Delhi: Autowalas vs. E-Rickshaws: The Silent Battle on Delhi’s Streets
- Nimit Das
- Oct 19
- 4 min read
At Kashmere Gate, I stopped by a row of autos lined near metro gate. The drivers leaned against their vehicles, some staring at their phones, others just watching the road in silence. The rattling sound of an auto once defined Delhi’s streets but now drowned out by the buzz of e-rickshaws.
A group of office workers, working class bus passengers, and students chose a shiny blue e rickshaw which was CHEAP. The meter of an auto wala remained still, dust collecting on its glass. Ten years ago, he might have had three passengers waiting to hop in before the light even turned green. Today, he waited—his eyes following the e-rickshaw as it disappeared into the traffic, carrying away more than just customers. An auto wala in his fifties sighed as he saw commuters choosing the rickshaw without a thought about an auto ride.
There was a time when Delhi moved to the rhythm of the auto.
From Connaught Place to Karol Bagh, their horns were the soundtrack of the city’s morning rush. They weren’t just vehicles, they were personalities on wheels, carrying stories and dreams through tangled lanes.
“ kahan jana hai sir”
Some had Bollywood posters fading on the back seat, some had verses of faith taped near the mirror, and all had a driver who knew the city more intimately than Google Maps ever would. They knew shortcuts that maps couldn’t find
THE EXPERIENCE
At Kashmere Gate, the morning sun hit the metal roofs of idle autos, turning them into dull mirrors of a city that no longer looked back. I spoke to a driver who had been waiting since 6 AM. He hadn’t had a single passenger. His voice carried neither anger nor surprise, only the blunt fatigue of someone who had stopped expecting change. “Write whatever you want,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing happens. The government is corrupt. The union doesn’t care. We’ve been shouting for years.”
A few autos down, another man sat quietly on the edge of his seat, eyes fixed on the ground. He didn’t speak; his silence said more than the complaint could. Beside him, one driver laughed bitterly when I asked about e-rickshaws. A laugh that sounded like a taunt against his own luck. And then there was one who smiled when I approached him, almost grateful to be spoken to. He talked softly, with a kind of tired warmth, saying it felt good that someone still cared enough to ask. His words trailed off, but his expression didn’t. A mixture of hope and helplessness that stayed with me long after I left.
At Lajpat Nagar, amid the blur of shoppers and honking traffic, an auto stood parked under a neem tree. Its driver, a man in his thirties with paan-stained lips and dust on his sleeves, told me he had come from Katihar, Bihar, seven years ago.
“Paisa kamana tha,” he said - he had come chasing Delhi’s promise. Back then, he could make 2000 rupees a day; now, with e-rickshaws crowding every lane, he struggles to earn even 600.
He spoke without bitterness, only with the plain exhaustion of someone who has watched his city’s promise shrink with each passing year. He said in a sad tone-
“Ek saal aur, phir wapas Bihar. Ab yahan kuch bacha nahi.”
Before I left, he smiled faintly and said,
“Bhaiya, aapse baat karke acha laga.”
It wasn’t just politeness - it was relief, the kind that comes when someone finally listens in a city that has forgotten to.
Anand Vihar is a place that never really sleeps , buses honk, trains screech, people spill onto the roads in waves. Yet, amid the noise, the autos stand still. You would think a transport hub like this would mean good business, but the drivers say the opposite: the crowds have grown, the earnings have shrunk.
One man, anger sharp in his voice, cursed the Delhi government between drags of a beedi. He refused to even look at an e-rickshaw, calling it “plastic scrap” and swearing he’d never switch. His pride seemed like the only thing he had left. Another driver, sitting a few feet away, understood the problem too well but carried no fight left in him. He knew the change was inevitable; he just didn’t have the will, or the means, to keep up. He said softly
“Sab samajh mein aata hai, par kar bhi kya sakte hain?”
Mandi House felt like a different world altogether. The streets were wider, cleaner, and dominated by government buildings and cultural centers. Here, the autos seemed almost untouched by the e-rickshaw surge. A small group of drivers leaned against their vehicles, chatting casually.
“They’re not allowed here,” one said with a shrug, pointing toward the no-go zones like Jor Bagh and Lok Kalyan Marg. “People coming here - the rich, the officials and they always take an auto. E-rickshaws? They avoid them. Too small, too uncomfortable.”
There was no anger, no visible frustration. In this corner of Delhi, the threat had limits. The drivers carried a quiet confidence. Their livelihood is still safe, at least for now. It was a glimpse of stability in a city otherwise reshaped by electric disruption.
THE SILENCE
Across the city, one thing echoed through every conversation , the silence of abandonment. There is no real union to speak for them, no roadmap to help them shift to cleaner alternatives. Delhi’s green transition has moved fast, but not smoothly; it left behind those who couldn’t afford to keep pace. And as e-rickshaws multiply without regulation or civic discipline, the old autos now share roads with a chaos they once commanded.
At Kashmere Gate, an elderly driver told me he had lived in Delhi for sixty-seven years. His hair was silver, his words steady.
“Bhagwan sabko deta hai”
He said quietly — God gives to everyone. He knew the struggle, knew the neglect, yet still smiled. I couldn’t tell if it was faith or denial. A fragment of hope, or a form of delusion.
As I left, what stayed with me wasn’t just their words, but their stillness. A kind of weary acceptance, not rebellion, not despair, just the quiet understanding that the world had moved on without them. In their eyes, I saw not just the loss of livelihood, but the slow fading of a city’s old rhythm.
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