Karnataka’s Electric Bike Taxi Scheme, launched in 2021 with a cheerful promise of clean, green, last-mile mobility, has now been quietly towed off the road. What started as an earnest attempt to boost eco-friendly transport soon got lost in a maze of regulatory loopholes, enforcement lapses, and the sort of turf wars that only Indian urban transport can truly deliver. By March 2024, the government had pulled the spark-plug, citing a veritable buffet of reasons—from misuse of white-board petrol bikes masquerading as electric taxis to safety concerns and a disinterested response from ride-hailing aggregators. What was supposed to be a gentle electric hum of progress turned into a clunky petrol-fuelled mess, complete with illegal rides, grumbling unions, and agitated regulators.
Instead of a fleet of zippy, whisper-quiet e-bikes solving the age-old problem of how to get from the metro station to your front door (without stepping into an open manhole), Karnataka found itself wrangling with a different beast entirely. Private white-boarded bikes—often petrol-run and clearly violating the Motor Vehicles Act—flooded the streets, many operating under the bike taxi umbrella without a shred of legal cover. Confrontations between these riders and traditional auto-rickshaw drivers started cropping up, sometimes resulting in literal street battles for territory. Women’s safety was flagged as a major concern, though one might argue that being on an open two-wheeler is often less claustrophobic—and therefore safer—than being shut inside a rattling, rusting auto with a grumpy driver refusing to take a U-turn.
Then there was the matter of aggregator interest—or the lack of it. Only one company even bothered applying for a license, and they too gave up midway, like a student abandoning their thesis halfway through Chapter One. So, the government—under siege from politically influential auto-rickshaw and cab unions—wielded its favourite tool: the blanket ban. Never mind that this effectively flattened not just illegal petrol bike taxis but the very electric future the policy was designed to usher in.
As of April 2025, Karnataka is stuck in what can only be described as a policy pothole—one it seems unable or unwilling to pave over. On the one hand, there is a clear and present need for affordable, flexible, last-mile mobility options. On the other, there’s red tape, regulatory confusion, and the formidable wrath of the auto unions. For the average commuter—those thousands who once, albeit briefly, relied on bike taxis to get to work, Metro, Bus-stand, college, or home—the abrupt rollback has been more than inconvenient; it’s been outright exasperating. You can’t ban a solution without offering an alternative, but that has never been the operating logic of the Government.
It’s not like Karnataka couldn’t have looked around and borrowed a page or two from other Indian states. Goa has had its “Pilots” for decades—bike taxis with yellow number plates and riders in uniform, zooming around narrow bylanes and ferrying locals and tourists alike. Cities in the Northeast—Shillong and Aizawl, for instance—have adapted bike taxis brilliantly, using them to navigate hilly terrain and thread through tight urban clusters. And yet, in Bengaluru, a city that often markets itself as India’s tech capital, the entire scheme was jettisoned instead of being fixed. Instead of putting safeguards in place—mandatory identification, safety vests, GPS tracking, or simply yellow boards—the government chose to throw the baby, the bathwater, and the tub out of the window.
The oft-repeated justification that white-board bikes violate the Motor Vehicles Act sounds rather hollow when seen in context. Moscow, during the Soviet era, functioned with a delightful chaos of Ladas doubling up as informal taxis, and nobody seemed the worse for it. Here in India, when lower-income individuals find an honest way to earn a living—especially in an area where the state has failed to provide basic infrastructure—it’s not just shortsighted but almost comical to shut them down on a technicality. Particularly when those very people are plugging gaps in last-mile connectivity and creating self-employment where none existed.
Meanwhile, Bengaluru’s public transport continues to limp along. The metro, now covering about 77 kilometres across the city, reaches only around 23% of residents within walking distance and spans less than 6% of the city’s total area. Expansion plans look good on paper and glossy brochures, but commuters don’t travel by PowerPoint. They need options that work today. BMTC, the city’s bus lifeline, is overstretched, underfunded, and in many areas, virtually absent. Buses are either overcrowded or mysteriously missing, and in new layouts and outer zones, they remain as rare as punctual contractors.
In this mess, bike taxis were a godsend—quick, cheap, and agile, especially in Bengaluru’s famously apocalyptic traffic. They could weave through potholes, sneak around gridlocks, and offer relief to people who otherwise have to walk kilometres from a metro stop or negotiate with autos who’d rather not ply short distances. Yet, instead of tightening rules and improving enforcement, the government simply banned the whole thing.
To add a final note of irony, the state had once promised its very own ride-hailing app to counteract the high commission fees charged by private platforms like Ola and Uber. But much like most government tech projects, it’s been “in development” for over a year, stuck somewhere between committee meetings and coding confusion. In the meantime, aggregators like Rapido insist they’re operating in a legal grey zone, the government insists they’re not, and users are left scratching their heads, unsure whether their next ride will show up—or be impounded.
In March 2025, private transport unions once again marched up to the government’s doorstep demanding a total ban on bike taxis and a reduction in road taxes to prevent vehicles from being registered in neighbouring states. And so, the game of push and pull continues, with the actual commuter caught in the middle.
Yet, let’s be clear: while bike taxi operators have a fair case, they must also toe the line—at least the sensible parts of the law that everyone else follows. Playing by the rules isn’t just about legality, it’s about long-term credibility. If they truly want to embed themselves into India’s urban transport matrix, they need to show they’re responsible stakeholders, not just rogue riders on rented wheels.
Truth be told, Karnataka’s experiment with electric bike taxis wasn’t a total failure—it was a missed opportunity. It showed that people are hungry for alternatives, for options that are cleaner, quicker, and more affordable. But until policies can keep pace with innovation—and until the government learns to regulate with a scalpel rather than a sledgehammer—the road to progress will remain riddled with speed bumps. And that, dear reader, is a pity.
Disclaimer
Views expressed above are the author’s own.
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