The Broken Bicycle: Survival On Two Wheels in Manas's Forgotten Fringe

On the far edge of the Bhuyanpara Range of Manas National Park, a rusted bicycle rattles down a broken dirt track. Its tyres sway through dust and stones, carrying a man, a sack of vegetables, and the quiet weight of survival.

To an outsider, its just a cycle.

But here-in Kore Bari, Daodhara, Majrabari-It is far more. It is a lifeline. A school bus. An ambulance substitute. A silent bridge between isolation and dignity.

Mobility in this corner of Bhuyanpara isn't about comfort. It's about existence.

A woman pedalling alone to Lwkhi Bazar with a bag of handloom cloth becomes a quiet portrait of independence. A schoolboy riding the same cycle through elephant corridors just to reach class is a reminder of how close education and danger often are.

And yet, everyone here will tell you-this is not just a story of resilience. It is a story of being left behind. For decades.

A Farmer's Burden on Two Wheels

One Kore Bari villager, Ratneswar Boro, balances survival on his cycle. He sells his vegetables in Rupahi Market, almost 10km away, where prices are better.

"The roads are broken, very bad condition,"Ratneswar says, resting his bicycle against a bamboo fence. "I have to take the crops to the Rupahi Market in my cycle to sell, and sometimes I have to hire tom-toms [e-rickshaws]. But even they can't always come here, because the road is too rough." 

The same bicycle is also his son's vehicle to school, navigating dusty tracks where mobile signals vanish and wild elephants cross. For the Boro family, the bicycle is not just transport-it is a shared artery of family life.

But when health emergencies strike, that bicycle becomes a lifeline with limits. "The network and communication here is a major problem," Ratneswar adds. "If someone falls seriously sick, and we need to call an ambulance, there is no network. We have to run to people we know, in case they catch signal in their phones. Otherwise, we just wait and pray."

The Women Who Pedal For Survival

In Daodhara, women carry just as much-on their backs, in their baskets, and on their bicycles.

Parbati Baro wakes before dawn. She packs vegetables, ties them to her cycle, and begins the long ride to Lwkhi Bazar.

"It's not very far in distance, "she says. "But the road is so broken, it feels endless. In the rains, I have to push the cycle through mud and water. Sometimes my vegetables are already half-spoiled by the time I reach."

She shrugs. "But if I don't go, there is no food at home. The cycle is my lifeline. But also my struggle."

Her story is one of many. Women here are vendors, farmers, caretakers. They pedal not just through potholes, but through years of broken promises.

A Social Worker's Warning

Krishnakanta Basumatary, a social worker from Majrabari, has spent years of lobbying for better infrastructure. His frustration simmers beneath calm words.

"We have complained to the BTC administration and the Assam government representatives, but they didn't bat an eye," he says. "The nearest hospital is the Salbari Model Hospital, around 8km away. But due to the bad roads, it takes more time that it should for an ambulance to reach here. And calling one is a challenge, since there is no network. People lose precious hours."

Krishnakanta points out that poor connectivity is not just about phones-it is about the ability to claim rights. Welfare schemes that demand digital verification often remain inaccessible here. From ration cards to health entitlements, villagers often find themselves at the periphery of India's "Digital India."

Inside Salbari Model Hospital

When I visited Salbari Model Hospital, the picture was no less grim. In the bare administrative office, Sarat 
Choudhury, PHC Accountant-cum-ABPM, laid out the realities with stark precision:

"This hospital has 4 doctors, 7 GNM's, 2 malaria staff, and other Grade-IV staff. We have one ambulance. On average, around 100 patients come per day. There are 30 beds, but the OT is not open. The hospital lacks proper X-ray and sonography tools. For OPD, we need at least 8 specialist doctors-but there are none. We don't have proper gynaecology or child specialists. Serious patients are referred to Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed Medical College and Hospital Barpeta," he stated.

Another hospital staff member, requesting anonymity added: "After completing MBBS, one year of rural posting is mandatory for doctors. But here, those posts remain vacant. No one wants to come because of the lack of facilities. We are overstretched, doing extra shifts because there are too few doctors."

The reality is simple-access to healthcare here depends on who is willing to endure the roads, the distance, and the dismal working conditions.

The Youth Speaks Out

The frustration of Bhuyanpara's youth is visible in the voice of Jwngsar Basumatary, from Madangaon Youth Club.

"We want to say that the development which should have happened here has not happened," he says. "If you look at Bansbari, also in Manas, you will see proper roads, mobile towers, even tourist lodges and shops. People there are engaged in jobs, directly or indirectly, because tourism brings opportunity. But here in Bhuyanpara, why will tourists come? There are no roads, no signal. Nothing."

His anger is not just about tourism. It is about the youth's shrinking options. "We want jobs, we want to do business. But without roads, how do we take our crops? Without network, how do we connect? Even water is a problem-we depend on boring, and rain is less now. For the future of our next generation, roads, healthcare, education-these must be developed. Otherwise, we are stuck."

The Broken Bicycle as Metaphor

In Bhuyanpara, the broken bicycle is more than metal. It is a metaphor of resilience forced to carry the weight of systemic neglect. Villagers pedal their way across miles of bad roads, because governments have not paved them. Students cling to handlebars because there is no school bus. Patients jolt on carriers, because ambulances cannot arrive on time.

The metaphor deepens when one realizes that the same cycle used to take crops to market is also used to ferry children to school, and sometimes, even patients to a road where a vehicle can be flagged down. One object, many lives-all riding on fragile tyres.

A Tale of Two Ranges

The contrast with Bansbari, only few kilometres away, is painful. Bansbari thrives with lodges, better roads, and a tourism economy. Bhuyanpara, meanwhile, struggles with the basics. This inequity is not natural-it is administrative. Investments follow visibility and Bhuyanpara has remained invisible for too long.

Why This Story Matters

At its heart, this is not a story about bicycles. It is about access-to health, to education, to opportunity, to dignity. It is about questioning what "development" means when a family's survival is still balanced on two worn-out wheels.

The Bhuyanpara range is a landscape of paradoxes. It borders a UNESCO World Heritage Site that draws global tourists, yet its own residents live without roads or signal. It produces hardworking farmers, yet their crops often rot because of connectivity gaps. It nurtures resilient youth, yet their ambitions are clipped by neglect.

Unless policy shifts from speeches to shovels, from promises to pavements, the broken bicycle will continue to creak through Bhuyanpara-carrying on its rusty frame the hopes of a people still waiting for basic access.

(This feature has been produced as part of Aaranyak’s Media Fellowship 2025, supported by IUCN-KFW.)

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