Gridlock hustlers: Stories behind Dhaka’s traffic signal vendors
Behind the honking and exhaust fumes of Dhaka’s traffic lies a thriving micro-economy where vendors seize every opportunity to make a living
Dhaka's fading sunset on a recent Monday afternoon, Bijoy Shoroni bustled with cars, bikes, buses, and rickshaws inching forward in a sluggish crawl. Impatient honking filled the air—a habit as ineffective as it is irritating, born perhaps from sheer boredom. While most people endure these moments with frustration, for others, they spell opportunity.
Amid the chaos and noise, street vendors weave through the gridlock, calling out to potential buyers and holding up their goods. Not all vendors shout, though. Some move quietly, approaching specific cars while skipping others, as if they have an instinct for spotting potential customers. With practiced ease, they pitch their wares through partially rolled-down windows, turning traffic jams into their marketplace.
These small businesses turn Dhaka's traffic jams into bustling micro-markets, showcasing remarkable ingenuity. Their product offerings are impressively diverse, shifting with seasons and trends.
On this particular evening, vendors were selling everything from baskets, snacks, and lemons to towels, car dusters and more, catering to drivers and passengers stuck in the endless gridlock.
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These businesses typically follow one of two models. First, vendors buy products directly from factories in or outside Dhaka and sell them independently.
The more common model, however, involves a group leader who acts as a middleman. This leader sources the goods, distributes them among a team of vendors, and takes a margin while shouldering the investment risks.
Street vendors, in turn, earn anywhere between Tk100 and Tk500 per day, turning gridlock into a source of livelihood.
Handicrafts
Mohammad Uzzal sells handicrafts, mainly baskets made from banana leaves, kans grass, and nylon. His products range in price from Tk100 to Tk1,200. His uncle also works at this traffic signal, but on the other side.
"See, it's reusable and can be used for various purposes," he told me as he pitched his product. Uzzal handed me his business card, which he regularly gives to customers.
The products come from Bogura, Rangpur, and Dinajpur. To minimise transportation costs, Uzzal and his team take advantage of returning lorries that come back empty after delivering other loads.
By hitching a ride with empty lorries returning to their base, Uzzal and his team manage to significantly cut down on transportation costs. His team of four, including himself, sells these beautifully crafted handicrafts at various traffic signals around the city.
"These products are mostly made for export or for stores like Aarong," Uzzal explained. "But when shipments get cancelled, orders are rejected, or there are minor defects or sizing issues, the producers call us to collect them. That's how these items end up with us."
He or his uncle makes the trip to Bogura to bring back the stock.
Now in his twenties, Uzzal has been selling handicrafts at traffic signals since the age of eight. Over time, he's developed a system to connect with customers.
He hands out his business card to potential buyers and often gets follow-up orders. "For example, if someone's neighbour sees a basket they like and wants one, they can call me directly. I'm on WhatsApp, Imo, everything. I frequently get orders that way," he said with a smile.
Feather dusters
Feather dusters are a traffic signal staple, especially popular with car owners who find them essential for keeping their vehicles clean. Faizul Karim has been selling these dusters for 11 years and has even introduced two of his family members to the trade. They now sell in different parts of the city.
The price of a duster varies between Tk100 and Tk400, depending on its quality and type. Faizul earns an average of Tk 700–800 per day.
"We buy the basic duster for Tk85 and sell it for Tk100, so we make at least Tk15 on each one," he shared. "Sometimes, a generous buyer might even pay Tk120 or Tk150 for a duster I'd usually sell for Tk100."
He also explained how he manages his inventory. Faizul usually buys about Tk1,000 worth of dusters in bulk. Once he sells them all, he returns to the factory in Kamrangir Char to restock. He used to live in that area and would travel by bicycle, but after several of his bicycles were stolen, he decided to move to his current location near Bijoy Shoroni.
"It was tough losing those bikes," he said. "They're essential for getting around quickly."
The process of making feather dusters is intricate. Each feather is curated individually and then attached to a stick, which requires significant time and effort. Most of the work in these factories in Kamrangir Char is done by women.
"The one I buy for Tk85—the woman who makes it only gets Tk20 for her labour," Faizul shared. "Men usually don't take on such low-wage jobs, so the factories employ women.
A typical factory has one owner and around 20-25 female employees making these dusters. Then, we hawkers collect them and bring them to the streets for sale."
"We support each other in this business. Women helping women—it's the only way we survive sometimes."
Snacks
Ashraful Alam, another young vendor, sells a variety of snacks at traffic signals, including Kabuli nuts, peanuts, popcorn, and ring chips. "I know the perfect spots for my business," he shares. "During the afternoon, people are often hungry and enjoy munching on snacks while waiting in traffic."
Ashraful's strategy relies on the predictability of traffic jams. By being present during peak hours, he maximises his visibility and sales. Over the years, he has sold many different items on this road.
"I used to sell flowers and make garlands," he recalls. He also knows how to drive, but lacking a licence recently got him fined, forcing him to return to street vending. He currently earns around Tk 500 daily.
The snacks he sells are sourced from a factory in Sayedabad, earning him a profit of Tk2 for every Tk10 packet sold. Like other vendors, he stays on the road until his stock is sold out, usually by 9 or 10 at night. Unsold items can be returned to the factory, where the crackers are refried to keep them fresh.
Lemons
Selling lemons is less common but thrives during specific seasons. Morjina, holding two bags of lemons, waits for the traffic police to signal a halt to the incoming traffic before stepping into the street.
She knocks on car windows, calling out, "Lemons, fresh and bright—only the best price today!" hoping to catch the attention of potential buyers.
"I haven't been out here for three days," she says, glancing at the bustling traffic. Her absence was due to her regular distributor falling ill.
"I usually don't sell for anyone else, but I needed the money, so I'm working with a different distributor today," she explains.
Morjina only works with female distributors. Her current Mohajon (distributor) is also a woman. "We support each other in this business," she says with a small smile. "Women helping women—it's the only way we survive sometimes."
She makes a minimum profit of Tk20 per sale. "I buy a bag for Tk60 and sell it for Tk80. If I'm lucky, I can sell it for Tk90 or even Tk100," she shares. "Whatever I make above Tk60 is my profit."
Timing is everything in this business. Lemons sold fresh on the same day fetch higher prices, but leftovers from the second day lose their value, affecting earnings. "You have to hustle—knock on windows, call out, and smile even when your feet ache. That's how it works," says Morjina.
