Bengaluru, a city once celebrated for its balance between nature and modernity, is now confronting a crisis of alarming proportions — one that stands tall, quite literally, in concrete and steel. A recent statement by Karnataka’s Deputy Chief Minister D.K. Shivakumar has sent shockwaves across civic circles: nearly 70 percent of the city’s buildings are “technically illegal.” The revelation, which follows the tragic Nagarathpete fire that claimed five lives, has reignited a long-suppressed conversation on the rampant violation of building norms and the fragility of urban governance in India’s technology capital.
The Nagarathpete tragedy was more than a fire accident; it was a grim reminder of how negligence, greed, and apathy intertwine to create urban catastrophes. The four-storey building that caught fire had multiple irregularities — unapproved floors, compromised electrical systems, and scant regard for safety norms. In its aftermath, the Deputy Chief Minister ordered a comprehensive audit of weak and unauthorized structures across Bengaluru. His statement that no new permissions would be granted for “unscientific constructions” underscored the administration’s belated recognition of a problem decades in the making.
For years, Bengaluru’s skyline has been rising faster than its regulatory vigilance. From the crowded lanes of Chickpet to the high-demand zones of Koramangala and Whitefield, illegal constructions have become a visible, almost accepted feature of the cityscape. Buildings meant for two or three floors have quietly morphed into eight or ten. Setback rules are ignored, ventilation is sacrificed, and fire safety exists only on paper. Even in newly developed layouts approved by the Bangalore Development Authority, violations abound — an irony that highlights the depth of institutional failure.
The issue, however, extends far beyond rogue builders. At its heart lies a pattern of administrative compromise. The Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike (BBMP), responsible for building approvals and enforcement, has repeatedly been accused of inaction and complicity. In several instances, civic engineers issued stop-work notices that went unheeded; electricity and water connections were sought to be cut off but never actually disconnected. Construction continued, sometimes with quiet political patronage, until disaster struck. This bureaucratic inertia has created a culture where non-compliance is the norm and accountability is rare.
The human consequences of these violations are devastating. Buildings that tilt, crack, or collapse are no longer isolated incidents — they are symptomatic of a deeper structural decay. In September 2025, a five-storey structure in Koramangala began to lean dangerously, forcing authorities to order its demolition. Fires, floods, and structural failures have become recurring features in a city that once prided itself on its livability. Beyond immediate dangers, these constructions strain an already fragile urban infrastructure — choking drainage systems, burdening narrow roads, and overloading the city’s water and power networks.
The forces driving this crisis are both economic and social. The influx of migrants, the soaring cost of land, and the relentless demand for affordable housing have created fertile ground for violations. Builders see every extra floor as profit; tenants, often desperate for accommodation, overlook safety concerns. Meanwhile, the penalties for non-compliance remain so minimal that they barely register as deterrents. What emerges is a city built on the logic of expedience rather than endurance — one where growth is measured in height, not in stability.
In response to mounting public anger, the government has announced a series of corrective measures. Civic bodies have been directed to audit every unsafe or unauthorized structure, notices have been issued to owners, and criminal cases are being filed where negligence has been proven. Authorities have also begun disconnecting water and electricity connections to buildings lacking occupancy certificates — a move aimed at curbing continued defiance of the law. However, the administration has stopped short of ordering mass demolitions, citing the practical and humanitarian implications of displacing thousands of residents overnight.
Yet, the task before the city is monumental. Auditing millions of structures across sprawling neighborhoods is not merely a technical exercise; it is a test of political will and institutional integrity. Legal entanglements, appeals, and stay orders can drag enforcement into limbo. Many residents living in such buildings belong to lower- and middle-income groups who cannot afford alternative housing. Thus, while enforcement is essential, it must be pursued with sensitivity — balancing safety, legality, and social justice.
At its core, the illegal construction crisis is a reflection of Bengaluru’s identity struggle. It is a city caught between aspiration and anarchy — striving to be global yet weighed down by local dysfunction. The solution lies not in periodic crackdowns but in sustained reform: transparent building-permit systems, routine structural audits, empowered civic bodies, and a judicial mechanism that prioritizes public safety over procedural delays. Urban planning must evolve from being a bureaucratic checkbox to a living commitment to citizens’ right to safe shelter.
The tragedy of Nagarathpete and the chilling statistic of 70 percent illegality should not fade into the city’s short-term memory. They should serve as a clarion call for accountability — for a city that dares to grow, but not at the expense of human lives. Bengaluru has long been hailed as India’s Silicon Valley; it must now prove that it can also be a model of lawful, sustainable urban development. The skyline may continue to rise, but unless it stands on the foundation of integrity and safety, it will remain a monument to collective neglect.
