Chittagong wakes up in fragments. First the rickshaws rattling like tin drums, then the buses bellowing smoke, then the endless line of cars honking at shadows. But when I swing a leg over my cycle and clip into the pedals, the city becomes a living book, and I become one of its pages.
People think delivery riding is about speed. They see us darting through traffic, cutting alleys, leaning into turns, and they think: Fast hands, fast wheels, fast money. But they don’t see what’s inside the box strapped to my bag, or the unseen weight it carries.
The Weight of a Parcel vs. the Weight of Responsibility
A parcel of biryani weighs maybe 700 grams. A coffee cup, even less. A grocery bag from Pandamart might tug on my shoulder with ten or fifteen kilos at most. But the true weight? That’s invisible. It’s the hunger of a child waiting at home, the smile of a wife whose husband brings her ice cream after work, the quiet relief of a patient receiving fruit in a hospital bed.
Each time I deliver, I’m not just moving food—I’m carrying people’s small hopes. I’m the bridge between craving and comfort, between need and fulfilment. That’s heavier than any backpack, but it’s a weight I carry with pride.
I’ve learned that trust is hidden in every order. Customers don’t think about it consciously, but when they press that “Order Now” button, they are trusting a stranger—me—to ride through rain, dodge trucks, wait at traffic lights, and still arrive with their food safe, warm, intact. That trust is bigger than traffic. It’s more powerful than speed.
Foodpanda in CTG: Lessons From the Saddle
Chittagong is no gentle teacher. The roads are uneven, the buses impatient, the hills rising like sudden fists. The rain comes in sheets, flooding the lanes, while the sun burns hotter than fire when the clouds disappear. But from this saddle, I’ve learned lessons no classroom ever offered.
I’ve learned how to read people by the way they speak when they call me for directions. Some are kind: “Bhai, take your time.” Some are impatient: “Where are you? I ordered thirty minutes ago.” And some surprise me with generosity: a glass of water, a smile, sometimes even a tip that feels less like money and more like recognition of the human behind the helmet.
I’ve learned how to respect the rhythm of the city—the surging traffic near GEC Circle, the calm roads near Bhatiary, the tight corners in Halishahar. Every road has its mood, and every ride teaches me to flow with it, not fight against it.
Most of all, I’ve learned that being a rider is more than being a courier. We are silent threads holding the city together, one parcel at a time.
Why Two Wheels Whisper More Than a Thousand Voices
People shout advice all the time: “Work harder, save more, chase bigger dreams.” But my two wheels don’t shout; they whisper. In the hum of the chain, I hear them saying: Keep steady. Keep moving. You’ll get there.
When I’m stuck in traffic, horns exploding in my ears, my bike whispers patience. When I face a steep climb near Badshah Mia Road, thighs burning, my wheels whisper resilience. When deliveries are slow and my earnings barely cover lunch, my cycle whispers: Every ride counts, every kilometre matters. Don’t stop.
The city’s voices demand. But my two wheels teach. And somehow, their whispers stay longer in my heart than a thousand loud instructions.
The Wisdom of Riding Alone in Silence
Some think riding is lonely. A man in a pink Foodpanda jersey, weaving through streets, no one talking to him. But I know better. Silence isn’t emptiness—it’s wisdom.
When I ride alone, I listen to my breath, the rhythm of my pedalling, the pulse of my own body against the world. That silence teaches me what no noise can: how to endure, how to pace myself, how to find joy in repetition.
Alone on the road, I realize that life doesn’t always need applause. Sometimes it only needs motion. The quiet strength of showing up every day, whether for work, for a ride, or for yourself—that’s the wisdom silence gives.
Motivation Hidden in Everyday Rides
Not every ride is epic. Most are ordinary: pick up, drop off, check the app, repeat. But even in those simple motions, motivation hides.
It’s in the sweat dripping down my face after a 45 km day, reminding me that consistency builds strength. It’s in the smile of a customer who says, “Thank you, bhai,” reminding me that small acts matter. It’s in the numbers on Strava, miles stacking up like bricks in a house I’m building quietly, day after day.
Motivation isn’t always a big speech or a grand event. Sometimes it’s just finishing one more ride when you’re tired, knowing that tomorrow you’ll be stronger for it.
Between Traffic and Trust
This is what my life on two wheels has taught me: every delivery is more than speed. It’s about trust. It’s about resilience. It’s about carrying invisible weights heavier than parcels, and listening to whispers quieter than crowds.
I don’t just deliver food. I deliver hope, care, connection. And in return, the city delivers its lessons to me—patience, discipline, silence, and motivation hidden in the most ordinary of days.
That’s why, when people ask me why I keep riding, I smile. Because every time I mount the saddle, I know: I’m not just cycling through traffic. I’m cycling through life.
ENG
