Mohana Sundari: They would say, ‘Why are you trying to act like a man? Why are you doing the work men do?’ Whatever it is, when men do it, they speak of it as a plus. When women do it, they speak of it as a minus. And every time I hear that — “men, men, men” — I start to feel this deep disgust. Just look around. If a man sits down, the women will stand. It’s like a form of service, a quiet submission. We’ve always had to go the humble route.
But the truth is, women work many times more than men. They endure much more hardship too. But no one seems to understand that. When it comes to men, they get spoken about with pride. But when it’s about women, it’s always with a tone of ‘this is how you should be.’ But I took that as motivation. That drive to do better than them was what really got stuck in my mind and pushed me forward.
Veena Hampapur: From the UCLA Labor Center, this is Re:Work. I’m Veena Hampapur.
Saba Waheed: And I’m Saba Waheed.
Veena Hampapur: Today on Re:Work we introduce you to Mohana Sundari, a thirty-nine-year-old woman living in Tamil Nadu, a state in southern India. Mohana’s always had this strong spirit and known her own mind, and she’s been challenging expectations for girls and women since she was a kid. Today she is part of a small but growing group of women driving auto rickshaws in the capital city of Chennai. This is the first episode in a three-part series.
So Saba, usually when I mention auto rickshaws to people who haven’t been to South Asia, they have no idea what I’m talking about. How would you describe them to someone who isn’t familiar?
Saba Waheed: Well, people know them as rickshaws, they may know them as tuk-tuks or autos. It’s basically a three-wheeled motorized vehicle driven in many cities around the world, and especially in South Asia. You can think of it like a taxi, except more compact and with the sides open.
Veena Hampapur: For those of us growing up in the South Asian diaspora, autos have a nostalgic quality to them. You can rent them for weddings and events; I’ve seen them in restaurants. Instead of Wheels on the Bus, my kids have a Wheels on the Tuk Tuk book. So there’s this nostalgic value, but autos are also something that are taken for granted. They’re these everyday things that you go in to get around, and it’s really easy to forget the challenges the drivers might be facing or the fact that driving is work.
Saba Waheed: It’s a difficult job. My uncle was actually a rickshaw driver in Karachi. He did it when a lot of other work options closed for him. Going to my uncle’s home and seeing this rickshaw parked outside, those looked like the funnest thing in the world.
Veena Hampapur: Really?
Saba Waheed: Yeah, like we’d go play on it, and usually they’re very decorated, I don’t know if they do that also in India.
Veena Hampapur: In India there is some variety in terms of what they look like. You know, they might have religious art or film actors painted on the outside. But what’s always been the same in my experience is that the driver is a man in a khaki uniform. I was really surprised to hear that there even are women auto drivers in India.
Saba Waheed: Yeah and there’s so much we’ll see in this series – including how the industry has shaped itself and evolved, you know similar to what we’ve seen in the US with taxis and rideshare options. There are some really core values and experiences that come just from the work itself and what it means to be in a largely male dominated industry.
Veena Hampapur: Right. But before we get into all that, let’s start at the beginning, with Mohana’s childhood.
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Veena Hampapur: Mohana grew up mostly in Chennai. But her parents worked both in the city and village to make ends meet.
Mohana Sundari: My father and mother didn’t live a long life. But they were really happy together. After my birth, my parents kept moving between the village and Chennai. They couldn’t leave their jobs or farming. They had to do both.
My father used to work for a textile company in Chennai, dyeing clothes. He would give all his earnings to our mother, keeping just enough for a drink for himself each month. My mother would make all the important family decisions. She had a deep love for farming, and wanted to secure a better future for us. She decided to sell her jewelry to buy land, and my family farmed that land.
Saba Waheed: Mohana’s mother gave her some advice that stayed with her.
Mohana Sundari: My mom believed that no matter how much a man earns, or a woman earns, everything should be equally shared between husband and wife. But she also said — no matter how much you earn, you should always set aside ten rupees that nobody else knows about. Don’t ever give away everything to others and put yourself in a position where you have to depend on them. People will be around as long as you have something. When you have nothing, they will leave. That’s something that still stays in my mind till today.
At the same time, my mom would help anyone, especially with medical matters. She told me this story. One night, when returning from work, she felt very tired, so she laid down right there in the field. There’s a snake called the ‘Kattuviriyan’ [corrected pronunciation: kut-uh-vir-ian] —it came and bit my mother’s hand. My mother stepped on the snake with her foot and tried to pull her hand away. The snake’s fangs got stuck and tore her hand. At the village, they gave her traditional medicine and then took her to the government hospital. For forty-eight hours, they kept saying she would die, but she survived. People told her it’s impossible for anyone to survive a bite from that snake. And that the good deeds she did for others saved her life. My mother made me understand that whatever good deeds we are able to do, those become blessings that protect us later. I kept that thought in my mind. I help however I can.
Veena Hampapur: Mohana and her sister were raised primarily by their father.
Mohana Sundari: What mom would do is go farm for three months close to the lake, sow the seeds, and arrange for the water to flow. If she spent two months farming in her village, she would usually be with us for just one. My sister and I mostly grew up with dad. Without mom, we would feel a certain way. Everyone else had a mom who would comb their hair into double braids for school. Our neighbor Chithra Akka would set aside ten minutes to braid our hair. Other than that, all the work was done by our father. He would wash the clothes, cook, and do everything.
In our native village, there’s a belief that if a girl is born, it’s a blessing. After I was born, my parents bought their land. Because of that, I feel very special. My dad gave me a lot of affection, even more than my brothers. Even if I threw a tantrum to get something, he would say no in that moment, but within the next two or three days, he would get it for me. You know, people in our family won’t waste leftover food. But I don’t like that. If it’s rasam that’s made today, I won’t like it for tomorrow. My dad would nicely give me money to go buy tiffin from outside.
Saba Waheed: Mohana’s father was offered living accommodations through work.
Mohana Sundari: It was like a big compound. If we went outside the gate, it would be a rowdy area. If a fight happened, I’d stand and watch with interest. My sister would pull me away and say, ‘Don’t watch stuff like that! What if they mistake us and attack us?
If you saw a girl playing in our quarters, it was me. If the boys play goli, I will also go and play goli. If they play killi, I will also go and play killi. From the very beginning, they kept saying things like, “Don’t go play with the boys.” I started questioning—“Why shouldn’t I play with the boys? If he can ride a bicycle, I’m also riding it the same way. How is he better than me?” All the boys in the neighborhood had bicycles. I asked for one too, but the answer was no. Still, there were those hourly rental cycles. I’d go to my father and say, “Appa, can I have a little money?” He’d smile and hand it over.
On Saturdays and Sundays, we will cook kootanchoru and make an offering at the temple. We used to celebrate Ayudha Pooja, and back then, I used to dance pretty well. I would move around like the boys. Back when I was a child, I used to watch Vijayashanti’s movies. The way she would ride a horse, act in a police uniform — I really, really liked those movies. I never saw another woman who was like her. Watching her made me feel like, ‘What if I could do things like her? What if I could become like her?’ I never looked at anyone else and thought, “I want to be like them.” But Vijayashanti’s movies — I loved them.
Veena Hampapur: During school breaks, Mohana loved visiting her mother’s village.
Mohana Sundari: If they say the school is closed tomorrow, we will be ready today itself, our bags packed for the village. We would first go to my father’s village for a day or two to show our presence. But we wouldn’t be very interested in staying there. My dad’s family would control everything — “sit like this,” “do this,” “don’t do that.” But at my mother’s village, everything was lively and fun. Everyone is like family. When they see us, they ask, “How are you, my daughter?”
At my uncle’s house, they plant sugarcane, turmeric, and groundnut plants. If we want sugarcane, we can eat it. At my grandmother’s house, there’s a tamarind tree, and we’ll swing on it. That’s the kind of fun we used to have. If we visited during the farming season, there would be harvest work happening. The dry straw, the little ponds nearby, riding the tiller, falling into the slush — I used to love all that. But my favorite was taking a bath in the well. For that alone, we’d do whatever chore they asked us to do — get all sweaty and muddy, and then say, “Wait, wait, I’ll just go and take a bath now,” and run off to the well. Since I didn’t know how to swim, I would just sit on the stairs of the well and bathe. But my mom was a very good swimmer. The well was about 60 feet deep, and she used to dive in. If someone lost something like an anklet, she’d go down and retrieve it.
In sixth grade she decided to teach me to swim. She tied a sari around me and said, “I’ll hold you from here, don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.” And then, suddenly, she pushed me — she pushed me right into the well. She’d push me and get me out. I slowly stopped being scared. She taught me step by step, letting me float on each stair level. Eventually, I learned to swim. If you look at where I lived, it was Chennai. We lived there because of my father’s work and for education. Apart from that, this village was everything to us.
Saba Waheed: Mohana’s older sister had a serious heart condition. Their parents adjusted both daughters’ ages on the school forms, so they could enroll in the same grade, and Mohana could care for her sister. And in fact, her sister looked out for her too.
Mohana Sundari: My sister studied well, her handwriting was also good. But I created a lot of trouble and got beaten nicely by the teacher. Back then, snacks were mangoes you pick from the mango tree, and Horlicks powder wrapped in paper. We also buy black cherries. At school, there will be a fight for these snacks. If I get angry, I will hit. My sister kept water and slate chalks stocked. If I hit someone, she will say ‘sorry’ and give them the chalk and water to make peace.
In the evening, the kids play from around 5:30 to 6:30. My sister supports me by saying, “You go and play.” She does my chores because she can’t play anyways. That’s how we were. During sixth standard, my sister had a surgery. The doctor made some mistakes and we thought she would die. By God’s grace, she was saved. I wouldn’t leave her after that incident.
Veena Hampapur: Mohana’s father loses his job, and her brother steps up to support the family.
Mohana Sundari: Mom would start dividing the money the moment it came in. For my brother, she’d set aside the exact amount needed for his bus fare and get him a pass. Clothes were hard for us. Everyone else would wear nice salwars, and I would feel ashamed. But I couldn’t even ask. They would say, ‘This one dress is enough. If it gets torn, we’ll see.’
But when it came to food, we were never left wanting. When Mom came from our village, she would bring rice. Rice, chili powder, and tamarind — these three would always be stocked in the house. Our daily expenses would be just five to ten rupees — mainly for buying milk and vegetables. During festivals my mother would arrive in the morning, apply oil for us, and give us a head bath. After that, she’d go to a place called ‘Aattu Thotti’ and buy ingredients to cook a full meal. We’d eat to our heart’s content. It was difficult at home. But, I didn’t know it was difficult.
Saba Waheed: We often ask kids, you know, what they want to be when they grow up – but for Mohana, she just didn’t spend that much time thinking about it.
Mohana Sundari: At that age there was no one to tell us, “You have to study and become something.” Because my mom was somewhere else. We just studied because it was our duty, that’s all. We had to eat three meals and grow up. That’s how it was in our family. They didn’t have any big expectations other than that. In school, they used to ask a lot, “What will you become when you grow up?” If someone nearby casually said ‘doctor,’ I’d say ‘doctor’ too; if they said ‘engineer,’ I’d say ‘engineer.’ I only said those things for their sake. I wanted to play, play cricket, play with the ball, ride a bicycle. I had no interest in studying, so I let go of it completely.
Veena Hampapur: Mohana decides to leave school after the eighth grade and she enters the workforce.
Mohana Sundari: I was getting bored just being at home. I told my father, “You don’t need to go to work anymore, Appa.” And I started going to work. I first worked at a milk cover company. The work there was always busy, but that’s why things felt lively. With my own salary, in the first month, I bought a bicycle. Right away, I started flying through the air! You know how I said earlier that I would always ask my dad for food if I didn’t like what was at home? When I got my job I started saying, “No, I’ll buy and eat on my own.”
My relatives would say, “Who knows how long your sister will be around?” It would really make me feel emotional. So if my sister liked something, I’d immediately go and buy it for her. But she’d always point something out—like, “Do we really need to spend 100 rupees on this? With 100 rupees, think of how much we could do.” I began telling small lies. If I bought something for fifty rupees, I’d tell my sister it only cost twenty or ten. That little lie I began telling for my sister back then—it made her happy. So even today I keep doing it, with others.
Saba Waheed: Mohana’s friends at work started dating, and her family insisted that she quit her job. They were worried they might be a negative influence on her.
Mohana Sundari: There was a lady, Sasikala, who lived near our house. She used to do printing work, and one day, she said, “If anyone is looking for work, let me know.” I quickly said, “I’m interested.” At that time, imagine this—I had left a job where I was earning 1500 rupees and joined here for just 600 rupees. But the boss’s wife was truly kind-hearted, a golden soul. She really understood the mindset of young girls like us, and wouldn’t treat us like workers. I learned every single job there. And within six months, I was back to earning 1500 rupees like I did at my previous company.
One little joy at work was a tape player our boss had left behind. We only had enough money to buy one cassette with six songs. We’d keep playing those same six songs on repeat while working. Our only other entertainment was eating. Sometimes, after finishing work, we’d have about half an hour left. We’d have tea, or eat a samosa. Or sometimes a parotta or chapati. At the same time, it still felt like a job too, right? The smell of the ink, the strong fumes—everything would linger. But we would eat really well back then.
Veena Hampapur: Mohana learned to drive long before she was doing it professionally.
Mohana Sundari: I grew up around Dasamagan Road, where all kinds of vehicle mechanic sheds were lined up—two-wheelers, autos, cars. During Ayudha Pooja, the car sheds and auto sheds would be totally decorated. I’d ride my cycle there, and hang out with my dad’s friends’ kids. If I saw someone with a vehicle, I would tell them, “Give me a round,” and I’d drive it. That’s how I slowly learned to drive a car.
Anything related to driving, I really like. The idea of me driving an auto first came up around the time a friend of mine got married. Rekha, who worked with me at the printing job, married a mechanic who drove an auto. And the way he drives is like a race car driver, so confident and fast. Watching that again and again made me interested in driving an auto. I asked what I should do if I wanted to drive an auto. They said I need to get a license.
Saba Waheed: Mohana decided to go to driving school, and her family was supportive. She wanted to get certified to drive both a 2-wheeler and an auto since she’d been driving her bike without a license. To drive an auto for commercial purposes, Mohana would need a badge.
Mohana Sundari: The instructor gave me a challenge. He told me to try riding the bike without stopping or putting my foot down, even during the U-turn, and said if I did that, he’d give me the auto badge. No one believed I could ride the bike. I said, “Sir, just stand there and see how I ride.”
I started the bike just like how experienced riders do—smoothly. I went straight, made a U-turn without even putting my foot down, and came back. While I was gone, he was blasting everyone around him. He was like, “Look at this girl, what style she has when she starts and rides! Why do you even give licenses to people who can’t ride like her?” He told me, ‘I will get you the badge for the auto.’ He gave me his word. After two months he got me the badge.
People used to say not to drive autos because it’s risky. They told me that if I refused any rides, someone might take a knife and slit my throat. I earned the badge, but I didn’t start driving an auto. I just quietly stepped away.
Saba Waheed: Mohana chose not to become a professional driver at this point, but her life was still about to transform.
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Veena Hampapur: You know Saba, listening to Mohana’s stories of growing up, one thing that really stands out to me is this everyday clouding or reversal of gender norms. From a young age, Mohana questions why girls aren’t seen as capable as boys. And her parents’ marriage challenges a lot of stereotypes of South Asian families – and people who come from villages. Her mother handles the finances and makes the big decisions, while her dad raises his daughters. Mohana’s family supports her interest in driving professionally, even though that’s normally a job for men.
Saba Waheed: Yeah. And her mother models what it means to be a strong independent working woman, and Mohana’s mother and sister, they both set an example of girls and women supporting one another.
Veena Hampapur: Absolutely.
Saba Waheed: One of my favorite scenes is how Mohana is taught to swim. You know where the mom just kind of pushed her in the water. And I think that that is both a hardknocks kind of thing about life, but then also she connected her to her sari as if to let her know that she will be safe even as she gets kind of pushed into this world.
Veena Hampapur: In some ways her family breaks all the norms. But we start to see another side of things when her family makes her quit her job because her coworkers have started dating. This concern about Mohana being what would be considered a “proper” woman, really comes to head in Part Two of this series.
Saba Waheed: Here’s a look at what’s about to come next:
Mohana Sundari: I wasn’t interested in all that—falling in love or getting married. What I wanted was to roam around, eat, have fun, and earn. Then people started thinking, “She won’t turn out okay. We need to control her. She’s been pampered and spoiled—now she’s got an attitude. What if she runs away with someone in the name of love? Find someone in the village and get her married off.”
Credits
Veena Hampapur: Our sincerest thanks to Mohana Sundari for sharing her story. And a special thank you to ECTE, Empowering Communities Through Education, for connecting us with Mohana, conducting her interview in Tamil, and translating it to English.
Saba Waheed: To learn more about ECTE, and to see photos and videos of Mohana and her colleagues, please visit www.ectefoundation.org. To learn more about women driving autorickshaws in Chennai, see our show notes for resources.
Veena Hampapur: You’re listening to Re:Work, a production of the UCLA Labor Center. This episode was produced by Veena Hampapur, P.S. Vaishnavi, Vijay Gnanaprasad, and Saba Waheed. Sound design and editing by Veena Hampapur. Mixing by Aaron Dalton. Mohana was portrayed by Anne Akhila. Host and actor recording at Pink Cloud Studios.
Saba Waheed: Until next time, rethink, rework.