Sometimes, governance sounds less like policy and more like a late-night WhatsApp forward. Telangana Chief Minister A. Revanth Reddy’s recent warning that traffic challan penalties may be “automatically deducted” from violators’ bank accounts belongs firmly in that category—dramatic, attention-grabbing, and deeply disconnected from how India actually functions.
At first glance, the statement seems well-intentioned. Traffic discipline is a genuine problem, and governments everywhere struggle to enforce compliance. But good intentions, sadly, do not grant magical powers—especially over citizens’ bank accounts. That realm is governed not by state enthusiasm but by law, regulation, and constitutional boundaries.
Which brings us to an inconvenient detail the Chief Minister appears to have overlooked: state governments do not run banks. They do not control them, command them, or whisper instructions into their ears. Every bank in India—nationalised or private—operates under the regulatory supervision of the Reserve Bank of India, an institution that answers to Parliament and the Union government, not to chief ministers, however energetic they may be.
Banking, for those who need a refresher, is a subject squarely listed in the Union List of the Constitution. This was done deliberately, to ensure uniformity, stability, and protection of depositors’ rights. If states could dip into bank accounts whenever a policy idea struck them, India’s financial system would resemble a flea market rather than a regulated economy.
There is also the small matter of banking confidentiality. Banks are legally obligated to protect the privacy of their account holders. They cannot allow access to or debit an account simply because a government department feels it would improve compliance. Forced deductions require due process—legal notices, adjudication, and statutory authority. Even central agencies must tread carefully; state traffic police certainly cannot take shortcuts.
One wonders whether the Chief Minister believes banks will politely comply with such directives out of fear or goodwill. In reality, any banker attempting this would be in immediate violation of RBI norms, customer protection guidelines, and possibly criminal law. The enthusiasm of a state government cannot override fiduciary responsibility.
Then comes the larger question: Could the RBI ever allow such a mechanism? If it did, it would not merely be bending rules—it would be tearing down the firewall between citizens and political power. Today, traffic fines; tomorrow, municipal penalties; next week, something else entirely. The implications are so serious that the idea collapses under its own weight.
This is not to suggest that traffic enforcement must remain toothless. There are perfectly lawful methods available—linking unpaid challans to vehicle registration renewals, insurance processing, or structured recovery mechanisms. Several states already use such systems. They work precisely because they operate within legal limits rather than attempting to bypass them.
What makes the episode unfortunate is not the intent but the casual confidence with which such an impractical idea was floated. It reflects a familiar temptation in public life: mistaking authority for omnipotence. Power may allow one to issue statements, but it does not rewrite the Constitution or subordinate national institutions.
Sarcasm aside, governance is ultimately about credibility. When leaders make claims that cannot be implemented, they risk weakening public trust rather than strengthening compliance. Citizens may obey rules out of respect, but they rarely do so out of confusion or exaggerated threats.
Revanth Reddy would do well to remember that firmness in administration need not come wrapped in overstatement. The law already provides enough tools to enforce discipline—provided one respects its boundaries.
After all, in a constitutional democracy, even chief ministers must occasionally pause, check the rulebook, and remember that bank accounts—much like power itself—do not belong to them.
