Driving licence: Kerala tribal women's ticket to a better future

MARAYOOR

PHOTOGRAPHS BY REJU ARNOLD

 

When Maheswari first showed up for her driving lessons, it wasn’t the scooter that caught everyone’s attention; it was her attire―a churidar suit. In her kudi (settlement), where tradition holds a tight grip, even small shifts in norms can stir big reactions.

 

“What will people say?” the others murmured.

 

For many women in her community, wearing a churidar instead of a sari was a quiet rebellion. “If learning to ride meant wearing what’s comfortable, then so be it,” recalls Maheswari. Her determination gradually encouraged others. “Those who stay behind out of fear will always be pushed further back,” she says. “Yes, we are tribal women. And yes, society tries to keep us in our place. But nothing will change unless we step forward.”

 

At 36, Maheswari has seen her share of life’s harsher edges. An ASHA worker in Marayoor panchayat of Devikulam taluka in Kerala’s Idukki district for the past five years, she has been the sole provider for her two children ever since her husband left them in 2015. She was six months pregnant with her second child when he walked out, leaving behind not just a broken family but deep uncertainty. Today, standing in front of her house in Cheruvad settlement, surrounded by the earthy scent of sandalwood, Maheswari has zero regrets. “There was no time to grieve,” she says. “I had two lives depending on me. So, I carried on.”

 

For as long as she can remember, Maheswari had dreamt of riding a scooter. Growing up, she would often roll parked two-wheelers just to hold the handlebars, imagining the freedom that came with it. But reality kept that dream distant.

 

Her role as an ASHA worker demands constant travel―visiting homes, assisting the sick, guiding expectant mothers, ensuring vaccinations―but without her own vehicle, it was a daily struggle. Public transport was unreliable, and autorickshaws, though available, came with their own challenges. “Some drivers spoke to us rudely, often using double-meaning words that made us uncomfortable. We avoided them unless absolutely necessary,” says Maheswari.

 

Last year brought one of the hardest blows―her children had to skip months of school because she couldn’t afford the Rs300 daily fare to cover the 10km commute. “Eventually, the school arranged online classes so they could sit for their final exams,” explains Maheswari. “But I knew this wasn’t sustainable.”

 

That’s when Kanavu, a collaborative initiative by the Motor Vehicle Department (MVD) and the Marayoor Grama Panchayat, came in. The programme is aimed at empowering tribal women by helping them obtain driving licences. Maheswari enrolled without a second thought.

 

But the first day on the scooter was humbling. Despite her basic cycling skills, the two-wheeler proved challenging. She fell and hurt herself. But she got back up, again and again. “The instructors were patient, encouraging me every time I slipped. And I refused to give up,” she says.

 

Today, Maheswari’s routine remains busy. She leads her cows out to graze at dawn, prepares breakfast and gets her children ready for school. Her ASHA duties still take her from house to house. But she no longer spends Rs100 a day on transport, nor does she rely on rickshaw drivers. Her scooter gives her autonomy.

 

Perhaps the most personal moment of triumph comes when she rides past the man who left her behind. “I see him sometimes,” she says quietly. “And as I zip past, there is this quiet satisfaction. I am not the woman he walked away from any more. I am something more.”

 

Maheswari got more than just a driving licence―she found freedom, dignity and a future she could shape on her own terms. And, she is not alone. There is Nisha, 30, from Alaampettikudi, a secluded settlement. She discontinued her studies after class 12, not because she wanted to, but because someone had to make sacrifices. Her father was unwell, and she did odd jobs, with long hours and little pay, just to ensure that her younger brother could continue his studies. Now, as her brother is completing his studies, she holds on to quiet pride, though the years of struggle weigh heavy. With the driving licence, she hopes to build a better future for herself―buy a two-wheeler; get back to studies; get a real job, a real chance at life.

 

“Getting a two-wheeler is like bringing back my late husband.” says Devi, 29, of Nellipettikudi. Widowed at 24, she was left to navigate a life filled with overwhelming hardship. With two young children to care for, every day became a battle for survival. “I am very lucky that I got a chance to ride the scooter,” she says. “I have to look after the kids and earn money. If I get a two-wheeler, I can go and find work, go to the hospital and market without spending much on travel.”

 

When she first heard about Kanavu, Devi had only one thought―if and when her children fall ill, she would no longer have to beg for a ride. The road to the town was unforgiving, a treacherous 4.5km stretch through dense forests. But now, she was ready to take it on. By the time she gets a ‘Scooty’, as she called it, the road would be ready, too.

 

THE WEEK travelled 4.5km uphill from Marayoor town to Nellipettikudi by hiring a 4WD jeep taxi, the only means of transport. While town dwellers might find the off-road experience wonderful, for daily commuters, it is a hellish journey. Marayoor, a rain shadow region located at 5,200ft above sea level, borders Tamil Nadu and boasts ancient cave murals, rock paintings and sandalwood forests. Marayoor is also home to ancient dolmens. The Megalithic Dolmens of Marayoor are a testament to the region’s rich cultural heritage, drawing visitors and archaeologists alike.

 

The mountain village embraced us with a warm hug. The sky blazed with hues of orange and pink, the mountain tops cloaked in mist. The village gathered around six women who had passed their two-wheeler driving test, eager to hear their voices. Even the animals seemed to sense the mood―goats wandered through the crowd, a lone duck waddled up to Devi, and the village dogs lingered close, as if drawn to the energy of the moment.

 

There are four other settlements near Nellipettikudi: Periyakudi, Kammalankudi, Kuthukalkudi and Kavakudi. Here, ‘near’ means the next mountain. One has to travel kilometres, mostly on foot, to reach the next settlement. Of the 24 tribal settlements in Marayoor, Mulakampettykudi is the farthest. The Thayannamkudi settlement, which is 21km from Marayoor town, requires a 16km journey by vehicle, followed by a gruelling 5km off-road journey. From there, it is another 3km trek on foot. Vellakkallu, another settlement, lies 11km away from the town, again off-road vehicles being the only viable mode of transport.

 

Of the 3,436 tribal members residing in the 224.9sqkm area of Marayoor panchayat, 1,683 are women. Muthuvan and Malapulaya are the two tribes in Marayoor, and they mostly speak the tribal dialect, Tamil and Malayalam. Forest is their natural abode, where they live, cultivate and die, in perfect harmony with nature. The Malapulayas live closer to the fringes of modernity, while the Muthuvans remain deep within the forest, their settlements cradled in nature. Life here flows with the rhythms of the land and seasons. However, the villagers must travel to Marayoor town for various needs, including education, employment, health care and commerce.

 

Governments and local governing bodies have launched projects for tribal empowerment, but poor transport facilities and the natural reticence of the tribals have hindered their reach. In the absence of proper transport, they rely on jeep taxis and autorickshaws, navigating treacherous off-road terrain, with high maintenance and fuel costs making travel rates exorbitant.

 

Women in tribal communities are the backbone of their tribes, passing down traditional knowledge, skills and cultural practices to the next generation. They till the soil, harvest crops like ragi, butter beans, tubers and Chinese potato, cook, care for children and handle the daily responsibilities that keep life moving. Men step in for heavier agricultural tasks, but it is the steady hands of women that shape each day.

 

Their mornings begin with the soft crackle of wood fires in their traditional two-room house. Before the first light pierces through the forest canopy, women fetch water, sweep the mud courtyards, and prepare simple breakfasts―often boiled tubers or millet porridge and nowadays rice, too. Children are readied for school, where possible, while younger ones cling to their mothers’ back with the help of a long cloth, as they head to the fields. Farming is not just work but a collective ritual―women bent over crops, sharing stories and laughter.

 

During quieter hours, they sit in the shade, shelling beans or drying millets, their fingers moving with practised ease. The bond among the women is strong―chores often become communal gatherings, spaces where wisdom is passed down, and burdens shared.

 

Traditional healing practices remain an integral part of their lives. Knowledge of medicinal plants is passed down through generations, especially among elders who serve as healers in the community. Leaves, roots and barks are gathered from the forest to treat common ailments―from herbal pastes for wounds to decoctions for fevers and digestive issues. Pregnant women often rely on these remedies during the early months, turning to hospitals only in the final stages, if needed.

 

Traditionally, women remained hidden, often vanishing into the forest at the sight of strangers, especially men. But today, their presence spills beyond the tree lines. They now sell honey and farm produce at local markets―their once quiet voices joining the everyday hum.

 

The community follows a simple lifestyle, eating two meals a day and often skipping lunch. Tribal customs mark life’s milestones with unique rituals. Boys’ transition to adulthood is celebrated widely within families, while for girls, menarche is a moment of pride, marked by rituals, gifts and a celebration of her passage into womanhood.

 

During menstruation, women retreat to valaymapura―sacred spaces of seclusion and rest. Pregnant women also spend their final month here, often giving birth within its walls, though many now choose hospitals for safer deliveries.

 

Marriage happens soon after youngsters reach adulthood. Yet, marrying outsiders is strictly forbidden―punishable by ooruvilakku, a severe form of social ostracism.

 

The community’s deepest traditions come alive during Pongal, a week-long festival that weaves together laughter, ritual and deep community ties. By day, men perform comic skits, their humour echoing through the forests. At night, under starlit skies, the community gathers around a campfire. Drums and pipes fill the air as men and women dance―separately, but in harmony―with steps passed down through generations. Outsiders rarely witness these sacred nights, but THE WEEK was warmly welcomed. The hospitality was heartfelt―we were invited to share a meal at every household, a testament to their simple, generous spirit.

 

As midnight neared, cameras were requested to be set aside―see, but do not record. The music deepened in the cool forest air, its slow and fast rhythms merging with the night, leaving a melody that lingered through the late hours ―a blessing to the ears and soul.

 

Yet, change moves quietly through these hills. Young girls now seek jobs outside their villages. More mothers opt for hospital births. Slowly, traditions―some tracing back to the Stone Age―are shifting. With each step toward modernity, something is gained, but something delicate may also be lost.

 

Marayoor’s isolation prompted the Devikulam Motor Vehicles Department’s (MVD) to start the Kanavu initiative, an offshoot of the innovative Gothraseva project. The Gothraseva project was launched on August 9, 2023―World Adivasi Day―and saw 28 tribals, including two women, get driving licences in the Mankulam Gram Panchayat. Kanavu, launched in March 2024, was a first-of-its-kind initiative that focused on providing driving licences solely to tribal women.

 

During a comprehensive three-day camp, organised with the help of various government agencies, MVD officials gained invaluable insights into the daily lives and transportation challenges faced by the 24 tribal settlements in Marayoor. Subsequently, 40 tribal women took classes and cleared the driving tests. But getting the women out of their house and on to the streets was an uphill task.

 

“In their village, it is always the moopan (village chief) who makes the decisions,” recalls Deepa Arul Jyothi, president, Marayoor Gram Panchayat. “Generally, the tribal people are hesitant to interact with the public. They are not comfortable with women participating in village council meetings either. According to tribal customs, women are expected to stay home. But when we shared Kanavu’s idea with them, they were eager to cooperate. They promised to support their women in every way possible. It is heartening to see the men supporting their women and being open to change. This is a significant step forward for the community.” Projects like Kudumbashree and the Union government’s rural employment scheme have also encouraged them to step out and explore new opportunities.

 

Initially, some struggled to even open a jeep door, but constant encouragement helped them build confidence. With persistence and support, they gradually became proficient drivers, unlocking a new world of possibilities and independence.

 

Kanavu is the brainchild of Deepu N.K., motor vehicle inspector at the Devikulam sub regional transport office. “The Gothraseva project was launched by the Devikulam Sub RTO specifically for the tribal communities in Mankulam panchayat,” he explains. “As part of this project, we conducted classes in their respective colonies, following the MVD syllabus. And, we also conducted driving tests in their kudis. Once that was completed, the MVD shifted its focus to Marayoor.”

 

In the second phase of Gothraseva, 31 tribals, including a woman, from Marayoor passed the driving test. Among the Gothraseva beneficiaries is Nagaraj, the ooru moopen or kani (chief) of the 64 families of Alaampettikudi. He drives goods vehicles for a living, but got a licence only recently with the help of MVD officials. “Seeing all the men in uniform, I was nervous to attend the test,” he says. “Now I drive without the fear of being caught, and often travel to places like Udumalpettai and Pollachi with goods.”

 

For the Kanavu initiative, the entire Devikulam Sub RTO chipped in, with many travelling two hours from Adimali to Marayoor after office hours. “It has been a great experience, and we are proud of making a difference in the lives of the tribal people,” says Deepu.

 

After Wayanad, Idukki district has the highest population of tribal communities. “We want to support and empower these communities, and bring them into the mainstream, so that they can have access to better education, health care and other essential services,” says Francis S., also a motor vehicle inspector.

 

The initial expense of the project was covered through social funding. Later, the Idukki district Kudumbasree Mission, which works towards women empowerment, funded the project.

 

Panchayat vice president Jomon Thomas says that this initiative is just the beginning. “With the help and support of various government bodies, we will forge a new path―one that leads to prosperity, especially for the tribal womenfolk,” he says.

 

Among the students were individuals who were illiterate and others who spoke only Tamil. To bridge the language gap, a Tamil translator became an integral part of the initiative. Despite their unfamiliarity with computers, these determined women remarkably passed the learners’ test using them. Special arrangements were made to conduct field classes and tests in Marayoor, ensuring accessibility for all. Only three of the 40 women who passed the test were able to buy a two-wheeler.

 

On average, a woman labourer in Marayoor earns between Rs5,000 and Rs8,000 per month. Most of their income goes towards travel expenses. “A day’s travel costs Rs140. After deducting travel expenses from my meagre salary, there is nothing left,” says Prasannakumari, who has studied till class 10. “I want to ride my own scooter.”

 

“It is tough to learn driving; we don’t have proper roads. But we learned anyway, believing that there will be a road someday,” says Sunita from Nellipettikudi. “We are the first to learn driving in our society. Naturally, other women have become envious. They followed us to the testing ground, eager to touch the bike. For the first time in their life, they also want to learn. This is a new beginning.”

 

Sunita’s father Sivaraj, a farm labourer, is upbeat about his daughter’s achievement. “Even though we are mere labourers, we are happy with our life. We have pure water from the mountains, friendly winds, and a good society to live in,” he says. “But it is not enough for the next generation. They have to spread their wings. I am happy that my daughter learned to ride. Other girls here should also follow in her footsteps. Let them learn, travel to places, and get good jobs. This is the first step towards that goal.”

 

Sivaraj is right. These women now have the licence to not just drive, but to dream. Sugandhi, the first tribal woman to get a driving licence, plans to buy a scooter on loan. Shanthi, another beneficiary, adds that they can repay the loan in instalments if they work hard. Sharanya, a working mother, hopes to get a four-wheeler licence next.

 

These tribal women are no longer the women they were.

The Week