity. It became an identity. She rides through the hills and finds silence, curves, cold air , and a version of herself that requires no justification. When her car broke down in Odisha and she asked to borrow a parked R15, the owner looked at her the way people always look. She had to show him photographs of her own bike before he handed over the keys. "That wait - you ride? reaction," she says, "is something I still face quite often."

What changed is not the world. What changed is Ankita. "Things like riding late at night or handling difficult roads no longer feel like major factors," she says, "because I've built that confidence through riding itself." She handles close to 200 kg of dry weight, and more with a full tank and luggage. She does not complain about it. "When you truly love something," she says quietly, "you learn how to carry its weight too."

Her one ask to the city is the simplest and the most radical of all: stop being surprised. "The day people stop being surprised by women riders is the day the roads will truly feel equal for everyone."

Until then, they ride. Through the stares and the questions and the unsolicited advice. Through fractured legs and nine-month recoveries and courtrooms that go nowhere. Through Howrah Bridge at rush hour and Ladakh at altitude and highways with no lights and no restrooms and no help in sight.

They ride because it is theirs. The throttle, the road, the freedom - theirs. Make space.