efore getting on the bus, I recite the Ayat-ul-Kursi,” says Azmatullah with a faint smile. “There is always some risk in while traveling by it, but since the fare is low, it’s still the best option for commuting from Charsadda to Peshawar.”

Azmatullah works for a government department in Peshawar. He has to commute to work on a regular basis. Ayat-ul-Kursi, is one of the most well-known and frequently recited verses of the Quran. It is traditionally recited to seek protection from harm, evil and unseen danger.

Every Monday, Azmatullah leaves his village near Mandani, a small town in Tangi tehsil of Charsadda district and boards the same aging bus to reach the provincial capital. Daily commute is neither affordable nor practical. On Fridays, have finished his workweek, he returns home on board the same bus to spend the weekend with his family.

For decades, these inter-district buses have been a lifeline for thousands like him. However, their numbers are dwindling. What was once a fleet of more than 20 buses connecting Charsadda and Peshawar has now shrunk to just six. As the transport sector modernises and shifts toward faster, privately operated vans and high-roof Hiace coaches, the old buses are slowly disappearing.

Yet for many low- and middle-income commuters, they remain indispensable.

Peshawar, the provincial capital of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, is a major business and administrative hub. Government offices, private institutions, schools, colleges and markets draw workers from nearby districts. For those living in Charsadda and its surrounding towns—Hari Chand, Mandani, Umarzai, Tangi and Utmanzai, the bus offers a rare intersection of affordability and reliability.

This scribe travelled last week on both a Hiace van and one of the remaining buses to compare fares and conditions. The distance from Hari Chand to Peshawar’s Saddar area is approximately 62 kilometers. In moderate traffic, the bus takes about two hours to complete the journey; a private car can cover the distance in around 90 minutes.

The cost difference, however, is striking. A one-way ticket on the bus costs Rs 150.

Traveling by a private car costs roughly Rs 1,200 in fuel and related expenses. A Hiace charges Rs 230 besides the additional cost of reaching one’s workplace from the terminal by rickshaw or Bus Rapid Transit.

“If these buses were not there,” says Mushtaq Khan, another daily commuter, also a government employee, “our entire salary would be spent on Hiace and rickshaw fares. These buses get us to the office on time and at a price we can afford.”

The buses follow a fixed and familiar route: from Hari Chand through Mandani, Umarzai, Tangi, Utmanzai and Charsadda’s main bazaar; then onto the M-1 Motorway toward Peshawar Saddar. In the, they retrace the same path, picking up passengers and returning home before dark. It is a congested and bustling corridor, requiring considerable driving skill.

Despite their worn appearance, punctuality is one of their strengths. They depart on time and rarely delay arrival. That reliability, combined with low fares, keeps loyal passengers returning.

But affordability comes with risks. Many passengers, especially low-income labourers, travel on the roof to save even more money. Those riding on top are charged half the fare. Although travelling on the roof of the vehicle is strictly prohibited on the motorway, enforcement is inconsistent.

When asked about this, Azmatullah laughs. “Passengers lie flat on the bus roof to avoid being visible to the police,” he says. “They endure strong winds and cold weather to save a few rupees.”

Inside the bus, the atmosphere is markedly different from the impersonal environment of modern vans. The ride feels communal, almost familial. Drivers, conductors and regular passengers share a bond formed over years of daily travel. There is banter throughout the journey. Jokes and friendly teasing make the long ride bearable.

One such driver is Abdul Manan, whose facial features resemble a retired Japanese actor, according to his regular passengers. They affectionately call him Shang Feng. He drives with a perpetual smile and does not mind the nickname. His friendly demeanor has earned him loyalty among commuters.

He is in the habit of excessive honking. Throughout the journey, he frequently blasts the horn, sometimes so persistently that it feels as if a train is passing through town. Whether it is to clear traffic or simply announce his presence, the sound becomes part of the bus’s identity.

The conductor, though not formally educated, possesses remarkable marketing instincts. Throughout the trip, he shouts, “The bus is empty, hurry up and get on,” even when standing room is scarce. His salesmanship keeps the bus jam-packed.

There are some unwritten rules. Regular passengers have unofficially reserved seats. Conductors sometimes charge new passengers Rs 200 – Rs 50 more than the rate for daily commuters. Regular riders often save seats for colleagues boarding later along the route.

Beyond transportation, the bus serves as a social network on wheels. The passengers discuss office politics; T20 world cup matches and gossip. It is a moving microcosm of Charsadda’s working class.

There is also an undercurrent of unease. Between 2009 and 2013, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa endured a particularly violent period of militancy. Bomb blasts targeted mosques, schools, colleges, universities, markets and buses.

In 2012, an explosion struck a passenger bus traveling from Peshawar to Charsadda, killing and injuring numerous people. The memory still lingers among commuters.

After arriving at Peshawar, a young man boards the bus carrying a black handbag. The driver greets him warmly. He stands confidently and begins speaking in a persuasive tone. Such salesmen are common on inter-provincial buses, but seeing one on this commuter route surprises some passengers.

In a single breath, he launches into a pitch about stomach ailments, acidity, indigestion, nausea, sour belching - problems nearly everyone could relate to. With impressive interpersonal communication skills, he then describes the benefits of his herbal remedy, claiming it reduces uric acid levels and relieves joint pain. Within minutes, he distributes sample sachets into outstretched palms and offers a limited-time discount.

The performance lasts less than five minutes, but the man manages to sell dozens of sachets. His sales skills are as striking as his confidence. For a brief moment, the bus is transformed into a marketplace.

As the bus speeds along the motorway, some passengers chat, others doze off and a few quietly scroll on their phones. For many, this daily commute is not merely about reaching work; it is also about survival in an economy where rising transport costs threaten already tight budgets.

The transformation of the transport sector looms large. Modern vans, ride-hailing services and improved road networks promise speed and convenience but often at a higher cost. As competition intensifies and regulations tighten, the remaining six buses may soon cease operations. If that happens, an entire culture of commuting may vanish with them.

For Azmatullah and hundreds of others, the bus represents more than just a cheap ride. It is a space of shared resilience, a daily ritual framed by prayer, shaped by economic necessity and sustained by community bonds.

The writer is a multimedia producer. He tweets @daudpasaney.